Finagled

by Kelso, Rachel

  "Ah, yes, those were pleasant days" she said.

  "Mmm. And swoony," Ramona sighed.

  "Did it give you wrong ideas? I hope you haven't been disappointed in love. When I finagled you into this union, I admit I did not foresee the nephew as a problem."

  "No... of course not, you couldn't know..."

  "Is there something you aren't telling me, my dear?"

  "Well. I made a promise, and... while I may not be quite keen on promises at the moment, I feel that it is one to keep."

  "Very well. I will tell you a story, then, and we will forget about the present for a while.”

  “Which story should I tell? The one about the French General who tried to kidnap me in my 17th year? The young buck from India who saved me from a wayward carriage? Or perhaps it’s time you heard how I met my husband?”

  “I think I’d like that. Of all your romances, you’ve never shared the one that ended in marriage.”

  “Well of course, it’s the most romantic, my dear, though it lacks the excitement of an unrequited love, and you know how it ends, so sometimes… sometimes it is painful for me to think about, just how happy we were.”

  “I don’t want to upset you, you can tell me about the handsome Indian again.”

  “No, no. I should tell you about Mr. Shoobukkle, my Granger, once and all.”

  Ramona settled back onto her pillows.

  “I was not so young as I had once been when I first met Granger. I had been swept off my feet many times, and by men from a variety of walks, you understand. I did not imagine that this banker of middling age could offer me much in the way of excitement. Fortunately I was quite wrong, you know.

  “I guess it began with my missing hat pin. A diamond affair, it had been giving to me by an African prince. A gorgeous man I must tell you about some other time. It had been insured, of course, and I accompanied my father to the bank to report the disappearance, which I now know was a theft.

  “Granger was handsome, of course, rather more distinguished than I expected a banker to be, and I suppose there was some appeal to the fact that he was completely unsuitable. I believe he was immediately besotted with me, though for my part, I was a bit distracted by my missing bauble. That’s the best way to fall in love, while you’re distracted by something else, you don’t even realize it’s happening until it’s thoroughly done with, your heart is no longer your own. I have fallen in love in every conceivable way, so believe me when I tell you this, when you fall in love without realizing, it is the most delicious.

  “I considered myself something of an amateur detective in my youth, I had solved a slew of petty thefts and a couple of murders by this time and I didn’t trust the man from the bank to handle everything himself. It didn’t matter to me that he was a professional. I insisted on accompanying him, by train, as his investigations led us around the countryside. I think, most probably, the moment I realized I loved him completely, he was bleeding out on my lap, having been stabbed by the sword of an American who had stolen my hat pin to help fund an expedition into some remote region of the Americas. For a moment I had fancied I cared for this American, but as Granger looked up at me, my petticoats pressed to his gushing wound, I realized he was the one I loved, loved more than I had ever loved, and I had loved so prodigiously, my dear, that I proposed to him, on the spot. Though the American escaped with my hat pin, I considered it to be the most successful case of my detective career, for I had found the one who had stolen my heart.”

  “That’s so lovely, Aunt Tirinia.”

  "It was, dear, and I do you hope you will be able to rest now."

  "I think I can now. Thank you, Aunt Tirinia."

  "You are welcome, poppet. Sweet dreams. Don't worry about anything. I am here, Henry is outside the door, and everyone knows that Andrew and his mother are dangerous, so no one will let them harm you again."

  "Thank you. Good night."

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was dark and the snow was falling heavily. George and many of the male staff, bundled up, and carrying weapons of various makes and models, were combing the house and outlying estate. George had taken his favorite hunting hound, and given him a handkerchief of Andrew's to scent and follow. He did not know what he would do when he found the boy, but he had given orders to the others that he was not to be harmed. He was just a child, in spite of what he had done, and he was his son, though none knew it.

  The house was large and full of nooks and crannies, the estate even larger, and the buildings strewn across it were numerous. The search could take weeks, and then, of course, the boy could be miles away. It did not seem that he had packed anything, as his room was orderly. George was counting on the fact that Regina knew where the boy was hiding and had planned to bring provisions to him secretly. All of this made George suspect that Andrew was somewhere in the house, so while many of his men looked about the exterior, George and his hound searched the halls. The scent of Andrew was, understandably, quite present in the house. He had lived there all of his life, the dog stopped with interest in many rooms, digging his finely honed nostrils into the upholstery of Andrew's favorite chairs, the spot in the carpet where Andrew had bled from his nose one day almost a year previously made the clever animal bark excitedly. George had him stand down, and decided to force the dog to look in areas of the house where Andrew was unlikely to visit regularly, in the hopes of finding some unusual occurrence of his smell.

  George began at Regina's door. Andrew had spent a lot of time in this room recently, it was true, but a left turn out of the room took him to the rest of the house. George pointed the animal to the right, down the hallway. Andrew had spent much of the first year of his life here, but he had been moved closer to George after Malcolm's death. George felt an increase of adrenaline as the dog perked up to something down this more desolate path. There was no reason for Andrew to ever visit here. Perhaps to see his old nursery, but George did not think the boy was the sentimental type. Yes, the nursery! The dog led him right to it. Was this where Andrew was hiding? It did not seem like a place to hide, there were no corners, no nooks. Though George knew of a few secret passages and panels in Loathewood, none connected to this room.

  He considered that, though he had never discussed the secret panels with Andrew, it was likely that the young boy had found them in much the same way that George had found them in his youth. Yes. He would explore some of the easier ones after the nursery. With his next plan of action in mind, George tried the handle on the nursery door. It turned with ease.

  The door swung inward. He surveyed the dark room, an oil lamp burning in one hand, the dog's lead in the other. George had not brought a weapon, sure that he could overwhelm the boy with speech or brute strength if need be. It would be easier to gain the boy's trust unarmed.

  The room appeared empty. It was a dusty, though the crib and toys had been moved with Andrew at the time of Malcolm's death, they had been returned here for storage. It was built to be a nursery. A long room with two tall windows. They were black, inky blots against the wall, now, though a strange light reflected off of the snow and onto the ceiling in the room.

  The hound, Huestis, went wild as the door opened, straining his leather lead with such force that the metal hook on his collar was snapt. Just before he went tearing into the room, George saw that the dusty floor had been disturbed, and recently. It did not look like a steady path, not footprints at all, a zig-zag, and, to George's growing horror, something dark was smeared as it zagged and zigged across the floor.

  The dog was frantic, scratching and barking at a chest in the far corner. George approached with trepidation. Then, thinking that the boy might be injured inside the chest, he sped up, throwing the lid up with a passion, he sank to his knees on the floor when he saw the staring eyes of his misguided son, blank, his chest full of wet, sticky wounds.

  The dog was well trained. He stood down, having led his master to the body of Andrew.

  George let the lid drop. He did not know, i
n his heart, what he had planned on saying to Andrew when he found him. The boy had done something monstrous, he had maimed Ramona, he had tried to kill her, and in the heat of it, George had felt that this was irredeemable, but Andrew was a child, his child, hadn’t the boy ended his life with those actions, effectively? George would have been forced to turn him over to the authorities, it would have been grueling and painful and he would always have to question whether or not he could have somehow avoided sending his son into that.

  Now it was too late. The decision had been made for him. Though the boy's life may have been ended figuratively with the attacks on Ramona, it had literally been taken out of George's hands. He could not ask Andrew why he did what he did. He could not find out what he had done wrong in raising him. George found the tears welling up, running down his face, tears for the boy who had so often rode out with him, learning the estate and meeting the tenants as his heir, the future master of Loathewood. The times when they had spent companionable holidays enjoying each others company. There had been no hint of this, the boy had so rarely gotten into trouble, Mrs. Lopple herself found him a totally charming individual and she was hard to win over, even when he tracked in mud or left out books in the library, she had not scolded him, but laughed. He was just a child. He was endearing, handsome, occasionally witty and now, quite dead.

  George sobbed audibly. Huestis nuzzled him worriedly. He tried to regain his composure. God. Regina had done this. She must have done this, and to her own son. What lies had she fed that boy, what had she said to make him follow her so blindly into his own ruin? George stood up, steadying his ragged breath, not bothering to wipe the tears from his face. He walked from the room. Huestis followed dutifully.

  It was not far to Regina's room. His hand shook as he inserted the key. He turned the lock, opened the latch, turned the handle, opened the door. The room was dark. Lit by candlelight when he had left, the candle had blown out, the cold and sharp wind that came through the open window was the culprit, snow blew in on this wind, already it had begun to pile up on the sill, lightly dusting the floor in front of the window.

  Regina was gone.

  George walked to the window. He looked first to the ground below, expecting to see her broken body in the snow. It was far and dark, but the snow showed no outline of a body. Had it been covered already, or had she not leapt to her death? George might have understood that, if she had suddenly realized that she had murdered her son, in cold blood. Felt the terror of guilt and ended her own life to escape it. But no, God, he thought, she did not seem to know remorse. It was a quality he feared she had somehow passed on to Andrew. He could not think of Andrew though, he had to find Regina, make sure that she, at least, would see justice, the legal kind, though his heart twisted with a yearning for revenge.

  He brushed the snow off of the sill. Felt the cold, hard stone under his fingertips, so cold it burned. He leaned out the window. A sharp pain, hot and white on his skull, then blackness overtook him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ramona awoke with a start. There was a loud sound outside of her door. She did not know what it was, she heard it indistinctly, half asleep, it sounded like a pot dropping on tile, and she half dreamed that it was. Tirinia had been sleeping on the sofa, leaned somewhat upright against a pillow, but now she was awake as well, their eyes locked silently.

  Tirinia stood up, holding a finger to her mouth, she walked slowly to the door. They had locked it from the inside, an extra precaution after all that had happened. She stood near the door and listened.

  Silence.

  Then, so sudden and so near to Tirinia that she jumped, the noise came again. It was someone hitting the door handle. It shook on impact. Tirinia screamed, as loudly as she could, hoping to attract someone. She knew that Henry must have been incapacitated again. There must be someone else near enough to hear her scream, surely, even though so many of the household were out searching the grounds for Andrew.

  "Shut up," came a shrill cry from outside the door.

  Tirinia was never one to take orders. She took another bracing breath and screamed again. She ran over to Ramona's bedside, where the younger woman was shivering in terror.

  "God," Ramona said, "Please, not again."

  Tirinia stood by her, was holding her in her arms when the lock shattered, the handle torn off, the door swung in.

  Again a figure stood silhouetted in that doorway, this time they knew it was Regina, immediately, her normally straight, beautiful hair wild and loose about her shoulders. She was holding a shotgun.

  "Oh why did you have finagle that bastard into marrying you, you pretty little bitch," she said, with a cackle, her voice was ugly with hatred.

  "It wasn't her fault," Tirinia said, blocking Ramona's body with her own. "I did all of the finagling."

  "Oh my God, you old hag," Regina said, "Stupid, stupid, stupid, you just make me hate her more. Sweet little, fair haired, perfect Ramona, innocent of everything. He says he hasn't even engaged her in marital congress. Such a child, she is! So good, so virginal!" Regina spat.

  "Please, don't hurt her," Tirinia begged.

  "Oh, I am going to hurt her. But first, I am going to hurt you. I’m going to hurt you, because I think that will hurt her too, quite nicely."

  "Don't, God don't, please," Ramona rasped.

  "Shut up, I can't stand your raspy little voice, bitch," Regina snapped. She swung the butt of the shotgun around, hitting Tirinia in the temple. The wound was small, but it bled as Tirinia slid off the bed, crumpling on the floor.

  Ramona was sobbing. She tried to pull herself to the edge of the bed, reaching for Tirinia.

  "Forget it." Regina said. "Oh, you are so deliciously helpless," she kicked Tirinia's unconscious form out of the way as she made her way to the bed. “At least Andrew did something right, leaving you wounded, unable to put up a fight."

  Ramona pulled herself back up on the bed, and tried to crawl away. Regina slung the shotgun over her shoulder and smirked. She placed one hand on Ramona's calf, and applied just a little too much pressure. Ramona gasped. The pain was unreal. Regina increased the pressure. Ramona felt herself beginning to sweat. Gasping for breath, trying to keep the sobs down, trying to muster up a scream, trying not to black out, and yet hoping to black out, wanting to fight, but feeling herself give up.

  Regina let go of Ramona's leg. "Where do you think you are going, little girl?" she asked, slapping her awake. "We haven't gotten to the part where I explain all of my wicked deeds to you yet. We have to do that, of course.

  "Item the first, your handsome dashing husband is unconscious in my bedroom right now. While I would like to say he was there of his own volition after making mad and passionate love to me, like, oh, he did the night that we made Andrew…” she eyes Ramona carefully, and then frowned. “Well, you don't look surprised, that is disappointing. I guess he told you, that must have made me especially repellent to you. How delightful." Regina chuckled. "But no, he is currently bleeding out on the oriental rug I received from Malcolm as a wedding gift. And poor, sweet Malcolm is item the second. He was so resilient, Ramona, it took him so much longer to die than I had expected."

  Ramona's eyes widened in terror. She tried again to scream, but she just didn't have the voice for it, her cry was weak, breathy. Regina sat down on the edge of the bed.

  "I might as well get comfortable." She smirked. "Yes. It was poison in those days. I thought that perhaps with Malcolm, the second son, the poor brother, who I had unfortunately ruined with a few misplaced business decisions, out of the way, and with my dear baby son Andrew, who was, after all, actually George's... well, I thought that I could marry the Duke. It was a perfect plan. Unfortunately, business called me elsewhere. To tell the truth, Malcolm and I were not legally wed, though he had no idea of it. I was already married, I was still married until I was widowed, for the second time, in a way, but actually for the first, just a few short months ago. Oh I did love William. We were a very good team, and he ha
d made something of a name for himself, he was doing quite fantastically when Malcolm was dying. He came around threatening to out me as his wife. That did not seem profitable, but accompanying him away from Loathewood did. We lived in style, we traveled extensively. It was fabulous. But, he died, a beautiful, consumptive death, and I discovered that there was nothing left, absolutely nothing, just terrible debt. The creditors took everything we owned. I did not know that it was too late to return to Loathewood. I had, after all, extracted a promise from George, I am told that I am beautiful when I cry, my dear, and he succumbed. Of course he would raise Andrew as his own, keep him as his heir, the price was that he never marry, never create a baby to usurp our son.

  "When I came to London, I heard fairly quickly that George Flanders, Duke of Blusterfuss and prized jewel of the season, was engaged to be married to a little slip of a nothing, a nobody. You, my dear. Since he had promised me, and remained single for so many years, I imagined it must be the most disgusting of all things, a love match. Though I admired you momentarily, you were giving me a run for my money, my dear, it wasn't long before I dug up enough information to retract that admiration. You were purely and simply what you seemed. Young, beautiful, with a flawless reputation, and girlish charms. I met a few men who were in love with you and they were all so delightfully angry with the Duke of Blusterfuss that I did hope to incite a duel on your behalf, but no such luck. Still, I found something that I thought was better, and I changed my plans.