Dressed in Black

Chapter 9

Miss Cathy, how d'ye do?" Sarah asked with a glowing, sunshiny face that shone brighter than the mid October sun as she drew the curtains aside.

"Good morning, Sarah," Catherine murmured with a sweet look of sleep lingering in her eyes. "Am I to breakfast in my room again?"

"Indeed!" she smiled with genuine pleasure, her opinion of her habitually reserved mistress softened by her present look and manner. It was only in the morning, when they were together alone, that Catherine's true nature emerged – lingered, rather, until it was scared away. "I think it will be the case for every morn. I hope, lass, that you don't mind 't?"

"Not in the least," she returned, fluffing her covers with a carefree expression, as if she had forgotten the previous day's torments.

"Shall you bring the tray over to my lap, Sarah?" she resumed, looking with inoffensive restlessness at the young maid. She whisked the tray off the table with the quickness and agility of one who had been whisking trays off tables for the better part of their life.

"I trust, lass, that you are warm and snug in your bed?"

"Indeed I am," she smiled wanly, the action failing to summon up fresh colour to her sadly washed out cheeks or glow to her sunken eyes.

"Miss Cathy, if ever you need anythin'... anyone to speak to, I am here," she blundered with a trace of humility, bowing as she bent her steps towards the door.

"I thank you," Catherine returned wide-eyed, astonished at the girl's earnest interest in her troubles. "You are most kind. Good morning, Sarah Salver."

"Good morning, Catherine Crane," she blushed, slipping out of the room with a light head and a full heart, touched by the girl's delicate desolation.

As Catherine gazed down on her morning repast, the previous day's thoughts and emotions repeated themselves, and she broke out in bitter tears, condemning herself for her wicked treatment of an old and obliging friend.

*

With fragmented heart and lowered self-respect she descended the oak staircase, wanting only to be left alone to draw. However, fate did not approve of her deepest desire and propelled her straight into Henry Slater's path, who seemed to have no better pursuits than to hover about the house, as if he were keeping tabs on its happenings like an unseemly detective. He met her leaving the drawing-room, his mouth looking particularly grim and his eyes particularly trenchant.

"Good morning, Miss Crane," he bowed. "Off for yet another walk?"

"No," she replied poignantly, her voice revealing a great deal of her tender sorrows. "I was hoping to sketch in peace in the drawing-room, but as I have crossed paths with you, I suppose I shall be denied that small pleasure."

"Do you suspect me of shadowing, Miss Crane?" he knit his brows, his grey eyes twinkling mischievously.

"Perchance," she gazed guardedly at him, fearing to exhibit too much emotion in his presence. It would be too terrible to reveal herself to him. "I would not be surprised if you did." This left him with nothing to say, but he tried his luck notwithstanding.

"Now then," he broke out, stepping dangerously close to her. She fixed him with a defensive stare. "If that –"

"Harry, what on Earth!" blew forth Mrs. Slater's habitually low and calm vocals, the abrupt alteration making both youths start and gawk at her in bewilderment. "Move away from her, for heaven's sake. Miss Crane, I am terribly sorry. Harry never behaves as he ought. Will you not come with me, my dear?"