The Lass Wore Black by Karen Ranney

much food as they needed.
    James and Christel weren’t the only children desperately in need of help. He did what he could, but it was never, and would never, be enough. Today, however, he wasn’t in the mood to tolerate Edeen’s pride.
    “Please,” he said, when she looked as if she wanted to throw the money to the ground. “For them.”
    She frowned, glanced at her children, and finally nodded.
    A few minutes later he left, dissatisfied with her future and with Christel’s health. He called on one more patient, Robert MacNair, an elderly man who grumbled incessantly and reminded him of his grandfather.
    He had to keep all the appointments he’d scheduled before agreeing to attend to the princess. The rest of his patients were all wealthy matrons, most of whom had fewer true ailments than querulous complaints. They were lonely, bored, or wanted to flirt with him.
    Catriona was most definitely not in that category. She didn’t want to flirt with him. Instead, she wanted nothing to do with him. In addition, he’d seen her limp and observed that she had some difficulty with her left arm. He wondered at the damage done to her face.
    To a beautiful woman, any mark would be a disaster. What was the meaning of ugly to a princess?
    I n the month since she’d returned from London, Catriona had grown accustomed to her prison of rooms. After all, the suite of sitting room, bedchamber, and bathing room was substantially larger than the childhood room she’d shared with Jean, the maid’s quarters at Ballindair, or even the suite she’d occupied once Jean married her earl.
    At first, when her leg was still healing, she could barely walk. She’d exercised by trodding a path from one side of the bed, in front of the armoire and vanity, around the end of the bed to the door, out to the sitting room, circling the large table in the middle and then the chair beside the window, the settee in front of the fireplace, and back to the bedroom.
    In this way, she’d strengthened her leg, even though those fools in London had said she might not regain the use of it. They were as pessimistic about her left arm, and she’d gradually made it stronger through lifting heavier and heavier objects.
    Even after she’d walked through her rooms for an hour, she still felt restless.
    Today was an anniversary, of sorts, one she didn’t truly wish to recall.
    On this day, three years ago, her father was hanged. Her papa, who would sit by her bed when she had nightmares, and told her stories about his patients, making them sound like animals, like Dora Duck with her sore throat, and Maisy Mouse, who had an infection in her left ear.
    Papa, who always thought she was the sweetest girl, who’d showered her with smiles and made her believe the world was a lovely place, had chosen to do what he did.
    She would not cry.
    Her mother had been dying, and her father, a physician, chose to end her life rather than see her suffer. He had gone to his death, if not gladly, then at least with an unburdened heart.
    She and Jean had paid the heaviest price for his actions.
    Shunned by their neighbors, called the Murderer’s Girls, they nearly starved in the months following his death.
    Her sister had been resolutely optimistic, believing in better days. Better days? Jean’s solution was for them to become maids at Ballindair, where their Aunt Mary was housekeeper. They’d scrubbed and waxed and buffed and dusted until their hands were black and their backs ached.
    From the beginning, she’d plotted to be something more than just a maid.
    Through it all, Jean had been determinedly cheerful.
    Perhaps she should emulate her sister. After all, Jean had gone on to become the Countess of Denbleigh, while she was a scarred hermit in a lush Edinburgh prison.
    She told herself not to look back. Nothing in her past would make her hopeful. She would simply get through this day and all the rest.
    Perhaps she simply needed an occupation, an interest other than her