Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Angelika,” Will said when he grew closer, “I am here to escort you home.” He appeared flushed and slightly out of breath. “I met Jacob and some of my gardening crew heading back to Blackthorne Manor. They were plenty enough to escort Clara, and I didn’t want to leave you alone. I galloped the entire way back.”

She took a half step back, and he noticed the diminutive Father Porter for the first time.

“Forgive me, Father. I have interrupted.”

“Please wait with the horses. I will join you shortly.” She attempted to turn Father Porter with a hand on his elbow, but he was raising his eyeline up, squinting against the sun, and slow recognition dawned.

Father Porter looked sharply back to the gravestone, and so did Will.

“Father Arlo Northcott,” Will read out loud, and the priest’s eyes rolled closed.

Angelika managed to catch him. “Oh, God. Oh, hell.” She lowered his head carefully onto the grass, then folded her shawl into a pillow. “Father, Father. Can you hear me?” She patted his cheek and saw his eyelids moving. “He’s not dead.”

Will croaked, “He recognized me.”

“Don’t you dare faint, too,” she threatened when Will stared back at the headstone with glassy eyes. “Keep your wits. Go into that side door there. Help, help!” She waved an arm at the sweeping staffer, who dropped his broom.

To the gravestone, Will asked, “Is that supposed to be me? Father Arlo Northcott? Father? I’m a priest? I’m a priest?” He was fast approaching hysteria.

Angelika had to shout to get through to him. “We know nothing until we have proof.”

He shouted back, “How? Angelika, how?”

“Go into that door and lock it behind you. Search the office as quickly as you can for anything bearing the name of Father Northcott. Files or letters. They may be locked in a drawer.”

She felt in Father Porter’s pockets, found a ring of keys, and tossed them up to Will. His hands did not grasp properly, and the way they landed in the grass reminded her of Victor’s wretched man, dropping the apple. She passed the keys back up, and compressed the feeling she had in her gut. “Will, go right now.”

Will backed away from the scene and managed to get inside before the aide from the front path sprinted up.

“What happened?”

She was truthful when she replied, “He looked like he saw a ghost.”

* * *

“So, let me get this straight,” Victor said, grinning. “You went to arrange my wedding but almost killed the priest? Typical Angelika.”

The members of the Frankenstein Secret Society had reconvened in the library of the manor that same evening. They were eating bowls of stew off their laps, dipping into it with crusty bread. Christopher was the only one who looked somewhat elegant doing it and showed no signs of having ridden in a forest full of spiderwebs for ten hours.

Victor, on the other hand, most certainly did.

Christopher was subdued and apologetic to have come home without his quarry and kept heaving sighs as he stared into the fire. It wasn’t his fault. He had no idea that he was essentially hunting a huge forest sprite.

Angelika addressed her brother haughtily. “Father Porter is ninety. A strong gust of wind could have killed him. And as a matter of fact, I saved him. He swooned into my arms like a lady.” She was lying on her back in front of the fire, with her bowl scraped clean and Edwin sitting astride her stomach. She bounced him up and down. “I caught that nasty old man, didn’t I, Winnie? Didn’t I catch that old bag of bones?”

Edwin let out a belly laugh.

Will leveled a flat look at Victor. “Typical brave, generous Angelika, cool under pressure, and saving people left and right.” It was a comment designed to defend her, but it also made Clara drop her gaze back to her stew.

“Sowwy, Jelly,” Victor said with his mouth full.

“Do you know why he fainted?” Lizzie asked. She was sitting on the floor, leaning on Victor’s leg, and patted the rug to get Edwin to crawl to her. He headed in her direction with cheerful determination. A competition was brewing between the two women. Lizzie looked up frequently to see Victor’s reaction to the little boy; he was too busy stuffing himself with stew to notice.

Hopeless, Angelika sighed to herself. To Lizzie, she replied, “He fainted almost certainly because he is ninety. He was roused after a few minutes, so we felt sure he would recover.” The moment his eyelids had fluttered, she’d left him in the arms of his aide, rushing to find a frazzled Will pacing near the horses.

Clara was happy to share her son and sat with her feet tucked underneath herself. Sitting beside Christopher, she looked like his relaxed wife, and a rather pretty one at that. It was amazing what a bath, and an afternoon nap, could achieve. It was the second time Angelika had noticed they looked like a well-matched pair. She stared at the distance on the chaise between them, and calculated the width of her own behind.

Angelika continued. “I have also considered the possibility that he grew light-headed from trying to wheedle some new marble from the Frankensteins.”

Victor was scornful. “Marble? What does he want with that?”

“He’d like white marble for the altar, to give it a fresh new look. And his Italian artist friend needs to come for a working holiday, to touch up Christ’s eyeballs.” The word artist inspired Angelika to reach over to the bookcase for a blank journal. Wordlessly, she passed it up to Clara, Lizzie passed her a pencil, and after a minute, the young widow took the hint, and began to sketch.

“He can keep dreaming,” Victor said. “If he says it’s a choice between marrying there or not at all, I’m sorry, Lizzie, but we’re having a bastard.”

She did not laugh, and the entire room went silent.

“What grand adventures you have had today, Angelika,” Clara said to break the tension after processing that statement. “Tell me again what you told Mrs. Winchester. The part with the penny.”

Angelika grinned up from the carpet and mimed flipping a coin. “‘Invest in a new attitude.’ I forgot to tell you this part: at the same moment, Percy grunted out some dung on her doorstep. It was the best moment of my entire life.”

“What a frightfully good line,” Lizzie said, writing in her IDEAS FOR PLAYS notebook. “I’m stealing it.”

“I’m happy to be a muse.” Angelika patted the floor and Edwin came scuttling back, quick as a crab, his blue eyes bright.

She was wrong. This was the very best moment of her entire life.

She was surrounded by her friends, full of good food, warm from the fire, and a baby was pulling her hair. Sitting in the church pew today had reminded her to notice every moment with those she loved, no matter how mundane.

She looked up at Will. He was withdrawn and rattled by the day’s events, but oh, to witness the firelight in those eyes was an honor. The entire moment was unforgettable. If only Victor would start to think this way. He was blithely unaware of Edwin’s presence, and equally unaware of how much it must hurt Lizzie.

Clara wiped away tears of mirth. “I would have given anything to see her face.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll offend someone else again soon, with you on hand to witness it. That’s typical Angelika.”

“A penny and some dung was too generous for that woman,” Will said from his armchair. He was not served beef stew, and had only picked at the vegetable pasty that Mrs. Rumsfield had made for him. Christopher still found his dietary choices deeply odd, judging by how many times he glanced at the plate.

Saying the name Father Arlo Northcott aloud had not jolted Will back into himself, if that was indeed his identity. He was still the same person she had rode to the village with, and on the ride home he was quiet, and also empty-handed. He had found nothing in the office. Overtired and pale, he had returned to his cottage alone, only reemerging for supper.

They had agreed to keep it a secret for now, given the presence of Christopher and Clara. But Angelika wondered if she could make use of her well-connected source right here and now—discreetly, of course.

“Christopher, did you hear about the new priest who was killed on his way to this parish? Father Porter told me about it. What a shame.”

“It was my second troop that found him,” Christopher said, using what Angelika now thought of as his Commander Voice. “Terrible business. The horses were cut loose, drivers killed, carriage ransacked, and Father Northcott was left for dead. He was too thirsty and feverish to last much longer.” It was a strong, dramatic retelling; it was no wonder Lizzie was taking notes, and Clara turned the page to begin a new sketch.

“How long do you think he remained in the carriage?” Will asked faintly.

“Judging by the, er, condition of the drivers, the priest had lived for a number of days after they were killed.”

Will did his best to mask his feelings. “Why didn’t he break free?”

“The carriage had been tipped over. It slid down the ravine upside down and was pinned against one of those big yew trees. The windows were too small to ever climb out of. But I’m told he tried so hard to kick out, the sole was off the bottom of his boot.” Christopher’s voice rang with admiration.

“A fighter,” Angelika observed.

The pieces fit too well. Charity-minded. Always providing good, character-building advice. Uncomfortable in confined spaces, like during the carriage ride to the academy. Stubborn, and with an exceptional will to live. So uncommonly devout and abstinent, he felt he was unable to ever, ever wed her, let alone bed her. When she looked at Edwin, she swore the baby winked at her.

Christopher was on to Will. “Do you ask so many questions because you think you may be connected?” He assessed him for a beat. “You’d make a fine footman.”

“The timeframe fits well,” Will admitted.

“Nobody made it out of that alive. Trust me on that.” Christopher finished his wine in a large swallow. Will was brooding into the fire. Edwin was tinkering with Victor’s boot buckle and hoping for his attention.

Clara asked as she continued to draw, “Why would someone do this to a Christian man?”

Christopher explained, “A priest traveling to his new parish would be carrying a great deal of personal effects. Cash, jewelry, clothing, books, plus the extra security would have flagged it as a lucrative prospect. One of the drivers could have been in on it, judging by the strange route they took into the village.”

Now he gave Will a stare.

“I don’t feel safe living in this village anymore,” Clara said quietly. Her pencil strokes slowed, and shyly, she displayed her page to the room: a steep incline, the shape of an upturned carriage, and the trunk of a tree. Everything was rendered quickly, but somehow captured the desolation of the moment. Her skill in one minute of work was astounding.

“Very good,” Angelika praised her. “I want you to fill that book.” She regretted her thoughtlessness when she saw Will turn his face away from it.

Christopher patted Clara’s knee. “I must say, I’m glad you’ve decided to live up here. The villagers are growing desperate, and food is in short supply. I’m even wondering if it was our big forest monster who caused this tragedy.”

“God works in mysterious ways,” Victor said out of nowhere as he laid his spoon down at last.

“Vic,” Lizzie gasped. “What a thing to say.”

“That’s horrible,” Angelika hissed at him. “Victor, I cannot believe you.”

He was defiant. “I’m just saying, maybe there are no more vacancies for talentless men who care more for marble than their parishioners. They all need to get a real job.”

“You have no idea if he was like that.” Angelika resisted the strong urge to look at Will, but she felt his helpless anger. “You simplify things in a way you should be ashamed of, Victor.”

“And I’m saying, just among friends, that if I had my way, they’d all be tossed out into the street with nothing, so they could experience what their worshippers endure.” Victor was stroking his fingers through Lizzie’s shiny black hair, and nobody but Angelika noticed how Will’s hands were clenched with the effort of staying silent.

That reminded her. “Are your knuckles sore? I am not the only one who did a little rescuing today. Will saved some poor woman from a beating.”

“He did,” Clara said, so admiring that Angelika was now juggling a two-way jealousy. “He kicked in a door at the boardinghouse, punched a man, and left, in as long as it took me to tell this story.”

“He’s nothing if not efficient,” Angelika agreed. “I bet that woman is telling a story about the handsome stranger who saved her in her time of need.”

Her jealousy expanded and threatened to eclipse her civility.

Will was cupping his right hand. Was that why he hadn’t eaten anything? He couldn’t hold a fork? Angelika sat up from the floor. He read her expression and shook his head at her. A fuss was the last thing he ever wanted, and also the one thing she liked to do best.

It was her house; she’d fuss if she liked. Will sighed, knowing it was no use resisting.

Christopher observed the entire wordless communication.

“Show me.” She put his plate aside and sat on the arm of Will’s armchair. He gave her his hand and she winced over the splits. There was a hint of warmth in the swollen joints. She curled his hand around hers and began a slow rubbing. “Poor, poor thing. Far too gallant. Far too brave. Now look what you’ve done. Are we telling Victor what we know later?” That last part was a whisper, and he shook his head.

“I think I will return home now,” Christopher said abruptly. “Thank you for dinner.”

Angelika was guilty over her inconsideration and tried to pull her hand back, but Will held on to it with newfound strength.

Victor glanced down at Edwin tugging at his trouser leg before addressing Christopher. “It’s dark now; stay the night. Your horse is put away. We could set out early and go up to that clearing where you saw the footprints. I will rescue Mary if it’s the last thing I do.”

Edwin chirped for attention; Victor drained his wineglass. Lizzie stared at her diamond ring like she was debating hurling it into the fire. She was dramatic enough for such a gesture.

Angelika decided her brother was quite dim for such a smart man. “The roads are teeming with criminals, so perhaps you ought to stay, Christopher. The room across the hall from mine is still empty.”

When Victor looked at her, she mouthed, Pick up the baby.

Victor blinked, rechecked his calculations, and realized he’d made a grave error.

“What is it, my good man? You wish to speak to me? Very well.” Victor picked up the lad, seating him on his knee like a sack of flour. Experimentally, he bounced him. Edwin screamed with joy, and Lizzie laughed. The diamond ring remained firmly in situ.

It was Angelika’s last good deed for the day before she went to bed.