by Jane Ashford
“You’ve lived here for a while,” he answered, making it half a question.
“Since I left Alberdene,” she answered.
Ada tried the wine, sparingly. She understood that although their hostess had been an employee in the past, she was insisting on the rituals of polite calls now, and that the duke had conceded.
“What brought you here?” he asked.
“I took leave of my home in 1809,” the old woman said, taking this inquiry in the broadest possible terms. “When the Russians chased off the Swedes and took over in Finland.”
She wanted to talk, Ada saw. She wanted to be…acknowledged as an individual. Perhaps she wasn’t often, as a language teacher in this English town. Despite Ada’s impatience, she could understand.
“I was sick of wars and tyrants,” Miss Koskinen went on. “Who wants a tsar? Who needs one? But there was fighting in the south, too. Napoleon. And so after a while, I came to England. I knew the language. I know many languages. My father was a greatly respected scholar, and I was well educated.” She nodded as if to emphasize her point. “I began to teach languages to English people. The ones who wished to learn.” She looked at Ada as if she knew that Ada was not one of these. “In London, of course, where such things are more common,” she continued. “And then I came upon an advertisement for a governess well versed in languages.”
“My father?” asked the duke.
“Yes. He was looking for someone to teach Lady Delia, as languages were a great interest of hers. His offer was generous. I enjoy seeing new places. So I applied and was hired. Your sister was a talented pupil. Most intelligent.” She shook her head. “A great loss.”
“I think we may have met once,” said Compton.
“When you were home from school, yes. You weren’t there long.” Her gaze on him was acute.
He made a face that suggested the visit had not been a success.
“But after a while, I found Alberdene too isolated.” Miss Koskinen shrugged. “I like having more people around me. A town, a city. Lady Delia didn’t wish me to go, but I had had enough countryside. I came to live here in Shrewsbury where I teach young ladies and some gentlemen who are thinking of diplomatic careers.”
Ada wondered how many of these there could be in this market town.
The old lady smiled as if satisfied now that she’d been allowed to tell her story. She fixed her pale gaze on the duke. “What is it I can do for you?” she asked.
“My sister left a note behind,” replied Compton. “We think it may be written in your native language. We hope you can help us discover what it says.”
Ada opened her reticule and removed the page. Unfolding it, she gave it to Miss Koskinen.
The old woman bent over it with a sad smile. “Yes, that is Lady Delia’s hand, full of loops and curlicues. Sloppy, I used to tell her. Better to take more care.” She ran her finger down the page. “Very bad grammar. She should have been able to do better than that after our sessions together.”
“But can you tell what it says?” asked Ada.
“Oh certainly.”
A thrill shot through her. She’d waited so long to learn this. She felt as if she was teetering on the verge of some amazing discovery.
Miss Koskinen held up the page and translated as she read.
The hiding place can be nowhere that one would commonly search, because we have. Inch by inch. But then I thought—what has been forgotten? And what always remains? And in that, I knew the answer.
The old woman raised her head. “I believe she means ‘answer.’ She has written it a bit wrong. She might have been trying to say ‘secret.’”
“Is that all?” asked Compton.
“Yes. The passage is not long.”
Ada sat quite still, running over the phrases she’d heard and battling a wave of crushing disappointment. She’d expected a revelation, clear instructions, a path to a treasure. She’d gotten more obscurity. Delia’s final communication told them nothing!
Frustration threatened to choke her. Had Delia really needed to be so cryptic, writing in a language that no one could read? That seemed to be taking secrecy too far. It was true that Delia had adored secrets as some other girls loved sweets, but this was ridiculous.
“We need to write it out in English,” the duke said. “If you wouldn’t mind repeating.”
“Of course,” replied Miss Koskinen.
Charlotte would leap upon the words and wrest meaning from them, Ada thought. Surely she would. They would remind her of some page on the walls of the hidden room. Or an entry in the notebooks. And that would lead them to the lost treasure. She mustn’t give up.
Pen and paper were fetched. Miss Koskinen repeated the contents of the page. Ada wrote them down. “Thank you,” she said when they were done.
“You are most welcome.” The old woman looked curious. “Do you know what it means? What it is for?”
“Yes,” declared Ada, earning a questioning glance from the duke.
Miss Koskinen waited. Ada said no more. Of course, she had no more to say.
“We must be going,” Compton said. He glanced out the window as if gauging the afternoon light, then rose and acknowledged Miss Koskinen with a bow. “You have my thanks as well. Please send word if I can do anything for you.”
“Very kind, Your Grace,” she murmured. She watched them put on their cloaks and only stood when they were ready to depart. The farewells were brief.
“Did you understand something from the message?” Compton asked as they walked away from the small house. “Because it sounded like gibberish to me.”
“No,” answered Ada. She would not feel forlorn, she told herself. They would analyze Delia’s note word by word.
“Ah.” He looked thwarted and moved faster.
He walked so rapidly that Ada had to trot to keep up with him. And as soon as they reached the inn, he called for the gig.
“Could we have something to eat?” asked Ada. She felt positively hollow. It had been a long time since their hurried breakfast.
“No time.” Peter was seething with impatience. And discouragement, he admitted. This had been a wasted trip. Delia’s note had told them nothing. His sister’s affection for conundrums had never been so maddening. She’d been writing in an unintelligible language, for God’s sake. She could have simply stated her discovery. The last thing he needed at this moment was a riddle.
Now the day was waning. He had to get Miss Ada home before dark. The proprieties demanded it. Her aunt was no doubt already fuming. Also, he was pretty sure his horse wouldn’t pull the gig in the dark. He could only push Prince so far. Thus, when Miss Ada turned to enter the inn, he said, “Where are you going?”
“To ask for some bread and cheese,” she replied over her shoulder.
“We must get on the road.”
“I’ll be back by the time the gig is ready.”
She wasn’t, of course, even though Prince prolonged the harnessing with a flurry of outraged kicks. Peter nearly went to drag her out, until it occurred to him that she might have had other needs to attend to. They’d been walking about for hours. He visited the privy himself, then stood by the gig tapping his foot.
At last she emerged, carrying a packet wrapped in a napkin. He handed her into the carriage and convinced his horse to pass under the arch and set off through the streets. Prince seemed even more unhappy about his position than earlier. Several times he shied and tried to kick off the reins.
Peter was thankful that his passenger said nothing about this. And very glad when they left the town behind and he could let the horse go faster. Perhaps Prince would tire of fighting him with a clear path ahead.
Miss Ada held out a rough sandwich, a slab of cheese between two slices of bread. Peter took it in one hand, realizing he was close to famished. As he bit in, he saw that she’d nearly fin
ished her own. She’d been quiet because her mouth was full. “Good,” he said when he’d swallowed. “Thank you.”
She nodded and ate.
A gust of wind caught the napkin that had held the food and swept it from Miss Ada’s lap into the air. She grabbed for it and missed. The bit of cloth billowed and flopped, coming to rest on a tree branch well off the road, and well out of reach.
Following its flight, Peter noticed the sky and nearly groaned aloud. Of course luck had turned against him. When did it not? The day had been clear when they left Alberdene, but now a storm was sweeping in from the southwest. A distant rumble suggested thunder. And Prince absolutely detested thunder, almost as much as he loathed lightning. He might just tolerate a storm when he was saddled. In harness, he would put forward the strongest possible objections.
“Shouldn’t we try to get it back?” asked his companion.
Get what? His equanimity?
“The napkin,” she added, pointing.
“Too high up in the tree. And no time,” he replied. He encouraged Prince to go faster and received an irritated snort in return.
“You needn’t be so short with me,” she said.
He paused and throttled his temper. “I beg your pardon. I’m rather concerned about getting you back in good time. And now the weather has turned against us.”
She brushed crumbs from the front of her cloak. “I saw the clouds. We won’t melt away if we get a bit wet.”
“No, though I would prefer you didn’t.” Peter told himself not to resent her shrug. She didn’t understand. And they were both irritated by the outcome of their journey, he thought. “The thing is, my horse hates thunderstorms,” he added. “On his back I can control him. But here.” He waved his sandwich at the harness.
“Should we stop and wait for it to pass?”
“There’s no place to shelter along here.”
She looked at the empty countryside. “No. Though we could stop, and you could hold his head while I take the reins. I’ve driven gigs before.”
“We can’t take the time. It’ll be dark in two hours.” Peter finished his sandwich. At least he had some sustenance for the coming tussle. “We must get back.”
“Yes.” Miss Ada watched the passing meadows. “My aunt will be annoyed.”
He might have said she should have thought of that before she insisted upon coming. But he didn’t. He wasn’t entirely oblivious.
“I did know that,” she continued, as if she’d read his mind. “But I so wanted to be there to find out what Delia wrote. You’ll say you would have told me. But that wouldn’t have been the same.”
He nodded, understanding.
“I thought, since she’d gone to such lengths to disguise it, that the note would have important information.”
“Indeed.” A rumble of thunder in the distance made Prince roll his eyes. Peter braced himself for a battle of wills.
“I don’t see why she didn’t write more clearly,” Miss Ada complained.
“Delia loved being mysterious. And she never much cared if her obscurities vexed people. Or me, at any rate.” His sister would have smiled at their befuddlement, Peter thought. She would have gloated as she led them to whatever secret she’d deciphered. But she wasn’t here to do that.
Rain came sweeping across the fields, cutting off any reply Miss Ada might have made. She pulled the carriage blanket from her knees and draped it over their heads, but it was soon wet through in the downpour. Lightning flashed nearby, and with the boom of thunder that followed, Prince leapt into the air, all four hooves off the ground, and then broke into a frenzied gallop when he came down.
The gig lurched off the ground and slammed down again. It bounced and tilted as Peter struggled to get the horse under control. Prince kicked out with his back feet, tossed his head, and tried to wiggle out of the harness straps. He shied at a windblown shrub, flattening his ears and racing around a curve.
The gig tipped. It was going over. He wasn’t going to be able to stop it. Gripping the reins with one hand, Peter twisted to pull Miss Ada into his arms. He curled around her as the vehicle went over, and they were flung out into the long grass at the side of the road. His back hit the ground hard. Miss Ada came down on top of him with a solid thump. Between the two, the breath was knocked right out of him. Prince careened off, pulling the overturned gig behind him.
For a long moment, they lay there, stunned. She was draped over him in a limp heap. If he could have spoken, he would have asked if she was all right.
The answer came when she sat up, tugging at her wet skirts. “Oh. Oh. You saved me.”
Peter stayed flat, fighting for air. His chest refused to pump.
“Are you all right? Compton? Peter!” She bent over him, eyes wide with fear.
With a great gasp of relief, his lungs recovered. He could breathe again.
“Oh thank God! Are you hurt?”
“I don’t think so.” He pushed slowly up to sitting. “Not…not really. Just knocked about a little. What about you?”
“The same. Less so because you shielded me.”
They huddled together side by side, recovering, the rain pelting down on their heads.
“I must go to Prince,” he said, pushing himself upright.
His horse had dragged the overturned gig only a little way along the road. There he had stopped, trembling and furious, and indulged in a temper tantrum, trying to rid himself of the hated burden. He was still writhing and kicking when Peter arrived. He tried to bite the source of his indignity as soon as Peter was in reach. Miss Ada came up in time to witness it.
He was absolutely going to find a way to afford a carriage horse for the gig, Peter thought as he dodged his mount’s teeth. Neither he nor Prince deserved this. Slowly, he calmed him, then ran his hands over the animal’s legs and was relieved to find him uninjured. When he went on to straighten the harness Prince glared with livid incredulity, stunned that he wasn’t going to remove it. “Can you hold his head while I see if I can right the gig?” Peter asked his companion.
“Of course.” Miss Ada moved toward the horse, leaving the soaked blanket she’d been dragging behind her.
“He’ll try to bite you,” Peter warned.
“He will not succeed.” She took charge of Prince with gentle authority. The horse actually settled further under her hand, Peter saw with admiration.
The gig was a lightweight vehicle, and fortunately it had come to rest against a slight rise. By hanging with all his weight on the upper side, Peter was able to rock it back onto its two wheels. Prince objected strongly to the thump as it returned to the earth, but Miss Ada managed him. He appreciated the way she combined a soothing voice and a strong grip. Peter threw the sodden blanket into the gig and climbed up to take the reins. He’d have to hold Prince while Miss Ada got in. There was no other choice. She saw it at once, and climbed nimbly up.
A few minutes later they were traveling along on the road again, soaked through and spattered with mud but otherwise unharmed. Prince, perhaps tired by his trials, kept up a steady pace.
“You saved me,” she said again.
Peter was tired and cold. It would have been far better to spare her the ordeal in the first place, he thought. As a man with a proper carriage could have done. Didn’t this just show that he was in no position to take a wife? As if he’d needed a lesson. And they’d accomplished next to nothing in return for their mishap.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked.
“I’m as wet and battered as you are, Miss Ada. Let us just get back. I’m sure you want that as much as I do.”
They drove for a while in silence. The rain slackened and finally ended. But the relief of that was lessened by the rush of chill air across their wet clothes. He saw her shiver. “Put the blanket around you,” he said. “It will help even though it’s wet.”
She pulled at the heavy sodden wool and got it around her shoulders. Peter didn’t dare drop the reins to help her. She huddled under the inadequate wrap, and he cursed his luck once again. “Only another half hour or so,” Peter said.
Miss Ada nodded. She pulled the fabric closer. “I wonder if Delia felt like that when she fell,” she said then.
He glanced over at her. The accident and the fear had reminded her of his sister’s death, he supposed.
“Only worse, of course. She had no one to catch her. And the end was—”
“I’m very sorry you were the one to find her,” Peter said. Had he said this before? He had certainly thought it, many times. He groped for some further comfort.
“Yes. I know her accident was not my fault, but—”
“Not in the least!”
She nodded, the brim of her bonnet drooping with wet. “And I don’t feel it was. But I can’t seem to forget about it. She’d been so…lively. Full of life. And then she was so empty.”
The sadness in her voice wrung his heart.
She huddled deeper into the blanket. “I counted on the translation of the note to be the answer.”
“Yes.” He had allowed himself to do so as well when they were directed to Miss Koskinen’s house.
“But it didn’t seem to help at all.”
“No. Delia didn’t like revealing her secrets.”
“Except when she could arrange some great dramatic presentation to dazzle everyone.”
Peter didn’t recall any such occasion. Except perhaps the dinner when his family had told him their theory about the treasure. That hadn’t gone well either. He made a noncommittal sound.
“I knew you’d understand.”
“I don’t think I do, really. I’ve told you I didn’t know her as well as you. Your grief is greater than mine.”
“But the same sort of thing. We can comfort each other.” She put a gloved hand on his arm.
“How can we?” Peter kept his eyes on the road. “We thought Delia’s note would make some difference, but it has not. We are just where we were before we went to Shrewsbury. Look at this carriage. Think of everything you’ve seen at Alberdene. I am not in a position to comfort you.” The reality of it tore at him.