The Lass Wore Black by Karen Ranney Page A

hermitage. She had no skill at needlework. She didn’t have a pianoforte in her sitting room. After the interlude with Andrew Prender, she didn’t want to have anything to do with painting or drawing. Not that she wouldn’t have as much talent as he’d pretended to have, but even looking at a painting brought Andrew to mind.
    Sometimes she wished she had the courage to venture outdoors during the day.
    Her midnight walks would have to suffice.
    Catriona picked up one of the books Jean had sent her. A few chapters in, she rolled her eyes at the foolish predicament of the heroine. At least the woman had a face. At least she wouldn’t terrorize children. At least she didn’t have to be swathed in veils to shield others from a sight that would make them gasp in horror.
    But even bitterness became tiring after a while.
    In this new and solitary world, she missed people the most. She’d always been surrounded by people. Women had sought her out for help with their appearance. In Inverness, she’d been popular. At Ballindair, she’d genuinely enjoyed the company of the other maids. She’d laughed with them, and gossiped, and told tales that weren’t kind. She’d also been silly, unwise, and even mean at times.
    Catriona Cameron, for all your sins, I banish you from the world.
    Was this isolation punishment for everything she’d done wrong?
    She sat at the window as afternoon turned into gloaming. Did anyone ever see her sitting here? Did they remark on her silence and her motionless pose?
    She angled her chair, the better to see the carriage house. What was the footman doing? Why hadn’t he appeared at lunch?
    Her scars were beginning to itch, as if demanding her attention. She raised the hem of her veil, allowing air to touch her face.
    When it was time for the footman to appear at dinner, he was again absent. Annoyed, she opened the door to find that while the footman hadn’t appeared, her dinner tray had.
    Her lunch tray had arrived in the same fashion.
    Had she gotten her wish? Had he been dismissed?
    She closed the door without retrieving the tray from the sideboard. What game was he playing? Whatever it was, she refused to participate. When she realized, an hour later, that she was hungry—all the pacing she’d done had worked up an appetite—she peered around the door again to find that the tray was gone. She closed the door harder than necessary, turned and leaned against it, folding her arms and frowning toward the window.
    The footman had probably taken the tray, just as she did not doubt that he was at the root of this game. Did he intend to starve her to prove a point? She had to address the issue with Aunt Dina, certain that her aunt didn’t know what her newly employed footman was doing.
    Putting on the heavy veil she used for her walks, she left the suite, intent on Aunt Dina’s room. But Dina wasn’t there. Nor was she in the parlor or the upstairs study. For twenty minutes she roamed through the house, unable to find a single maid or her aunt. Only when she descended to the kitchen did she discover all three of the maids sitting at the kitchen table laughing, drinking tea.
    Each of Aunt Dina’s servants had been hired from Old Town. It wasn’t an act of charity, Dina had explained, as much as a training program. What they learned in her household would equip them to take other jobs elsewhere.
    When she questioned the three of them as to Dina’s whereabouts, Artis responded with a barely repressed sneer.
    “She’s out,” she said.
    Her Aunt Mary, the housekeeper at Ballindair, had an expression for people like Artis: Aye reddin the fire . She was always stirring up trouble.
    Isobel reminded her of a question mark. Skinny, she seemed to fold over herself and rarely spoke.
    Elspeth was Isobel’s opposite in every way. Her figure was firm and full, her nose upturned at the end as if to call attention away from her tiny rosebud mouth. Her soft blue eyes were always lively, as though she had