Chapter Twenty-One

W hen Mr. and Mrs. Hastings returned from chapel, they were suitably horrified by the damage.

“Your aunt, God rest her soul, loved that tea set.” Mrs. Hastings shook her head as she examined a blue-and-white shard. “She always warned us to take care not to chip the teacups when we washed them. Not to say that we weren’t careful with all the china, of course. But Mrs. Kirkland was especially fond of that set.”

“Yes, I know.” George’s heart still ached on Aunt Helena’s behalf. It might be just as well that she was not here to see what had happened to her things. “I suppose we’d better get this cleaned up.” He stooped down to pick up a broken piece of stoneware, only to cut his hand on the edge. He hissed in pain and fumbled for a handkerchief.

“You just leave the cleanup to us, Mr. Kirkland,” Mrs. Hastings suggested. “Peggy and I have swept up many a mess over the years, and we know what we’re doing.”

Unlike me . George smiled sourly at his now-bleeding hand. That was his writing hand! “I will leave you to it,” he promised. He thought he heard Mrs. Hastings utter a sigh of relief once he turned away, but he might have imagined it.

George hurried upstairs to wash and bandage his hand. He meant to ask Belle for help, but she must have fallen asleep the moment she lay down for a nap. Not wanting to wake her, he did his best to bandage his hand by himself. Cleaning the cut wasn’t difficult, but tying a clean handkerchief around his hand was a challenge, to say the least.

By the time he had finished, the kitchen had been thoroughly cleaned. Hastings called over a neighboring farmer to help him restore the dresser to an upright position, but the neighbor pointed out that the parish constable might wish to take a look at the scene before they did so.

“Damnation,” Geroge grumbled. “We should have sent for the constable before we cleaned up the broken pottery.”

“I doubt it’ll make much difference,” Hastings opined. “If the constable hasn’t caught the burglars before, he’s not likely to do so now, is he?”

George suspected Hastings had the right of it, but he nevertheless sent for the constable. Then, knowing it would probably take some time to find that individual, he went back upstairs to check on Belle. He found her still slumbering. For some reason, she had stripped down to her shift, and she lay above the covers rather than under them. The walk home from church really must have overheated her.

He stared at his wife for a moment, struck again by her beauty. The fact that so lovely a woman had chosen to marry him—a man so disorganized that he could lose a book seconds after he’d had it in hand, and so absent-minded that he couldn’t even remember what he was doing halfway through a task—both awed and perplexed him.

When George leaned over to brush a strand of hair away from Belle’s face, she shifted position, rustling the counterpane beneath her. Then she smiled in her sleep. An answering smile unfurled across his face. He briefly considered waking her up so he could suggest a quick afternoon tumble. By now, she’d gotten past most of her timidity in the bedroom, and the broad daylight pouring in around the edges of the curtains would not have deterred her from responding passionately to such an invitation.

The knowledge that Belle probably needed her rest stayed George’s hand, but aside from that, lust only made up a small part of his rising tide of ardor. This rush of feeling felt more like fondness, or affection, or—the hand stroking Belle’s golden hair stilled.

Or love. He could not have fallen in love with his wife, could he? How very unoriginal! He did not want the story of his life to be so cliché.

The corners of his mouth quirked up as George realized what nonsense that was. His life did not need to mirror the plot of one of his novels. Dramatic love affairs made for good storytelling, but quiet, domestic affection was far more comfortable. And why shouldn’t he fall in love with Belle? In his marriage vows, he had promised to love her.

He kissed his fingertips, then brushed the kiss against Belle’s lips. Then he headed back down to the study, hoping to get a little writing in before the constable arrived. By the time the constable finally showed up, George was so deep into the current chapter that Hastings had to pound on the study door to get his attention.

Returning to awareness of his surroundings felt like coming up from a deep, dark, silent cave into the brightness and noise of regular life. George shook his head, rubbed his eyes, and yawned. How long had he been at work, anyway? He had no idea, but he’d covered several pages with his sloppy script.

It was a pity he had to stop writing now, because he knew exactly what needed to happen next, down to the next line of dialogue! Surely it wouldn’t hurt if he wrote down that line. He knew from experience that failing to capture a phrase when it occurred to him often meant losing it for good.

“Mr. Kirkland? Mr. Johnson’s here. The constable you sent for?”

“Be right there,” he yelled back. But he did not stop writing until he reached the end of the paragraph. There! At least that was one less line for him to forget.

When he finally opened the door, Hastings looked disgruntled. “Constable won’t appreciate waiting,” the manservant grumbled.

George cringed. “I imagine not. I’d best hurry.” He scurried downstairs before Hastings could scold him further. George did not mind Mrs. Hastings ordering him around. She had known him when he was a child. In his mind, that gave her the right to treat him familiarly. But her husband did not have that excuse!

In any case, Mr. Johnson did not seem particularly upset by George’s delay. George found the constable crouching on the floor next to the fallen dresser, peering underneath it as Mrs. Hastings explained what had happened.

“And I told Hastings, I don’t know how much longer I can stand to live in a house that attracts so many criminals, no matter how good the wages are!” She turned her head, caught sight of George, and immediately amended her complaint. “Not that we blame you, lad. This has been going on for months!”

No wonder Uncle William had been in a hurry to give away the cottage! George shook his head. Perhaps he had done his uncle a favor in taking this responsibility off his hands.

“Is there nothing that can be done about the break-ins?” George asked the constable. “I thought putting bolts on the kitchen door would keep intruders out.”

“Aye, they might’ve done, if the back door had been bolted too.” The constable lowered his eyes respectfully, avoiding any hint of confrontation.

George nevertheless clearly heard the critical note in Mr. Johnson’s voice. A flush burned along his cheekbones. “We had better make sure all the doors are secure, then.” He ought to have thought of that himself! Since the vandals had always entered through the kitchen door in the past, he’d assumed securing that door would be adequate. In hindsight, even George had to admit he’d been quite foolish.

Before the constable could offer any more suggestions, Bowser nudged George’s hand, looking for attention. George glanced down at the pup and smiled ruefully. “And why didn’t you protect the kitchen, hmm?”

Bowser, apparently not recognizing his failures, cocked his head and wagged his tail stump.

“Mayhap he’ll be more useful when he’s older,” Mrs. Hastings suggested. “He’s only a baby himself.” She slipped what looked suspiciously like a biscuit to the dog. Bowser’s tail stump wagged harder. “Or, if he doesn’t guard well, perhaps he’ll be good at catching rats and mice. We could use a good rat catcher about the house!”

George startled a little. “Are there rats? I’ve not seen one.” He hated rats! Nasty, bitey things! He knew a boy at school who had died after being bitten by a rat.

Mrs. Hastings snorted. “You don’t have to see a rat or a mouse to know it’s there. They leave signs.”

“Aye, but I shouldn’t think a bulldog would be any good at catching rats,” Mr. Johnson warned. “You need a terrier for rat catching. Farmer Wright raises the best ratters in this parish,” he informed George.

“I will keep that in mind.” George spoke politely, though he couldn’t help but notice how far the conversation had wandered from the original subject. He was more concerned with vandalism than with vermin just now. “Is there anything more you can tell us, Mr. Johnson?”

The constable scratched his head and frowned. “’Fraid not. But call me right away next time. Don’t wait till after you’ve tidied up the scene of the crime!”

Mr. Johnson’s reproachful gaze made George feel about five years old. “Yes, sir.” He only realized how ridiculous it was for him to address the local constable as “sir” once the words had already left his mouth. But perhaps it was not a mistake. Mr. Johnson stood up taller and the frown on his face eased.

“We’ll get to the bottom of this,” he promised.

A thousand objections strove to break out through George’s firmly closed lips, but he contained the hasty words, contenting himself with a polite nod.

As soon as the door closed behind Mr. Johnson, the three men—George, Hastings, and Hasting’s friend from a nearby farm—worked together to lift the dresser back up. When they’d scooted it back into place against the wall, George dusted off his hands and stepped back to take a good look. The old oak dresser had been dented in a few places, and a crack ran through part of one leg, but it stood solidly on all four feet, prepared to weather another half-century of use. Too bad the same could not be said for the porcelain and stoneware that once graced its shelves!

George sighed and wondered once again how he could possibly have an enemy so bent on senseless destruction. He hoped adding bolts to the back door would protect the house from further assault, but he no longer had much confidence about that. They probably hadn’t seen the last of the mysterious vandal.