Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Two

They belonged to each other now, forever, until death.

In the first rays of dawn, as Arlo swirled his hands on Angelika’s skin, he committed the sensation to memory. If his hands would not work, he would use his mouth to feel this otherworldly softness. He would adapt and change and live the life they had charted out together, in the quiet moments in between the breathless couplings.

He allowed himself to feel excited about Larkspur Lodge; she had described it to him so vividly that he had fallen asleep and dreamt he was walking the corridor, lined with ancestors’ and foxhunt paintings, toward their opulent bedroom overlooking the wild acres of garden.

The future glowed so bright it terrified him.

“I want to live,” he explained as she kissed his tears away. “The thought of dying now, when I have so many days and nights ahead with you . . . I cannot bear it.”

“I will keep you safe,” she replied, and because she’d proved it every other time, he chose to believe her.

Angelika was now lying across his body just like that very first morning, when he’d awoken in this rich girl’s bedroom with a mind like a blank slate. Thigh over his lap, cheek on his chest, she fit against him like a missing piece, now fully restored. Arlo closed his eyes, exhaled, and felt complete peace.

“I love you,” he told her, and although she was sleeping, she smiled.

And then, the bell above the front door downstairs rang.

Ding.

* * *

It interested Arlo to watch Angelika don her armor: that of a practically royal lady who held the power in every situation. She was apparently unfazed by the dawn visit and left the magistrate, the church aide, and Christopher to languish in the drawing room for going on a full hour as she readied herself for her day. Humming, she uncapped a bottle of perfume and breathed it in.

Arlo lay in bed with the sheet pulled up to his waist, feeling quite depleted, and decided to borrow a little of her self-assurance. His trousers lay in a damp heap by the bathtub, and he wasn’t keen to put them on. Like a rich man who cared for nothing but his own body, he stretched, enjoying her mattress and pillows.

“Are you nervous?” he asked, knowing what look she would give him in her mirror.

She scoffed with an arched eyebrow. “Me? Nervous? This is my house. They are lucky to even get a glimpse of me before breakfast.”

“As am I.”

She smiled, and Arlo’s heart shimmered. “You’ve seen everything there is to see of me. Good grief, I have never reached ecstasy so many times in my life. Not even on my most inspired night alone in that bed.” She pressed a pink cosmetic onto her lips.

Arlo’s body began flooding his cock with blood. It was a display of impossible tenacity.

“It will be nice to see Christopher’s face as you stagger into the drawing room with your lips all swollen,” he told her. “I like the man, but I’m fairly sure I could kill him for the way he looks at you.”

To his relief, this comment didn’t pique her interest.

“No need,” she shushed, and began an enjoyable sequence of dressing; this time choosing an impressive uniform of stays, garters, silk stockings, and drawers. “These are from a store in Paris that is busy with whores and dancers. It’s absolutely scandalous. You will come with me and choose what I buy.”

Now there was a five-minute diversion.

Pink-faced, she dressed in various layers of petticoats, a sumptuous violet dress, and a diamond necklace fit for a princess. The tiara was a bit too much at seven in the morning.

Arlo, naked, penniless, the luckiest man imaginable, knew himself even more.

“I was such a shy child,” he told her out of nowhere as he realized his tongue-tied sensation was a familiar one. “I liked church because that was the one place where I could either sit quietly with no questions asked of me, or I could sing and knew the words.”

“At least you knew the words,” Angelika replied, turning on her tufted dressing stool and crossing her legs. “Victor and I used to just warble along like birds. You were shy? I can imagine that. You have a reserve with those who don’t know you well.”

They were interrupted by Sarah’s rhythmic knock.

Angelika went to the door, opened it a crack, and had a whispered exchange with Sarah, taking a stack of clothes. Closing it again, Angelika sniffed haughtily. “They want to know how much longer to wait. All I can say is it shall be even longer now.”

She gave the clothes to Arlo—a fresh outfit for him, how scandalized poor Sarah must be!—and resettled on her fancy stool. “Back to where we were. Can you tell me about your parents?”

Arlo had an image in his mind: a hard-faced pair, unhappily married and trapped together in a house that did not suit the size of their family. “John and Frances Northcott. My brother is the eldest, also called John.”

“I never understood why families do that,” Angelika complained. “Two Johns would always come running when called. It’s impractical.”

“I also had an older sister, and two younger brothers and two younger sisters. That’s . . . seven children.”

“What else do you remember?”

Arlo began to dress, his mind lost in the past. “Our house was too small, and we lived cheek by jowl. I think that’s the true reason for my training at the seminary. There was no room for me.” A big swell of ancient hurt prevented more words, and he pulled on his pants and buttoned his shirt in silence.

Angelika said, “There is plenty of room for you here.”

He found he wanted to argue back. “That’s what bothers me about you, when you say such things, or buy me such nice things. Like these trousers, for example.”

“They look marvelous,” she said with her eyes on his crotch. “Tailored to within an inch of their life. Italian cloth from a particular wool mill in Milan. Don’t you look nice, my love.”

He sat on the edge of the well-used bed. “There really is no room for me in this house. I’m not used to being treated this way.”

“Treated like you are worth treating exceptionally well? That makes me sad.” She came to stand between his feet. “You have found your place in this world. Beside me. There is room right here.”

At his eyeline, the material of her dress glowed a rich indigo, shot through with a glimmer that only came from pure silk. Like the finest ceremonial robes, worn by priests. He plucked it between his fingers, rubbed it, and could no longer feel any sensation from the fine grain.

He closed his eyes as the memories began to flood him. There was no possible way to summarize each for her, except to say faintly, “I didn’t choose any part of my life.”

She held his face to her chest, and he wrapped his arms around her waist.

“I want to tell you of my old life, but there is not much to tell. I was eight years old when I was sent away, and homesick enough to vomit when I arrived at the seminary. I’d said to Mother, ‘Don’t leave me here,’ but she didn’t listen.”

Angelika was quiet for a long moment. “You used those very words when we visited the morgue together. You said, ‘Don’t leave me here,’ with such a raw note in your voice. Poor pet.”

Arlo couldn’t stop now.

“It was such a narrow world, reading the same texts and Scriptures, debates on theological concerns, and manual labor in the name of the Lord. It was my job to scrub out the huge pot that the dinner stew was boiled in, and the stink of it. Metal and meat.” He shuddered. “I was never sure if I was praying correctly, because it seemed a little uncomplicated—just thinking quietly—but no one could give me a definitive answer.”

He pressed his lips together to stop the torrent of memories. He must sound mad.

Angelika said the right thing. “Don’t stop. Tell me everything you want to.”

“I had a best friend named Michael at the seminary. He was so witty, he had me crying with laughter. He found the absurdity in it all, and he helped me gain my confidence and to see that the place we lived was also a game we must play. He loved pigeons, and he bred and trained them up in the loft of the barn.” Arlo was surprised now. “I think Victor’s pigeons reminded me of my long-ago friend.”

“Perhaps we could go together and find Michael.”

Arlo could only now think of a plain white cross. “He died of consumption. We were around fifteen, I think.”

“Oh,” Angelika said with heavy sympathy. “The only true friend you had died?”

“I was crippled by the grief. I cried into my pillow, and during the day I had to pretend I was all right with the apparent fact that he was in heaven, and it was his purpose. But for me, his purpose was to make my life livable.”

She ran a gentle hand over his head. “How did you live without him?”

“I went outside and pulled out an entire flower bed of weeds. It gave me a momentary release.” The clock in the hall chimed. The real world grew impatient, one floor down. “The garden saved me. Just like you saved me.”

She was smiling. “Well, I am dressed like a rather large violet.” She gave a small curtsy in his arms.

“Like a little larkspur.” Arlo stood, and let her fuss as he knew she wanted to. His collar was fixed, his buttons tweaked, his cravat retied. It was how she demonstrated her love, and when her eyes glowed with pleasure, he realized this was something he could do for her. “Could they make me a topcoat in this wool?”

Now she was very happy, and they kissed slowly, with smiles on their mouths. But when they pulled apart again, she had a new realization in her expression.

“You still had no choice, did you? You woke up here, and you were mine. You know that if it was what you truly wanted, I would let you—”

He didn’t let her finish, and kissed her until she was smiling and convinced once more.

When they broke apart, Angelika said, “Come along, let’s get these men out of our house. Victor might be still asleep, which would be for the best.”

Arlo followed her down the hallway, then put an arm around her waist and stepped in close. Against the back of her ear he said, “Don’t forget who you belong to.”

“I never have,” she replied breathily. She allowed him to hold on to her and it was at the top of the staircase that he halted her again, his arms tighter.

“Don’t forget that you are marrying me.”

The diamonds at her throat shimmered. “I could not forget.”

Now he had to ask her something, and it was not very manly or brave, but he knew he could. “Don’t let them take me.”

The portrait of his mother-in-law, Caroline, had a smile dimpling her cheek when they looked up at her.

“I never will.”

Angelika swept ahead of him into the drawing room, and Arlo tagged along behind to enjoy the drama of her imperial bearing. It would have made Lizzie grab for her notebook. “Pray, tell me the meaning of this early visit,” she said the moment she was in the room. “Explain yourselves at once.”

The three men sitting with empty teacups all jolted.

“Angelika! Are you well?” Christopher’s eyes darted from her throat and creamy bust back to her face. His expression soured when Arlo stepped beside her and put an arm around her waist. “I believe you should unhand her, sir.”

“I will not,” Arlo replied, strengthened by Angelika’s calm power. Christopher was still a very handsome, well-connected man, but he no longer had any chance of winning her heart.

“We are here to ask Will some questions,” Christopher answered her. “There is a strange matter to reconcile, down at the church.”

The church representative looked to Arlo and made his own introduction. “My name is Robert Thimms, and I am Father Porter’s personal valet. He wishes you to meet with him as a matter of urgency. We believe a miracle of some sort has occurred.” A smile split his cheeks unexpectedly.

Christopher addressed Angelika. “Father Porter believes that this is the priest who was sent to replace him.” Miracles did not occur in Christopher’s line of work; only mistaken identities and nefarious motives.

She did not so much as blink. “That man died in a carriage hijacking.”

“That’s what I believed, but apparently not,” Christopher said, narrowing his eyes up and down on Arlo. “Until we can all sit down and sort this out, we need you to come with us, Will.”

Angelika puffed up in outrage. “He goes nowhere.”

Arlo squeezed his arm around her waist in wordless thanks.

Christopher turned his frustration on Arlo. “You remain silent, as you often do. This is the magistrate, Mr. Samuel Carter. He has accompanied us in his official capacity, until we can clear up what I’m sure is a misunderstanding. Let us depart now for his offices.” The threat in his tone was unmistakable.

“How do you do, Mr. Thimms, Mr. Carter?” Arlo gave a polite bow. “I truly can only think of one way to completely clear up this strange matter, and I propose we reconvene at the church at my convenience; that is to say, nightfall. We must ask you to leave now.”

“At your convenience?” Christopher echoed with a sneer and yet another reflexive glance at Angelika’s dress neckline. “Nightfall?”

“Angelika has not eaten her breakfast. I am asking you again to leave. I am not being taken out of here all of a sudden, like a criminal.” The words gave him a pinch, and brought back the memory of being a small boy again. But with his greatest advocate beside him, he felt unmovable.

“And you are not a criminal,” Mr. Thimms placated, giving Christopher a hard stare. “We believe you have had a significant trauma and your circumstances have been . . . most unusual, but God has been with you. Please, we would be most grateful to allow Father Porter an audience with yourself.”

Christopher was irritated and said to Angelika, “Where is Victor? We told your servant to fetch him, but she grew so flustered she could not explain to us where he was. Utterly tongue-tied, she was. She is a nice girl, but you need someone more suited to this household.”

“Victor is asleep,” Angelika guessed, “and my housekeeping staff is absolutely none of your business. Sarah is perfectly fit for the role, and I appreciate her many skills and abilities.” She could go from bland to razor sharp in a blink.

“What’s your proposal?” Christopher asked Arlo, turning his icy blue glare back on him. “When we meet at the church, how can everything be cleared up?”

“I’ll bring a shovel,” Arlo replied, and the three guests fell back in their seats in shock.

It was at this exact moment that the front door banged open. Huffing, puffing, a shirtless Victor Frankenstein appeared, gleaming in sweat. An apple was in his hand.

“What are you doing up so early?” Angelika was aghast. “Where is your shirt?”

“I’ve got nothing but early mornings in my future; I am adapting myself in advance.” Victor leaned in the doorway and raised his eyebrows in greeting at Christopher, carelessly ignoring the other two visitors. He bit his apple and spoke with his mouth full. “Do you ever run for fitness, Chris? We could go together.”

Arlo wasn’t invited. He understood why. He still felt sad.

“We are here on something serious, Victor,” Christopher replied after a shocked laugh, masked as a cough. “Perhaps you ought to take a seat, so I may introduce your guests and we can explain it.”

“After a quick wash,” Angelika pleaded wearily, knowing when she was beaten. “Please, Victor, you absolutely stink.”