Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Angelika and Christopher rode back to Blackthorne Manor in the dark, and rather drunk.

“I’m highly suspicious of Father Porter,” Angelika told Christopher with a slur in her voice. She held her loose reins by the buckle and had not offered much input to her mount, Percy, who thankfully knew the path home. “I wonder what secrets he is hiding.”

As they had admired the baby’s milky skin, carrot-red hair, and periwinkle-blue eyes, Angelika had found herself repeating a reflexive prayer of thanks. To whom, she wasn’t sure. She was just grateful to the universe. Clara was not Will’s wife, nor Edwin his child, and she had enjoyed a surprisingly lovely afternoon. It was a respite from the tensions in Blackthorne Manor. To atone for that, she planned on ordering a crate of vegetables and meat, to be delivered to Clara on Mondays.

And apples. She would send her a bag of apples a week, saving them from their fate.

Drinking in the tavern had softened the wound of knowing that Will, deep down, completely believed he would never wed her. But now, under the rising moon, she was rallying her troops, to borrow an expression from Christopher.

She spoke to herself firmly.

Regroup, Angelika. You will not win Will by drooping and crying. Give him time. Think of the miracles you have already witnessed! A marriage proposal ishardly out of the realm of possibility.

Christopher brought her back to their conversation. “Father Porter is a man of God.” Then he grinned and pointed skyward. “His big secret is that he has no real employer at all.”

She nodded her approval. Another atheist. “If my own dear father had not been so manipulated by the church, we would have ten times the estate we have now. They bled him slowly over many years. And when Mama—” She broke off, emotion choking her.

Christopher wanted to know. “She died when you were young?”

“When I was thirteen, and Victor was sixteen. Papa was to bring a doctor to the house, because she had scarlet fever. Father Porter convinced him to pray for my mother’s soul instead. It did not work, of course, and Papa died of grief three months after her. There is nothing I despise more than a thief, and that is what I believe Father Porter is at heart. He stole that last chance to save her. And so that is why Victor and I do not attend on Sundays. We will not be taken for fools. Heathens and witches, yes. But not fools.”

“I have heard that he will be replaced soon. Hopefully by somebody younger and more progressive in their thinking.”

She snorted. “He was ancient when I was a child, so someone younger would not be difficult.”

“I’m sorry that happened. To lose your father to grief is especially tragic.” Christopher sounded like he was uncertain.

She shrugged. “It is part of the Frankenstein temperament. We are passionate people. When my beloved dies one day, I expect that I shall die, too.” She rode in silence for a few minutes.

If Henry Hoggett’s body had been sold to the morgue, as she deeply suspected, who else had the good father cashed in on? She would pull on this new thread for Will. “I’ve got to be a glutton for punishment,” she said out loud.

Christopher’s seat in the saddle had loosened considerably these last few miles, and Angelika thought she might be about to witness a rare crease upon his immaculate person. That must be why her eyes kept returning to him. It was an undeniable fact: he had wonderful thighs. Absolutely marvelous.

“Not much further now,” she said. “I can go on alone from here.”

“After the story you told me, about some oaf in your orchard, petting your hair? Not a chance.” His attention was completely on her. This had been the case from the time they sat down in the tavern, and the first and second ale mugs became the third and fourth. She’d gradually revealed more of herself to him; the parts that she knew were most unattractive.

Her habit of wearing trousers? He’d grinned.

Her interest in science? He’d asked her if she knew anything about chemistry. They’d discussed the various ways gunpowder could be unreliable, and the scientific papers she had read on the subject.

Her past suitors? Her impression of the elderly Swiss count had him crying in laughter.

And this is why I’m on the shelf, she’d concluded.

Some men can’t handle serious weaponry, Christopher had replied, and Angelika had no doubt he could. But as they turned through the manor gates and she guided Percy over the buried pressure plate to signal her approach home, new feelings began to rise up. She’d missed dinner and whilst Victor would be kissing Lizzie in a dark corner somewhere, Will was probably overwrought with nerves. He fretted over the recent disturbances in the village, and the types of people who came out after dusk.

She moved her horse’s pace up. “I’ve probably caused a bother at home. I should have sent a message. I can go on from here.”

“I’d like to meet your brother.”

Angelika arched an eyebrow. “Reeking of ale, with your shirt untucked?” She cackled when he reacted with violence, searching himself in vain, and then gave her a dirty look. “Calm yourself. I would wager my entire dowry that you don’t have a single horse hair on your trousers. Victor is a complete mess, you are forewarned.”

“I’ve heard enough of Victor to know he’s terribly informal, and I shall like him a lot. I may be tidy, but I don’t require others to be.”

Angelika thought with despair that Christopher was very, very, very handsome.

More than his outstanding personal presentation, he was fun, masculine, and had been warm to the barkeeper and kind to a beggar. He had an outdoorsy sun-kissed glow, nice teeth, and a smile that should make her pulse respond. He was technically ideal. Where had he been even a month ago? It suddenly felt absolutely imperative to guard and protect and fight for what she felt for Will, lest Christopher’s thighs weaken her resolve.

“May I ask a somewhat personal question?” Christopher carefully touched the back of her hand with his riding crop to get her attention. “Why did you cry when you held Clara’s baby?”

She asked his legs, “Did I?”

Gently: “You did.”

Angelika’s memory of the moment was being shocked that a baby could be so heavy. The child defied physics. He was like a wet sandbag on her forearm. Clara had shown her how to hold him, and as she and Christopher chatted by the fire—something about Clara’s cottage and how much time was left—Angelika absented herself to stare into the baby’s eyes for an age.

Life and possibility glowed in little Edwin. His skin was perfect and had a smell she liked. His sticky starfish hand pulled her hair. She found herself bobbing from one knee to the other, and when Clara proclaimed her a “natural,” it deeply flattered her, and embarrassed her speechless.

Her hollow insides ached.

It was that thing that Victor was always banging on about: natural science. A lever had been pulled. It was time. There was nothing connected to Will, or her hopes for a future with him, in this memory—it was just the feel of her heavy redheaded friend in her arms.

She needed to answer Christopher now. “I’d never held a baby before.” And she hadn’t wanted to hand him back. In fact, she had already planned in her mind the tartan cloak she would have made as a gift for him, of the softest lambs-wool. Perhaps a matching Scottish bonnet, topped with a pom-pom—wouldn’t that look sweet, set upon his head? Angelika thought about the endless outfits a baby would need for the ever-changing seasons, just extravagant spoiling, for years on end. The finest fabrics and the loveliest colors. Corduroy dungarees with a patch pocket on the chest, in russet tones for autumn—

Cutting into the daydream, Christopher asked, “Do you wish for your own child?”

Angelika contemplated kicking Percy into a gallop in lieu of a reply. But she found herself saying instead, “I think I’ve just realized that I should absolutely love one. But I’ve been a bit disorganized on that front,” she reminded him.

But he did not smile, and confided in return, “I have long given up on starting a family. I am rotated to a new post every two years to train recruits. It’s hard to find someone adventurous who would want to start over in a new town, possibly abroad, again and again. I’m told I am intimidatingly well-ironed, which people mistake for a lack of humor. Also, I am thirty-seven.” He admitted his age as though he were an elderly man.

“You don’t look too old to me.”

“Neither do you.”

They regarded each other with curiosity. Then Christopher’s eyebrow raised and they both howled with inexplicable drunk laughter, causing the horses to shy. When they finally arrived at the front stairs of Blackthorne Manor, the first thing Angelika noticed was that the house had had a haircut.

“Something’s been happening out here,” she said, squinting at the visible porch railings. There were leaves on the ground and some sacks filled with greenery. “I think someone’s been gardening.” She felt conscious of the old house’s appearance. “It was so grand, once upon a time. These days, it just looks miserable.”

Christopher was charitable. “It looks grand to me.”

“Not in daylight.” It was a black brick gothic mansion, three stories, plus basement and attic. It had arched windows, and the thick glass panes shone iridescent, like soap bubbles. Now that the choke hold of ivy and creeping roses had been loosened, the gargoyles might be visible again.

“Must be twenty-five rooms, at least,” Christopher said. He had been counting windows and doing his sums.

“And every one of them is stacked up to the ceiling in curios and inventions. Believe me when I say I barely have enough room to store a new hatbox. The barn to that side has been converted into Victor’s laboratory. Stables, orchard, and so on.” She waved in the direction of the dark. “The forest is the stuff of nightmares. Who has been working out here?” she asked herself again. “The ground is covered in petals.”

The next odd thing happened when a teenage lad appeared from the side of the house and grasped her reins as she dismounted. “I’m your new stablehand, Jacob. How do you do, Miss Frankenstein?” His voice was thin from nerves.

She shook his hand firmly. “Hello. Who hired you?” Angelika could not imagine Victor being bothered. He usually left the horses free to roam.

“Sir Black did. Is this Percy?” The lad produced a carrot from his pocket. He barely spared Angelika another glance.

She laughed at his eagerness to be acquainted with his charge. “Yes, this is Percy. He is purebred Arabian. He was brought here from Persia by ship as a colt.”

As she said it, she heard it: the casual brag, and the privilege she had. Poor Percy; how frightening the journey must have been. He had suffered in order to be a birthday gift for a spoiled girl? She was wicked. She ran a hand down the animal’s gleaming neck to say, I’m sorry, so sorry. “I have had him half my life, and he is precious to me. You must be kind to him. I’m sure you’ll do a fine job.”

“He’s a good match for Solomon; they both have the same white blaze. Sir Black’s horse,” Jacob prompted when she looked blank.

“Will finally named his horse,” Angelika said, beaming. “Please make his stable a nameplate.”

“I surely will. Sir, I’ll take him.” He led away the two horses, tying Christopher’s nearby. As he walked off into the darkness, Jacob called out, “And, miss? I’m terribly sorry. For what I did.” He was gone before she could question him.

“Has he already made a blunder?” Angelika pulled off her gloves. “More staff popping up around here. Probably a good thing.”

“Who is Sir Black? An uncle or cousin to impress?” Christopher examined his cuff. “Never fear, I shall attempt it.”

“He is my brother’s colleague,” Angelika said as the front door opened. “Ah, here he is now.”

Will stepped out to join them, and the two men faced each other.

It was like comparing daylight to darkness. Christopher was a bright, blond sunny day; a creaseless sheet on a washing line. But Angelika had always been drawn to the calm, cool, and stars. She liked lightning strikes, and the tawny patterns in owl feathers. The intimacy of what she had done with Will—how she had created him and watched his first breath—could not be matched by any other.

The shock of the two men’s juxtaposition blended into a new concern: this was a huge risk for Will to take if he had indeed originated from the military academy. But a bland silence followed.

“How do you do? I am Commander Christopher Keatings.”

“Will Black. I am well, thank you. Very late to come home, Angelika.” Will spoke like a chiding husband—a role he seemed to take on whenever it suited him. “You are not dressed well enough for the cold.”

She would usually luxuriate in his concern, but it was not done for her benefit. “I’m not a child. Hiring stablehands for me, are you? And a groundskeeper?” She ran a hand over the tamed honeysuckle.

Will’s stare intensified. “I live here, so I see where the household shortcomings are. You also have a cook starting tomorrow.”

Christopher raised his eyebrow. “Hiring staff is a wifely duty.”

Will did not take the bait. “All I want is for Angelika to live comfortably.” The unspoken end to that sentence was when I am gone.

She bristled. “I’ve always been comfortable.”

Will continued answering Christopher. “We don’t rely on rank, and we all contribute. Men and women do things quite equally here.”

“How modern,” Christopher managed. The air between the men was now tense. “What exactly is your acquaintanceship, Angelika?” It was obvious to Christopher that the brother’s colleague label did not fit. When she dithered on a reply, and Will offered nothing, Christopher decided to sidestep the foot soldier and appeal to the general. “I should like to meet your brother.”

Before she could answer, a female voice above them said, “And to think, I’d been worried about the lack of theater in the countryside.”

They all looked up to see Victor and Lizzie both hanging out an open window. He was shirtless, and Lizzie appeared to be wearing bedsheets.

Victor bit into his apple, and said with his mouth full, “So you’re the commander. Jelly has been very coy about you. Handsome blighter,” he added as an aside to Lizzie. “Bloody hell, not a hair out of place, and meanwhile, Jelly looks like she’s waltzed through a hedge.”

“Shut up,” Angelika cursed him. “Lizzie, do I?”

“You look ethereal,” Lizzie assured her. “Moonlight becomes you ever so much.”

“You are truly lovely,” Christopher confirmed.

Will crossed his arms, his face tight with displeasure.

“Hedge,” Victor said again.

Christopher bowed to him. “Lord Frankenstein, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Commander Christopher Keatings.” Meeting a flushed undressed couple, one floor up, did not faze him. “And good evening to you, madam.”

“Hello, I’m Lizzie. Almost-Duchess Lizzie Frankenstein.” This earned her a ravenous love bite on her shoulder, and her husky laugh rang out across the gardens.

Christopher persevered. “I have escorted Angelika home safely. We were enjoying ourselves too much, and afternoon tea became supper.”

“He’d like it to turn into breakfast.” Lizzie’s whispered quip carried beautifully in the night air. “Oh, invite him in, Bear. Let’s all play cards.” Then she whispered something, and Victor whispered back. Then they started kissing.

Angelika huffed at how socially inconsiderate they were. “Did you find that man you were searching for, Vic?”

“I didn’t go out today,” Victor said, after tearing himself away. He did look suitably chagrined. “I was . . . busy.”

“Well, it looks like rain, so well done. He’ll be wet and cold.”

“Perhaps I could be of assistance,” Christopher offered, glancing between the siblings. “Who is it you are looking for?”

Victor hesitated, and then appeared to make a decision. “Come for dinner, Chris, so we can get to know you. We could use some entertainment. Here, Belladonna.” He dropped his apple core into the garden below, which prompted a great deal of rustling and grunting, but Christopher did not blink.

Victor said, “I shall send an invitation to you shortly.”

“I should be delighted,” Christopher said, but his eyes were on Will. “I’d enjoy the chance to get to know you all much better.”