My phone buzzed again, and I suddenly envisioned poor Emily finding my tangled dead body already mummified inside the vintage swimsuit.

  Lord, help me.

  With another tug and a pulled muscle, the cloth freed me and I sighed down on my bed. Worsted wool serge, indeed!

  While sliding into some blessed dry, though still Edwardian, clothes, I reached for my phone. Ten messages popped up on the screen. Most from my mom.

  My stomach tensed.

  Oh no! Who was hurt? Dad? Brett?

  Mom: Katherine, I cannot believe you’d attack another person! I was sure you’d grown out of your volatile teenage phase.

  What?

  Mom: I just can’t believe it. For all the world to see! I knew all along traveling all the time couldn’t be good for you and your mental health.

  Where was this coming from? I never hurt anyone—at least on purpose.

  Mom: All the ladies at the club are appalled. I’m horrified. How am I going to explain this one?

  Brett: Hey, sis. Looks like you’ve got an online enemy among your ranks.

  Dave: Are you okay? This isn’t your usual way to get viewers!

  Brett: Here’s the link.

  I clicked on the link just as another text came through from Mom.

  Mom: Is there a way you can get those photos and the article removed? It doesn’t look good, Katherine. Everyone loses their temper sometimes, but as I’ve told you on several occasions, living in the spotlight places you in a vulnerable situation. You have to be aware of how you present yourself even more. I’m sure you’ll clear this up.

  Article?

  I closed out the texts and opened the link. A photo filled up my screen of the waltzing lesson from the day before when I was reaching down to help keep Miss Dupont from falling, but someone had taken the shot and put a very different spin on it. The headline of the post read: “Miss Adventure Turns Nasty.”

  I skimmed over the article. Someone had spun the lie that I’d gotten jealous of the other guests and started a fight. Another photo from the tennis lesson, with Graeme holding his eyes right after I’d hit him with the tennis ball, read: “The true colors of Miss Adventure shine during competition. She may smile on the screen, but she’s seething beneath the surface, waiting for the opportunity to strike.”

  Other photos from different moments over the last few days had been twisted to suggest sabotage of other people’s clothing, tripping Mr. Logan (with a photo of him at the dining table after the big spill), and stealing food.

  Stealing food? I mean, that’s the only believable one, but still!

  Only one person would do such a thing. Someone inside Craighill. Someone with online connections, plus a bone to pick with me.

  I growled and nearly threw my phone. Mark!

  I immediately sent off two quick messages to Dave and Brett to provide some clarity, but I paused before responding to Mom.

  Appearances were everything to her. Presenting as fine and perfect was everything. She didn’t ask if the information was true. She didn’t ask for clarification. She just wanted me to fix it, because it all boiled down to how it made her look in front of her country club friends and the ladies at church.

  I pinched my eyes closed against the pain of another conversation about “appearances.” My life-in-accidents stood in stark contrast to her pristine world—another reason I never lived up to my sister’s perfect reputation. I was too painfully authentic, whether I meant to be or not. The longer I stayed away from home, the more I saw how toxic her mindset was. How debilitating to relationships, especially for those closest to her.

  I should have been used to it after years of never measuring up to Sarah’s ghost, but it still stung. It was so easy to make a memory into a saint. As the only other girl in the family, the comparisons fell on me.

  Fury wound its way through my chest, but the hurt ached even deeper. Hurt that she’d jumped to the wrong conclusions. That she automatically believed the lie.

  I placed the phone down and took a deep breath. I couldn’t change her.

  The phrase pinged in my mind. I couldn’t change her.

  God knew I’d tried. Brett too. Even Dad, when I was younger.

  But her mind was too mixed up in how she and her family were perceived. And then, after Sarah died, we all walked around on eggshells, waiting for Mom’s outbursts, trying to dodge them, hoping her sudden reactions didn’t land on us. And then we all started avoiding her. Dad stayed at the office. Chase and Brett joined sports and then went off to college. I ran away. First to my grandparents and then . . . around the world.

  It would have been simple to blame her reactions on the death of her child, but the unpredictability was there before Sarah died. Death just made things much worse. A few of us suggested she seek professional help, but she said the problem wasn’t her. It was everyone else.

  The weight of it pressed on me.

  My gaze flew to the cloudy sky out my window, searching, pleading. What was I supposed to do?

  And then, the mantra I’d repeated to myself for years hinged into place with a different click.

  I couldn’t change her.

  And then, I couldn’t change her.

  My breath burst from me like a hit to the stomach.

  It wasn’t my responsibility. A knot in my chest began to unravel.

  It wasn’t my fault.

  And it wasn’t something I had the power to control.

  I pulled up her text and steadied my mind. Keep the response simple, and say more when you’ve had time to think.

  Me: The information is false. I’m working on fixing it, but keep in mind that people can say whatever they want online and I have no control over it. Traveling is not the problem—a jealous writer is. I’ll send more later.

  I reread the post and made some mental notes before grabbing my Edwardian boots and hat and dashing from the room, braiding my damp hair as I went.

  I refused to count how many times I almost fell on the way downstairs toward the back garden. Thankfully, I found Mark on his way to the back lawn for our archery lessons and pulled him into the library.

  “Why are you such a jerk?” I pressed the corner of my phone into Mark’s chest so effectively, he stumbled a step back.

  “Jerk?” The guilty look on his face negated his defensive raised-palm posture. “That’s not a very nice way to say good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon, my eye!” I turned my phone around so he could see the screen where the article glared its full and horrible headline. “You know as well as I that I was trying to keep Miss Dupont from falling, not knock her down because I was”—I looked down at the text and quoted—”‘jealous of the attention being bestowed upon the other media guests in the house.’”

  He skimmed over the screen as if he’d never seen the words before. “That’s not a good look for you, Katie. It could really hurt your ratings.”

  After controlling the urge to slap him, I almost corrected him to say that any news increases visibility, but since he didn’t take the time to learn the ins and outs of social media, why try educating him now? “Ohhh!” The word emerged like a fighting roar. Would Mr. Lennox loan Monty the Python to me for just a few minutes? Just a few. “I cannot believe you’d stoop this low. This is like something a third grader would do to cheat in a schoolyard game. Not a grown man.”

  His jaw tensed, but he shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know why you’re blaming me. Anyone from the house could have posted that.”

  I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt my head. “Mark, everyone else is in the photo. And you were standing at the perfect angle to take it.” I scrolled down and showed him the photo from the lawn tennis match—a photo of Graeme holding his eye after I’d accidentally hit him with the ball. “And you know this was an accident. Everyone knows this was an accident. You are aware these links can be traced, right?”

  His face paled. Got him!

  “You accused me of some pretty rotten things, Mark.” I shoved my phone in my pocket. “And the only reason you could have done so was for the Vision Award. You slandered me because of an award!”

  He folded his arms across his chest and looked away like the stubborn child he was.

  He had no defense. I shook my head and stepped back. “News flash—you didn’t just slander me, but there are several instances where you imply that Mrs. Lennox is not managing her business as she should and that the Edwardian Experience isn’t fair or safe.”

  The arrogance on his face melted.

  “How stupid was that, right?” I backed away from him. “Here you are, up for a prestigious award for your content, and you let a bout of jealousy strip you of one of the things that put you in the finalist category to begin with—your professional integrity.”

  With another glare, I marched around him—as best I could in my “sports skirt” and heels—and entered the back lawn. I’d had bad things written about me before, so this wasn’t a first, but those negatives always seemed to weigh heavier than the hundreds of positives out there.

  And it just stung a little more from someone I actually knew.

  Even if that someone was Mark.

  Dave’s text oozed with his usual balanced approach, offering some suggestions to help curb the spread through a clarification post and video. Which I would do after archery. Brett’s text only wanted to make me aware of it . . . and praise the fact it was creating such visibility. The man really was the most optimistic optimist in the whole world.

  Mom hadn’t responded.

  No surprise. She said her piece, dropped her bomb, and waited for her offspring to respond with dutiful obedience to her demands.

  Lord Wake and Lady Lennox were already in position with bows when I arrived in the garden, with Mr. Logan and Miss Dupont having some sort of side discussion over one of the arrows, it seemed. Graeme hadn’t joined everyone for the beach trip, but evidently he’d been asked to assist with archery.

  Um . . . and then I immediately wondered what he’d look like in swimming attire, Edwardian or not. Heat shimmied up my neck like the teenager my hormones wanted to be, and my attention focused on his well-suited self. It was enough to almost distract me from my frustration.

  Almost.

  But not enough to stop my forward momentum toward a physical release of my ire. I slipped on my glove and bracer I’d packed for the trip, then snatched a bow from the nearby collection, took up a few arrows, and stepped to the designated shooting spot. A round straw target was positioned about, what, forty yards out?

  I breathed in the familiar feel of the bow in my hand, clasping my palm around the grip. My body instantly relaxed. A long bow. My favorite.

  Perhaps I couldn’t dribble a basketball and walk at the same time, but I knew how to do this. And right now the frustration buzzing through my veins needed an outlet.

  Mrs. Lennox had even chosen wooden arrows? Some of my ire dissipated. Grandpa would be impressed. I tilted the bow slightly and slid the arrow on the shelf, smiling as I raised the bow. Thankfully, this certain dress had more give in the sleeves, so I could take a proper position and have full range of motion as I pulled back the string. My fingers slid over my cheek, anchoring my placement, and as I followed the arrow point to the target, I drew in a breath.

  I released my frustration in one breath as I relaxed my hold on the string. The arrow swished off with barely a sound and pierced near the center of the target. Without a pause, I took up another arrow and repeated the movements, releasing more anger and securing another bull’s-eye.

  “Well, Miss Campbell, this isn’t your first archery lesson.” Lord Wake smiled, moving to stand between me and Ana and gesturing toward the target. “Or is it beginner’s luck?”

  With a grin, I swept down to take another arrow and replicated my movements, landing the next arrow between the first two. “It’s my one sport.” I lowered the bow and turned to Lord Wake. “I’m pretty lame at the rest.”

  “But how do you get it to go so straight?” Ana whined her question, waving the bow as she spoke. “Mine keep flying off in all directions!”

  She fired off an arrow that soared high and far to the right of the target, and no wonder. Her body faced forward instead of sideways, she overdrew the string, and she used a low anchor.

  With a few pointers, and after about three tries, her arrow finally struck the far side of the target. “Did you see that?” She spun around, eyes bright, and nearly decapitated me with her bow. “I did it.”

  And then a realization clinked into place in my mind. Was Ana Lennox trying painfully hard just to do something right? Sure, she was immature and silly. Sometimes a bit desperate and dramatic. But were all those things how she grasped for self-worth and approval?

  And Lord Wake looked down at her with a little pride on his face—not like an adoring lover, but more like a happy uncle. Had he taken on the responsibility of Ana’s companion so she wouldn’t make even more desperate decisions, since her mother was hyper-focused on the Edwardian Experience and her father so relaxed he was almost horizontal?

  “You did!” I nodded. “And I bet you could do it again too.”

  “Would you take a video of me, Katie?” Ana’s eyes brightened with her smile. “So I can show my dad?”

  My heart softened completely. “Of course I will.”

  And she hit the mark again and again, her success continuing to deflate my annoyance.

  It wasn’t that I hadn’t dealt with bad publicity before. Having a presence on social media or anywhere online pretty much guaranteed that unless you were Julie Andrews or Jennifer Garner, you weren’t going to make everyone happy.

  But the betrayal of a colleague just ruffled my fury feathers in all the wrong ways. And it took another ten to twelve shots with the bow—and a few prayers that only God needed to hear—before I finally felt calm enough to stop.

  I shot a few more arrows, lowering my blood pressure to a less volatile level, and then moved to sit in a nearby chair. Miss Dupont took my place at the shooting spot with Mr. Logan joining, her much more attentive than usual as he helped guide her in the archery lesson. My gaze shot to Mrs. Lennox, who failed to correct the inappropriateness of their nearness and whispered conversations.

  Mark didn’t show up to the lesson.

  Coward.

  It would have done my heart good to best him at archery.

  A shadow fell over me, and I looked up to find my favorite Scot staring down at me. He studied my face and then took the seat next to mine.

  “Are you sure it’s okay for the butler to sit during working hours?”

  His lips crooked and he relaxed in the chair as if in answer . . . or as proof he didn’t care what the answer was. My whole body warmed at his closeness and that grin. “You looked fairly scunnered when you came out of the house.”

  Scunnered? Must mean annoyed. Or furious. “A wee bit.” I imitated his accent poorly, but it inspired a playfully jutted eyebrow, so I took it as a win. “Mark is jealous and trying to hurt my online reputation by sharing false information.”

  I knew it would blow over. It still stung though.

  Without hesitation, the butler pulled his phone from his jacket pocket. Within ten seconds, a low growl rose from his throat.

  A sound I felt in my chest . . . and shoulders. All the way to my less attractive kneecaps. Heavens.

  “Where is he?” Graeme sat up, ready for the attack.

  I stopped him with a hand to his nearest tree-trunk size arm. Number one, how was it possible to feel his muscles beneath a butler’s jacket? Number two, Graeme could squish poor Mark to jelly with one foot. Maybe one look. “Don’t waste your time on the Great Disappointment. Once Lennox finds out, he’ll likely be kicked off the island anyway, unless he can do some major groveling.”

  Though the idea of someone coming to the defense of my reputation left a soft and wonderful mark right in the center of my chest. In fact, I almost got a little teary-eyed.

  Why?

  Because my emotions were all over the place. That had to be it.

  “It’s not the first or last time I’ll have to do damage control for online slander.” I shrugged. “The way of the cyberworld, I’m afraid. “

  He relaxed. “Does it bother you?”

  “Sometimes.” I leaned back in the chair. “I think it might bother my mom more though. Image is a big deal to her.” I blinked. Had I just said that out loud? I rarely talked about my mom to people, especially anything that could be perceived as dirty laundry. “But it will pass. I know my boss would love for me to make some posts or write an article to counteract or distract from it, if possible, so I’ll think of something. I’ve had a lot of questions about how these gowns hold up on long walks, so I may try that.”

  He nodded, squinting as he looked ahead at the archers. “I read a few of your posts online. You’re a braw writer.”

  Ah, braw I knew, and my happiness meter kicked up to thrilled. “Not too sappy for you?”

  “Well, you’re not a Sassenach.”

  And then all happiness dropped. I had completely forgotten about those posts!

  The “Hot Scot” posts.

  The comments debating my future love life with said Scot. I turned my face away from him to grimace my displeasure before returning with a smile. “My editor chose the titles.”

  He kept his face forward but said nothing.

  “I . . . I never mentioned your name, and I haven’t even put any of the photos up from the Highland games yet.”

  He ran a hand over his mouth and nodded. “But you did mention I was hot.”

  My jaw slacked. And my face took a fevered trip to sunburn hot.

  I sure had. More than once. I held in a little whimper. The semi-confident flirt had been vanquished by Miss Humiliation. “I was recovering from a near-death experience.”

  He coughed. “Of course.”

  I shrugged to try and play cool. “I described things for the readers so they could use their own imaginations. You know—poetic license and all. And the weather’s been rather warm the last few days.”

  He seemed to have a wrestling match with his grin for a minute and then nodded again, keeping his gaze forward. “I also read some of the comments.”

 

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