Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Clara Hoggett, the widow of the deceased military officer, was crippled by grief. She had been shocked to find Angelika and Commander Keatings on her doorstep, then burst into tears. Twice she had gone to fill a teakettle, and both times left it abandoned.

Commander Keatings—Christopher, as he insisted on being called—took one look at the fireplace and went outside to cut some wood.

In her cramped sitting room, Clara moved from each pile of clutter, apologizing profusely. “I received the commander’s calling card, of course, but I cannot remember the days anymore.” She bundled some children’s clothing into her arms but could not figure out where to place them. “I do not know if it is day or night.”

Angelika was alarmed at the woman’s increasingly frantic motions. “Please, rest yourself. You do not have to tidy up. I don’t care if your home is pristine.” She retrieved the armful of laundry from the woman.

Angelika was grateful to have left Blackthorne Manor. The sleepwalking incident had driven a splinter into her heart, and it pricked every time Will looked at her.

What did I say to you last night?

You said enough.

Christopher reappeared, interrupting the bad memory, with cut logs stacked on his forearms. Once the fire was crackling bright, Angelika could not see a single crease on his coat. He understood her perusal and grinned. His nature was thankfully not starchy. He’d be unbearable otherwise.

Together, they coaxed Clara to sit in the chair by the fire and made tea for her.

“You’re the first visitors in . . . well . . .” Clara didn’t need to finish her sentence. It was very obvious she was without any support. “I’m just glad my boy is sleeping. Thank you so much,” she repeated again as she leaned down to creak open the lid of the wicker basket they had earlier presented her with. “I have not had meat in an age.” Judging by the kitchen larder, she had not had much of anything.

“Our hogs are kept in our apple orchard, and they eat the fallen apples. It gives the meat a marvelous flavor, and they live so happily.” Angelika sat down onto a low stool. She began attempting to fold the laundry, something she did not have much experience with. These were such small, oddly shaped clothes. Christopher would be better suited to this task. She held up a tunic. “How old is your baby?”

“He is just turned one. Do you have children, Miss Frankenstein? Oh, goodness.” Clara went red. It was the first color they’d seen in her face. “Of course you do not, an unmarried lady. I apologize. I’m so muddled.”

Angelika grinned. “It’s quite all right. I’m overdue for one, I do admit.”

“You must get organized on that front. If I can assist in any way, do let me know,” Christopher urged her with an easy smile. The mood of the room depended on how Angelika would respond.

“Shocking impertinence,” Angelika replied, and they all laughed. Christopher lightened the spaces he occupied; it was a surprise to realize she could, too.

While Clara resumed her grateful review of her hamper, Angelika tried to think of how to bring up the topic of her dead husband without ruining the new cheerful tone.

“I should like to see your baby, if he wakes before we leave.”

“I’ve no doubt he will.” Clara grimaced. “We moved here and I do not know many people. I was so lucky to have a husband like my Henry. He always woke in the night when Edwin cried. Now . . .” The tears were back in her eyes.

“Tell me about Henry, if you can. It might help to talk about him.” Angelika felt ashamed of her underhandedness and applied herself to folding the remaining clothes as perfectly as she could.

Christopher filled the pause as Clara wept. “He was a fine man—though I only just arrived, I could tell that much. Excellent officer, I’m told, and always quick to laugh. At my welcoming ball he had our whole table in stitches.”

Clara was smiling now, even as she cried. “He was quick, for sure. The house always felt lively.” She addressed Angelika, trying to think of how to describe him. “He was a fine dancer. He was a great marksman who always brought home a goose or pheasant for us. We ate well. He was the only one who could stop the baby crying, and he didn’t think himself above doing the household chores normally reserved for a woman. We had a silly made-up song we sang together. He was my greatest help, and my best friend.”

Angelika thought about Will. He was quick and dry, ready to assist with servants’ tasks, and she could imagine him holding court at a table of amused diners. She scanned the room again for any paintings of Henry Hoggett. There was no locket at Clara’s throat. “And was he a tall, imposing man? Or short and stocky? Fair or dark? I wish to picture him.”

“Unusually handsome,” Clara said with feeling. “His coloring was striking. Wouldn’t you agree, Commander? I’m sure it’s what you noticed first about him.”

Christopher nodded. “A fine fellow in every possible way. The church service was a very fitting tribute, do you agree? Father Porter paid great homage to his accomplishments, and I feel I knew him well now.”

A shadow crossed Clara’s expression. “It was fine indeed.”

Angelika replied without thinking: “But you do not mean that.”

Clara looked up, surprised to have been so easily read. “I wasn’t able to say goodbye to Henry in the way I’d hoped.” She took a minute to gather herself before she continued. “I’d asked Father Porter for a quiet moment before the proceedings, but he would not allow the casket to be opened. I begged, and got quite upset.” She licked her lips nervously. “He said I wouldn’t want to see.”

It sounded like Father Porter did not have a body in that coffin at all.

Beside her, Christopher shifted in his seat. “Perhaps he was right—” he began, but was cut off.

“He was wrong.” Clara’s eyes were blazing. “Now I have to imagine what my Henry had suffered, and believe me, my imagination is supplying things that have me awake at night. I would have seen for myself and known, and kissed his cheek one last time, if it were not for Father Porter.”

Angelika had once grandly declared to Will that his wife had not loved him, because she had not tried to bring him back. But she knew now that she was deeply wrong to dismiss the depths of another’s love.

She leaned forward and clasped Clara’s hand. “I wouldn’t have been so polite as you. I would have pushed him aside.” She made a mental note to visit the church to find out what kind of body-selling scam the good father was involved in. Her part in the trade now made her feel ill.

“I was hardly polite,” Clara admitted. “He accused me of being hysterical. I do not know if I am welcome back.”

Christopher said, “I saw Henry after the accident, Clara. He looked like he was merely sleeping. Not a mark upon his face.”

This comforted her significantly, and Clara patted Angelika’s hand before releasing it. She was exhausted by her outburst. “Father Porter also promised to call on me, but has not. No one has, except you both.”

Angelika’s lip curled with dislike. “Unless you have a gold coin in your purse for their collection dish, you are soon forgotten and left to your grief. I know that firsthand.”

Clara’s bleary eyes refocused on Angelika. “I’m not sure why you have been so gracious, considering we have never met?”

It was a good question, and Angelika reflexively thought of Will. Not of his personal mystery, but the words he had said to her: I have faith in you.

“I realized that I should be doing more good in our village, as my mother did. And whilst a basket is barely anything, I thought I should try to make you feel like you are not alone. I have been struck by unexpected loss myself and have felt alone many years, living up on the hill. It isn’t nice. I don’t wish for anyone to feel that way.” Angelika was surprised by how easily this speech came; more so that she meant every word. “If you have need of a new friend, I volunteer myself.”

“I am grateful,” Clara said through fresh tears. “I haven’t a single soul.”

“You do now.”

Christopher was ashamed. “I’m sorry it has taken me this long to visit. And as I said, Clara, you are able to stay here as long as you need; we are in no rush.”

This comment put a great deal of worry into Clara’s eyes now, but they were interrupted by a high-pitched squeal and then some wailing. “He’s awake.” Clara’s eyes were on the door. “I’ll go fetch him. He’s the absolute image of dear Henry. It will be like meeting his father, in a way.”

Angelika pictured Will’s beautiful dark eyes, the copper glints in his dark brown hair, and wondered—would he put his stamp upon his progeny? She felt sure he would, and she braced herself for the pain she felt looming.

Christopher took advantage of Clara’s absence and turned to Angelika. “Would you like to attend the tavern with me for a glass before we ride homeward? I promise, it is quite respectable.”

Angelika felt a flip of energy in her stomach when he looked into her eyes, even as she felt guilty at the memory of Will behind at home, anxiously awaiting the news. But she had always wanted to go to the tavern, and life didn’t hold many chances for it. And frankly, if this baby was proof of Will’s former life, she’d want to drink every bottle they had.

She had no sooner said, “I should like that,” when the door opened and Clara came through, holding a tear-stained baby.

Without ceremony, she handed the baby to Angelika. “This is Edwin.”

“Exactly like his father,” Christopher remarked, his eyes crinkling as a stunned Angelika took the infant in her arms. “Even has the same bright red hair.”