Chapter 7

seven

“ Y ou do realize if you fracture a limb, I am in no condition to assist you,” Jo said as Chase gazed at her in what Alex could only describe as na?ve optimism.

“I’ve ridden a bicycle before, my darling,” his brother replied. “There’s no reason to think I’ll fall and injure myself.”

“That’s right, Jo,” added ginger-haired Harlan Callaghan. “Let the man have some fun. He’s not that clumsy.”

Alex chuckled at the young man’s impertinence.

As a hotel employee, Harlan was expected to be deferential to the guests. However, he also happened to be friends with Jo and Chase, and frankly, anyone willing to tease his brother was a good enough chap in Alex’s book. Besides, old friends had been scarce of late. Perhaps it was time for Alex to find some new ones.

Last night’s rain had given way to a gloriously sunny afternoon, and the expansive front lawn of the Imperial Hotel was alive with activities. Archery, croquet, badminton, and tennis on the new clay courts had virtually every guest taking part in some sort of sport, and those who didn’t engage were still outside, picnicking on quilts in the shade, or perhaps enjoying juleps on the porch.

In this remote corner of the lawn, however, an assortment of bicycles had lured men of various ages, girth, and athleticism toward Harlan Callaghan and his sturdy clipboard. It seemed there was to be a race, and apparently Chase was determined to participate.

“I’m not at all clumsy,” Chase responded to Harlan’s good-natured insult. “In fact, I intend to ride this fine contraption with the skill of a Belmont Stakes jockey. I might even win.”

“Perhaps your aim should simply be to finish,” Alex responded dryly.

His brother scowled. “I’m certain I could best you. Care for a little wager, big brother?”

“Me?” Alex asked with a dismissive chuckle. “So we can both be fools? No, thank you. I’ll cheer you on from a safe distance, though.”

“That’s a mistake,” Harlan murmured to Alex. “If my brother threw a gauntlet down at my feet, and I didn’t pick it up, I’d never hear the end of it. He’d spend the rest of his days saying I was chicken.”

Alex bristled slightly although knowing it was a harmless, good-natured jest. Perhaps because at any previous time in his life, he would’ve risen to the occasion without hesitation. Brotherly competition was as much a part of his relationship with Chase as sharing a ribald joke, enjoying a glass of fine whiskey, or sitting near a roaring fire and extolling upon the merits of being tall, handsome, and rich.

But Alex didn’t feel like himself these days. He was distracted, especially this afternoon. His mind was consumed with regret at having told Trudy Hart about his… predicament.

It wasn’t that he thought she’d share his story with anyone. He felt he could trust her with the information because she was clearly a woman of great integrity. But she was also a woman of common sense. An analytical thinker who, by her own admission, relied on evidence, and every comment she’d made last night revealed her belief that Isabella’s belongings were being placed in his path by a human hand, not a spectral one.

And that made him feel foolish.

But he wasn’t foolish.

He wasn’t gullible, or fanciful, or prone to bouts of hysteria. He wasn’t being deceived by his grief or letting his mind play tricks on him. He knew what he’d experienced. He knew no living person could be privy to the details that Izzy knew.

That letter she’d left in his boot? It was an apology he’d once written to her, and it had been torn to shreds. Her distinctly embroidered stocking had been left in a book of poems—between the pages of a verse he’d once recited. He remembered it clearly because it had taken him a week to memorize the damn prose and another week to muster the courage to say it to her—and then she’d giggled at his bungled elocution.

And the comb he’d discovered under his bed pillow—on the morning of her funeral—was the very same comb he’d given to her on the morning of their wedding. It was bejeweled, encrusted with garnets in the shape of a rose, but she’d never worn it because she preferred gardenias and thought an attentive husband should have known that.

In life, Isabella Carnegie hadn’t been hard to please. She’d been impossible to please, but heaven knew he had tried. Oh, how he had tried—until he simply could not try anymore, and something had to be done about it.

“I won’t say you’re chicken,” Chase teased, pulling Alex to the present. “I’ll simply say you knew I’d wallop you given my certain victory.”

“Certain victory? That’s a lark. I could beat you in a bicycle race with one leg tied behind my back,” Alex replied, feeling that old sense of sibling rivalry stir at his brother’s words.

“No, you couldn’t.”

“Yes, I could.”

“Prove it.”

Damn it all to hell. They may as well have been twelve years old again. “Fine. I’ll race you.”

Chase clapped his hands together in a single motion. “Excellent.”

“Does anyone care what I think?” Jo asked casually.

“No,” the men replied in unison, but Chase immediately leaned over with a grin and kissed her cheek.

“Of course, I do, my darling. What do you think?”

“I think Harlan and I are going to sip lemonade in the shade while the two of you make silly gooses of yourselves. Just please don’t break anything.”

“I’m willing to give you both a quick lesson,” Harlan added magnanimously. “The race doesn’t start for another twenty minutes.”

Twenty minutes was not enough time to perfect his cycling skills, but Alex had ridden before. He knew it was as much a matter of confidence and commitment as it was of balance and footwork. If you doubted yourself and began to wobble, you were sure to fall, but if you sped up when every instinct told you to slow down, you’d stay upright. And at least the course was fairly level. It ran from one corner of the hotel, down around the edge of the lawn, along the boulevard leading toward downtown Trillium Bay, and then curved back up along the drive, ending near the entrance of the main lobby.

A finish line had been drawn in chalk, and as the racers practiced, some twenty in all, spectators began to gather, many taking seats on the red carpeted steps of the front porch, while others were scattered along the route to cheer their favorite riders.

Alex, meanwhile, was having second—and third—thoughts about his participation. He hadn’t expected an audience, but naturally Hugo Plank and Julian Tippett, the Imperial Hotel’s social director, were doing their utmost to drum up excitement, even encouraging wagers. Alex spotted Finn and Ellis arriving along with Daisy and a few of her friends, and then the Hart sisters with Asher. Even Sir Chester VonWhiskerton was in attendance, but it was Trudy who caught his eye and waved, sending a strange buzz of anticipation thrumming through him, yet increasing his trepidation.

“I’m sorry,” Chase said with an easy smile as they stood near the starting point, holding their bicycles steady by the handlebars.

Alex scoffed in mock exasperation. “For which thing? For taunting me into a bicycle race with all of these people watching? Or for most assuredly beating me to the finish line?”

His brother shrugged. “Both I suppose.”

“At least promise me that this one will be a fair fight,” Alex replied. “Last time we raced on foot, you tripped me.”

“I had to. You were winning.”

Alex bit back a smile and shook his head.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen!” Hugo Plank shouted from in front of the steps. “Welcome to the First Annual Imperial Hotel Bicycle Battle. The rules are simple. When Mr. Callaghan lowers the flag, our cyclists will begin the race over there.” He pointed to the group of them and then continued.

“The first rider to complete the entire route and cross this finish line wins.” He tapped his large foot against the chalk to mark the spot. “Any rider who falls over is out of the race, but the gentlemen may touch their feet to the ground if necessary. Most importantly, there is to be no deliberate contact between cyclists.”

“Did you hear what he just said?” Alex glared at his brother. “No deliberate contact.”

“I didn’t hear anything. Must’ve been the wind.”

“The winner,” Hugo added, “will receive ten dollars and a bottle of his choice from the top shelf of the bar.”

“A top shelf bottle? Glad to know I’m not risking life and limb for nothing,” Chase remarked.

“Well, regardless of the outcome, at least you’ll always have your wife’s derision,” Alex replied.

There was a moment of conferring between Hugo, Harlan, and Mr. Tippett, then Harlan sprinted over to stand before them.

“Gentlemen, on your marks!” Harlan called out.

Everyone scrambled onto their bicycles. Most had removed their jackets, and a few, like Alex, had rolled up their shirtsleeves. Some had gone so far as to don goggles, clearly expecting the ride to go much faster than was likely.

“Get set!” Harlan shouted. “And go!”

He waved a red scarf and Alex pushed forward with one foot before focusing all his attention on simply pedaling the bike amidst the fray of other unsteady riders. There was laughter and shouting as the racers left the starting line en masse, but it died away as the group spread out along the route.

Alex felt a faint acknowledgement that the crowd was cheering, but he paid little heed to it. The only thoughts on his mind at present were to stay upright, keep moving forward, not be last of the pack… and that somewhere in that cacophony of onlookers, Trudy Hart was watching him race. He didn’t know why that mattered, but it did.

Rounding the first curve, the finish line felt miles away. To his left, Chase was keeping pace with him but the number of riders in front of them was thinning incrementally. A pudgy man in striped trousers veered off into the grass and tumbled over. To the right, three riders collided, and landed in a heap, and Alex recommitted himself to simply finishing.

The wind brushed against his face. His heart rate increased from both excitement and exertion as he passed one rider, and then another. Chase was still beside him, but they were leaving the others behind, and he dared to wonder if perhaps they might finish together near the front of the pack. That would be satisfying. He’d already made enough progress in the race to not completely humiliate himself and he was content with that.

But as they sped onward, as they passed one cyclist, and then another, Alex wondered if perhaps—just perhaps—they might be able to take the lead. They were among the most fit of the participants, and seemed to have mastered some technique. As the possibility took hold, it became his purpose. His mission. He wanted to finish with the best of the riders.

He lowered his head and pumped his legs. Chase moved ahead of him by a nose, or a wheel as it were, and suddenly a lifetime of his brother always claiming victory at the final moment, of always defeating Alex either by luck or skill or questionable strategy, filled Alex with a need to win.

He wanted to win, and he could. There was no one else in front of them now. It was just Alex and Chase.

Rounding the final bend, he saw Hugo up ahead. The noise of the crowd was a dull roar drowned out by the relentless thump-bump of his heart beating in his ears. Chase was mere inches ahead, but Alex doubled his efforts and passed him. The finish line was right there. He ignored the burning in his legs, the ache in his shoulders, the pounding in his chest. Alex pedaled with every ounce of remaining strength he had. He sped past Hugo with Chase nowhere in sight.

By Jove! He had done it! He had won!

Silly schoolboy elation flooded through him at the victory… and then he felt a jolt… and his jubilation was overtaken by the alarming and rather confusing sensation of flying through the air with no bicycle beneath him. He had the presence of mind to realize this was an inauspicious twist to his triumph, but at least he’d won.

He had won and he had beaten his brother.

Then he landed on the hard, solid ground with a whump and an oof and pain shot up his left arm. Noises and colors blended together as he lay there in the dirt, dazed, bewildered, and breathless. A strong hand rolled him over onto his back.

“Good God, man! Are you all right?” Hugo asked, bending over him. The sun overhead was bright, and Alex blinked.

“Did I cross the line first?” he asked on a wheeze.

“In a manner of speaking,” Hugo answered.

“Then I’m all right.”

Chase was next to him a second later. “Land sakes, Alex. Are you hurt?”

“I don’t think so. Help me sit up.”

“Maybe you should just lay still for a moment,” his brother responded. “You’ve likely had the wind knocked out of you.”

“Help me sit up,” Alex said again. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t actually feel fine. In fact, his head was spinning, and it was hard to breathe, but the lovely Dr. Hart had just arrived, and he didn’t want to seem frail with her staring at him like that.

“That was quite a spill,” she said, kneeling beside him without a care for her dress. “Can you look at me.”

“Gladly.”

He was upright now, sort of, and not so addled from the fall he didn’t realize her intense gaze at his face was diagnostic in nature, and yet he was senseless enough to enjoy this opportunity to stare into her lovely hazel eyes. He took note of the smattering of pale freckles sprinkled across her nose and the tiniest little scar near the corner of her mouth. So tiny only a lover would ever be close enough to notice it.

A lover, or a foolish oaf who’d just flown off a bicycle.

“You’re very pretty,” he whispered for her alone to hear.

She frowned. “Did you bump your head, Mr. Bostwick?”

“I don’t think so. And I won the race,” he said smugly.

“Mmm… did you?” She glanced up at Hugo.

“Hugo?” Alex looked up at him, too. “You did say I won, didn’t you?.”

“Not exactly, son,” Hugo said sympathetically. “You asked if you crossed the finish line first, and well, your body did but your bike still hasn’t. Technically, I think your brother won this race.”

“Damn it!” Alex’s frustration was quickly displaced by a woozy light-headedness and the pain radiating up his arm. He lifted his hand to see why it was throbbing to find his pinky finger bent at an unnatural angle and already turning purple.

“Well, that’s definitely broken,” Trudy said. “Do you mind if I check to see if you have any other injuries?”

“Go ahead,” he said with resignation, fairly certain everything else was intact and that only his finger and his dignity were wounded.

“A little privacy is in order, Mr. Plank,” Trudy said. “Might you shoo away the gawkers?”

“What? Oh, yes. Of course, Miss Hart.”

“Doctor Hart,” she said automatically, although she knew he meant no disrespect.

“Friends, if you would all kindly disperse,” Hugo called out. “Let’s give Mr. Bostwick a moment to recover. Refreshments are available on the lawn or in the tearoom if you’d rather take respite from the sun.”

People slowly drifted away as Finn, Ellis, and Daisy appeared nearby, concern etched on their faces. Alex caught a glimpse of Lucy Hart embracing a tearful Coco some distance away, and even little Poppy looked upset.

Goodness. His voyage over the handlebars must have been quite spectacular for everyone to seem so worried, but thankfully, he was already regaining his equilibrium. He glanced up at his brother.

“You didn’t knock me over this time, did you?”

Even Chase’s smile was full of apprehension, yet still his brother teased. “I didn’t need to knock you over. You hit that rock in the path all on your own. I’ll split the winnings with you, though.”

“Keep your pity money. I don’t want it. I’ll win fair and square next time.”

“There had better not be a next time,” Jo said, at last arriving to the scene, her face flushed. “I told you fools you’d break something.”

“That you did,” Alex said with a slow nod. “But must you all stare at me as if I’d been pitched from a speeding locomotive rather than a bicycle? Do you really think me so breakable?”

“You did travel some distance through the air,” Ellis responded matter-of-factly. “It was impressive.”

“But not very dignified,” Finn added with a small grin. “Rather like a chicken trying to fly.”

“Not like a chicken at all,” Daisy argued. “More like an acrobat. But Alex, are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” he said again, wishing they’d all go away and let him catch his breath in peace. Their fussing was embarrassing and entirely unnecessary.

Meanwhile, however, Trudy was running her hands down his arms, giving little squeezes and bending his joints this way and that. She proceeded to do the same with his legs and in spite of his embarrassment and the significant pain coming from his mangled finger, the rest of him was starting to feel rather fine. Perhaps he should fall down more often if her attentive ministrations were the result. He smiled at her again and felt vindicated when she blushed in response.

“Out of my way! Out my way, now! I’m the doctor,” a gruff, booming voice called out from the upper slope of the lawn, and Trudy turned to see a bespeckled, bewhiskered man with frizzy grey hair and a ruddy complexion push his way through the remaining onlookers. He elbowed his way next to Hugo, and she felt her pulse quicken in preparation for a fight. She knew this man’s type just by his belligerent expression and the fact that his complexion indicated he enjoyed drinking elixirs as much as he enjoyed prescribing them.

“Which one is the patient?” he demanded, as if it weren’t obvious since Alex was the one sitting in the dirt in a torn shirt and holding up a hand with a clearly broken finger.

“This is the injured party, and I am Dr. Hart,” she answered calmly. “Did you witness the accident?”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

“Did you witness the accident? If not, I can describe what happened so you might assess his injuries.”

He scoffed. “I don’t need any assistance in assessing his injuries, missy. Move aside please.”

Alex grasped her wrist with his uninjured hand, keeping her by his side. “Who might you be, sir?” he asked.

“I am Dr. Aloysius Prescott, M.D.,” he answered with self-importance. “I’m the Imperial Hotel physician and I’ve come to ensure your well-being.”

Trudy looked back at Alex. It was possible he’d prefer this man’s care over hers, and if that were the case, she’d try not to take it personally. She’d fail… but she’d try.

“Thank you, doctor, but I’m already being well tended to.” Alex squeezed her wrist, and she felt herself blushing.

Again.

And then she felt annoyed by all her blushing which only served to make her cheeks burn that much hotter. It was his hand on her wrist causing the issue, but why such a simple touch should elicit this reaction within her was a mystery.

Dr. Prescott looked around the area, his tumbleweed brows coming together in consternation. “You’re being tended to? Has Dr. Hargrove already been here? Has he examined you?”

“I believe Mr. Bostwick is referring to Dr. Hart,” Hugo explained. “She is one of our guests and a graduate of the University of Michigan Medical College.”

Dr. Prescott looked back at her with an expression she was all too familiar with. Patronizing indulgence. As if her degree in medicine was a quaint, adorable thing but certainly nothing of actual value.

“This man didn’t faint from hysteria onto a chaise lounge, Mr. Plank. He was flung from a speeding bicycle and needs a proper examination. Best let me get a look.”

He stepped closer, but Chase rose to his feet as Alex replied, “Thank you, no.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Thank you, but your care won’t be necessary. I have my own physician,” Alex said.

His confidence in Trudy was validating, but in spite of the boost to her ego, his health was her main concern.

“Dr. Prescott likely has supplies that I do not,” she said quietly to Alex. “And you need to get that finger set.”

“Surely, you can set a broken finger,” he replied, just as quietly.

“I can,” she nodded, “but I’m not sure what I have on hand for pain management.”

He laughed out loud at her concern. “I’ve had the wind knocked out of me and broke an essentially useless finger. Otherwise, I’m fine. What I’d really like is to stand up now and collect that half a bottle of liquor Hugo promised me.”

“I thought you didn’t want pity winnings,” Chase said as he helped Alex slowly clamor to his feet.

“I guess I’ve come to my senses.”

“Well,” Dr. Prescott scoffed. “When you come to your senses about proper medical care, my office is at the back of the hotel. Until then, good day to you, sirs.” He stomped off as Chase extended a hand to Trudy, helping her rise. She tried to brush the dirt from her skirts and turned to Mr. Plank.

“Do you have any supplies on hand?” she asked. “Anywhere other than in Dr. Prescott’s office?”

“I do,” Mr. Plank replied. “My private study is just off the lobby if you’d like to go there. I can fetch whatever you need. Please follow me.”

Some twenty minutes later, Trudy had set Alex’s finger with a splint and clean bandages and checked him for signs of concussion, thankfully finding none. Had he been any other patient, she might have also asked him to remove his shirt and trousers so she could check for serious contusions, but working at her father’s clinic, she’d grown accustomed to treating the old, the infirmed, the malnourished, even the odorific.

Alexander Bostwick was none of those things.

He was hearty and hale, made of muscle and strength. He even smelled good in spite of the dirt clinging to his clothes. It was… befuddling, and although she should not alter her treatment simply because her patient was pleasantly scented and muscular , all things considered, it seemed prudent to leave well enough alone.

And to leave him alone.

He’d be fine.

“Don’t be surprised if you suffer some muscle aches and pains over the next few days,” Trudy said as she avoided his gaze and tidied up the supplies while he sat on a small sofa in Mr. Plank’s study. “But I think, overall, you should consider yourself fortunate. You could have broken far worse than a finger.”

“Yes, I believe Jo made that quite clear during her tirade. My ears are still scorched from her scolding.”

His sister-in-law had gone on at some length once they’d reached the privacy of the office, telling both of the Bostwick brothers in no uncertain terms they were to behave themselves from this day forward. Trudy had found Jo’s overly zealous diatribe justified yet distracting and had ultimately sent everyone from the room, except for herself and Alex.

“I think you frightened her,” Trudy replied to Alex’s comment.

“I frightened Jo?” He shook his head. “Jo’s not afraid of anything.”

Trudy looked over at him. “Don’t confuse fear with courage, Mr. Bostwick. Jo is certainly courageous, but that doesn’t mean she’s not afraid of things, such as someone she cares about getting injured. And women are especially sensitive to that sort of concern when they’re expecting.”

He looked down sheepishly at his bandaged hand. “Truly, no one expected this to happen. I certainly didn’t expect a rock in my path.”

“No one ever expects a rock in their path Mr. Bostwick and yet they are there all the time, in one form or another.”

He nodded slowly. “Are you back to calling me Mr. Bostwick, now? I rather prefer Alex.”

So did she.

“When you’re my patient, you are Mr. Bostwick,” she replied. “But now that I’ve finished trussing up that finger, Alex it is.”

He smiled, reminding her—as if she could forget—that he was disarmingly handsome.

“Good,” he replied. “And may I say, I’m glad to see you haven’t caught a cold.”

“Caught a cold?”

“Yes, from being in the rain last evening.”

“Ah, of course.”

“I shouldn’t have let you linger out in the chilly night air.”

His words prompted her laughter. “I am quite capable of making my own decisions, Alex. I chose to remain outside with you.”

“But had I not bolted from the theater like Henny Penny, you wouldn’t have been outside at all.”

“I suppose not, but I have no regrets. Except, perhaps, for one.”

His gaze clouded. “And what regret is that?”

She regarded him carefully. “I’m not sure how to help with your… other predicament.”

He straightened his shoulders. “I shared what I did out of an absence of good sense. Not so you’d feel obligated to help me.”

“I don’t feel obligated, but as a physician, as your physician—and dare I say your friend—I would like to be of service. To help find a cure, as it were, to your peculiar malady.” She was teasing now, but her smile seemed to catch him off guard. “Unless, of course, I’m being presumptuous. If you’d rather not discuss it with me further, I’ll respect your privacy.”

He was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “Not presumptuous at all. I’d welcome your insight, but do you truly consider this a malady? Some illness of my mind, perhaps?”

“Oh, my goodness. No, Alex, that’s not what I meant.”

Why did she always phrase things so poorly around him?

“I only meant that, if it were up to me, I’d try to uncover the source behind the appearances of your wife’s items using a scientific method, the same way we try to find cures for diseases.”

“And how might one go about that?”

“By gathering evidence, I suppose. Using observation, testing theories, interviewing experts if we can find any.” Although any so-called experts in the realm of the supernatural would have to be carefully vetted, and how that might be accomplished, she had no idea. It would be like trying to solve a robbery by only interviewing burglars and thugs.

“That process sounds rather labor intensive. Are you sure you have the time?”

She smiled again.” I’m accustomed to hectic days at my father’s clinic and thrive on keeping busy. Truthfully, I don’t relish the idea of spending this entire summer at leisure, discussing fashion and home furnishings. If I can’t see patients, I’d much prefer to focus on solving a riddle, especially one as unique as yours. That is, of course, only if you genuinely want my participation.”

His smile was slow, and she sensed that tumble from his bicycle had sapped more energy from him than he’d realized, but he nodded at her words.

“Your participation, however much you care to give, would be most appreciated. I fear my objectivity in this matter may be faulty and I haven’t wanted to alarm my family. Perhaps you will see things through a different lens.”

“Perhaps, but either way, two heads are better than one. We’ll work on this together, but for now, Mr. Bostwick , I’m going to be your doctor again and advise you to go upstairs and rest. I’ll have some tea sent to your room that should help with any discomfort.”

He looked, for a moment, as if he might argue because men always seemed to equate rest with weakness. They didn’t realize that, although their body might be motionless, on the inside, it was working hard at healing. Fortunately, he nodded again and rose, slowly, from the sofa. He looked over at her, his expression somber.

“Thank you, Trudy.”

His words were simple, but his tone said more. It said he appreciated her, and he trusted her. As a doctor, that was the best compliment she could receive.