Chapter 25 #2
Blast. That was a mistake. Miss Blackwell was at my side—my eyes wanted to find hers as desperately as a man might crave finding water in the desert. But I held firm to Mrs. Wickerton’s gaze. “Perhaps that was only my assumption.”
“Where and when was this, exactly?” General Blackwell leaned forward to look at me, his deep, gruff voice commanding the air.
I clutched my fork so tightly it might snap in half.
General Blackwell wasn’t a simpleton. He knew his daughter had spent a night alone during that storm.
He’d given her a blasted gun to protect herself.
But at least Brookhouse hadn’t mentioned the time or the location.
I was going to pummel Brookhouse for this.
The second we left this room, hopefully with Miss Blackwell’s reputation still intact, I was going to pull Brookhouse into a corner and make certain that careless mouth stayed shut.
“It was near my estate.” That wasn’t exactly a lie. After all, near was a relative term.
Brookhouse furrowed his eyebrows and opened his mouth as if he were about to contradict me. I kicked Miss Blackwell’s leg softly under the table, hoping she would understand my meaning and kick Brookhouse as hard as she liked.
She must have, for he started, and then wisely kept quiet.
“You are a fine young man, Captain Calder.” Mrs. Wickerton pointed a gnarled finger to her book. “Page eighty-seven,” she reminded me. “If this woman lived near your estate, she would have heard of you. Perhaps the whole situation was a trap—a scheme to ensnare an obviously successful young man.”
I blinked at her assumption that a young woman would be able to control not just the weather, but a bout with the ague. “I’m quite certain that wasn’t the case. In fact, I might have dreamed the entire thing.”
Mrs. Wickerton shook her head. “We cannot assume such a thing, not when your memory of her is so vivid.”
My memory of her was not vivid. It was fragments of colored glass, each teasing me with the possibility of a full picture I would never be able to piece together.
I sneaked the quickest of glances at Miss Blackwell.
She was looking down at her plate of stewed fruit.
Vivid. Where was this woman coming up with these ideas of hers?
Even when I hadn’t been delirious, I’d been so weak I could barely converse with Miss Blackwell.
I had managed the strength to force her to kiss me, though. What a disaster.
“I never said my memories of her were vivid.” I turned to Brookhouse. He’d gotten me into this mess, so he’d better help me out of it. “I distinctly said that I wasn’t even certain she was real.”
Brookhouse, dolt that he was, finally sensed my very real concern. “That’s true.” He nodded. “He told me she might have been an angel.”
“And I’m more and more certain she was,” I replied with a nod to him. “How is your pickled herring?”
This time when Brookhouse opened his mouth, it wasn’t me who stopped him. Mrs. Wickerton continued on as if I hadn’t just changed the topic of conversation. “We can’t blame those of lesser means when they try to vault themselves to a higher station, not when we have so much and others so little.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “She might not even exist, and if she does, she was simply trying to help a man in desperate need. Why does it follow that she only did such a service with the expectation of gaining something in return?”
Mrs. Wickerton blinked and sputtered. “I didn’t say with certainty she had ulterior motives, only that it wouldn’t surprise me if she did.
” She drew a pencil from the bottom of her reticule and jotted something into the pages of her notebook.
“She is obviously a woman in need of guidance at best, and at worst, censure.”
“That woman, whether real or the figment of my imagination, showed me true kindness without thought for praise or gain. I don’t think guidance or censure would be appropriate.”
“Well, then.” She blinked at my outburst, set her book down and then lifted it and placed her pencil on the top of a page with a quick burst of energy. “Prayers, at least.”
Miss Blackwell made a frustrated noise not unlike a growl of a badger protecting the opening to its burrow.
“If you must, pray for her,” she said through what must have been gritted teeth.
I still didn’t dare look at her, and I certainly couldn’t meet General Blackwell’s eye.
“I only suggest you do so in the quiet of your own bedchamber. In fact, I will do the same.”
Mrs. Blackwell eyed her daughter. Her eyebrows tightened briefly, then eased back into their typical line as she turned to Mrs. Wickerton. “How is the venerable archdeacon’s health?” she asked. “Have you seen him since he moved from the Stapleton house?”
Mrs. Wickerton’s mouth disappeared again, and her eyes fluttered in a series of quick blinks.
“I . . . no. I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing him there.
I’ve been quite occupied lately. My dear friends the Rowleys were quite worried about several things happening in Briarstead, and I can’t even speak of the goings on at Fenmore Park.
I’m fortunate to have made it here at all. ”
I was just close enough to Miss Blackwell to hear her mutter under her breath, “fortunate, indeed.”
We were then regaled with more stories of people Mrs. Wickerton had “helped” in the past year. At no point did I understand what it was she helped with.
The food in front of me no longer had any flavor, but I forced myself to keep eating as if it did.
If only this were an informal meal and I could leave the moment I finished eating.
But it wasn’t and I would be forced to spend the rest of the evening dodging eye contact with nearly everyone, while also pretending nothing at all was amiss.
If only Miss Blackwell wasn’t between me and Brookhouse, his toe would be smashed quite enthusiastically by my heel.
In fact . . .
I stepped lightly on Miss Blackwell’s toe. She glanced up at me and I tipped my head toward Brookhouse. She’d understood my meaning earlier, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to understand it now.
Her gray eyes widened and the corner of her mouth ticked up. She kept her eyes on mine, but the movement of her leg beneath the tablecloth was unmistakable.
Brookhouse yelped and her smile bloomed in full force.
Being on the same side as Miss Blackwell was far more pleasant than being her enemy.