“I see.…” His look is bemusement bordering on bafflement. I’ve done something wrong. I just can’t tell what it is.
“Also,” I hurry on, “I beg your forbearance with any idiosyncrasies of character I might display. As I said, I do not feel myself. Which is no excuse for lackadaisical workmanship, of course.”
His look skewers me, as if I’m a body on the table, ready for dissection. Whatever his rough appearance, Dr. Gray is not a stupid man. Under that gaze, I swear I see his brain spinning faster than mine on my best days.
Here’s where I’m going wrong. Well, one of many ways I’m going wrong. I feel superior to these people. I’m from the twenty-first century. So much more enlightened than them. That’s bullshit, of course.
I have the advantages of the modern world. Thinking it makes me smarter is the polar opposite of “enlightened.” Like looking down on someone who doesn’t have a college degree because they couldn’t afford to go to college. Gray is a medical doctor with multiple degrees. He’s as educated as one can be in this world.
Tread carefully. Do not treat these people like primitive cave dwellers. Do not think you can easily fool them because you’re from the future.
Under that piercing gaze, all I can do is get myself back to work. Hide in my chores. Speak less. Work more.
I build the fire. It may not be the way he’s accustomed to, but it does the job. Heat blazes from it, and I tidy up the hearth and then start backing out of the room. He’s eating one-handedly from his tray as he scribbles.
I’ve almost made my escape when he says, “Catriona?”
I pause.
“It may be Sunday, but I still have to work today,” he says.
My gaze sweeps over the avalanche of papers and books carpeting his desk and spilling onto the floor.
“Oh,” I say. “Would you like me to tidy your workspace, sir?”
When his brow furrows, I’m about to replace “workspace” with something more period-appropriate, but the word he repeats is “Tidy?”
“Clean up,” I try. “Organize your papers and books so—”
“You do not touch my papers or books—” He stops himself and, with great effort it seems, arranges his features into something milder. “Yes, obviously, you are suffering from a mental fog, and I will allow the confusion. What I will not allow is any interference with my belongings, particularly my ‘workspace’ as you call it. It is already organized, thank you.”
“If you say so, sir,” I murmur.
His gaze shoots to me, suggesting my tone might have been a bit impudent.
I almost chuckle. “Impudent” is a word no one has ever applied to me. I suspect it’s used a lot here, though, particularly when dealing with uppity women.
I bite my cheek not to laugh. I could become an uppity woman. It’s tempting, in a life goal sort of way. It’d probably land my pretty ass on the sidewalk, though.
I expect that look in Gray’s eyes to darken. Instead, he actually relaxes and even lifts a shoulder in what might be a half shrug. “My research is important, Catriona, and it is organized to my satisfaction.”
That sounded vaguely civil.
Wait, did he say research? What sort of research does an undertaker, well, undertake? I glance toward the papers, tempted to inch closer. Then I remember my breakfast awaits, and I resume my retreat.
He clears his throat. “Catriona? I have an appointment today. With people who expect me to look presentable.”
“Ah.” I look around, crouch and pick up his missing sock from the floor. “You’ll need this, I take it.”
Do his lips twitch? It must be a flicker of the gas lighting. “I believe I’ll need more than that.”
Please don’t ask me to dress you. Please, please.
When I hesitate, he taps his cheek, rough with stubble. Then he motions to the washstand. A straight razor sits beside it.
I babble excuses. I’m not even sure what they are—I just babble.
His eyes chill. “I believe you were the one who convinced my sister that we no longer needed the barber’s visit. You are paid extra for this, and if you are using your mental impediment to shirk a duty—”
“I said I wasn’t, sir,” I say, and I sound like myself, Detective Mallory Atkinson, telling her sergeant that he is mistaken. As Gray’s eyes narrow, I reverse course. “It’s my hands. They’re unsteady after the accident, so unless you’d like your throat slit…”
That is not reversing course.
He only looks at me, though. Looks very closely, as sweat beads at my hairline.
“Might that additional pay be deducted from my wages, sir?” I say. “If you insist, I’ll attempt the shave, but I really am concerned I might hurt you—”
He pulls back, already turning to his work. “Go. Take the tray. I’ll manage it myself.”
He mutters under his breath. I take the breakfast tray and eye the straight razor. I’m going to need to figure that one out. How hard can it be? Worst I can do is leave him lying in a pool of his own blood, and after a day or two, that might not seem like such a bad idea.
I think I stifle my snorted laugh, but Gray turns, that narrow-eyed look as sharp as the razor.
I murmur something vaguely apologetic, curtsy, and back out of the room.
* * *
Apparently, it’s Sunday. I’d known that from Gray, but what I’d overlooked was the significance of it in nineteenth-century Scotland. Sunday means church. While that would give me time away from my chores, I can’t risk attending a Victorian church service. I’m guaranteed to do something wrong. When I beg off with my “sore head,” Mrs. Wallace’s grumbles suggest Catriona isn’t exactly a regular churchgoer. Skipping out would mean a couple of hours alone in the house, and I can’t begrudge her that short break.
Except she wouldn’t be alone. Gray doesn’t attend either. In his case, I get the feeling that’s normal—no one seems to expect him to do otherwise. Either way, it’s not as if I could have taken advantage of the time off. I need every minute that day just to finish my chores.
As a teenager, I spent a summer cleaning houses, when my inexperience meant it was that or telemarketing. As I’d scrub a stranger’s toilet, I’d reassure myself that someday I’d hire people to do this for me. By my late twenties, I could afford a weekly cleaner—the benefit of a decent job and no dependents. Yet when I slapped on a pair of rubber gloves and picked up a scrub brush, I fell back into a world where I could shut off my brain and rely on pure muscle and muscle memory.
I find comfort in cleaning. I start a task, and as long as I keep at it, I see the results. Organized shelves. Sparkling floors. Glistening walls.
That’s how I start my day of cleaning. Oh, it’s tougher than at home, where I can hit the button on my robotic vacuum cleaner. Harder even than when I was a kid and homeowners would hide away their “good” vacuum and give me the crappy old one. No vacuums here. No spray-bottled cleaners. Not even rubber gloves. I’m on my hands and knees with a scrub brush and water filled with some cleaner that I’m ninety percent sure will later be proven to cause cancer.
I also spend far too much time reaching for my phone to start a podcast, resume an audiobook, even listen to music. That’s what I do when I’m cleaning, same as when I’m working out or driving or any time my hands are busy but my brain is not. Here, there’s nothing to do except keep uselessly checking my nonexistent watch for the time, which passes with excruciating slowness.
Still, hard work never killed anyone, right?