“I can’t leave him—it—here.”
He reached again for Finch, but as he moved, the mud beneath the corpse sagged, and the body slid out of reach. Another piece of the shaky ledge gave way.
The rain fell faster and heavier, beating on Alistair’s head. Mud and pebbles rained down, too, from the disintegrating rim of the hole.
The rope was wet, his hands numb. Merely standing still, putting little weight upon it, he could barely hold on, and the ground beneath his feet was crumbling away. If he tried to climb, and put his full weight on the rope, he’d lose his hold and fall. If he tried to climb the crumbling shaft wall, it would collapse on him.
He looked up at the face he could barely see. He didn’t need to see it. He had her memorized, carved into his heart. “I love you,” he said.
MIRABEL understood what was happening, why he said the three words.
The hole was caving in, and he was going to be buried alive.
She was vaguely aware of a voice, some distance behind her. An unfamiliar voice, talking to her father. She couldn’t make out the words, didn’t care. All her consciousness was riveted upon the man below. Her heart was pounding in her ears. She had to get down there somehow. She had to help him. She couldn’t lose him. She wouldn’t.
Then Papa called out, “It’s all right, my dear. We’ve run the rope through the stirrup leather. The horse will pull him out. I’ll guide the animal. You assist Mr. Carsington.”
“The rope’s wet,” Alistair told her. “I can’t pull myself up, and the shaft wall is likely to give way if I try to get a toehold.”
“No, don’t try it, sir,” came the stranger’s voice. Its owner lay down on his stomach next to Mirabel. “Just leave it to us to pull you up.”
They let down more rope, and the man told Alistair to loop it about his waist, then round his hand.
“We’re going to tow you,” the man said.
Mirabel couldn’t speak. She could scarcely breathe. She didn’t think, but blindly did as she was told.
It was slow, and twice he slid back, but with the stranger’s help, they got Alistair up. A mere six lifetimes later, his ice-cold hand was grasping hers.
Another minute and they’d pulled him out and over the edge. He was wet and filthy, and probably in unimaginable pain, but he was safe, and she dared to breathe again.
She threw her arms about him, and felt the ground shift. He pulled her clear, and a heartbeat later, the hole caved in.
They watched silently as the earth swallowed Caleb Finch.
For a long while afterward, no one spoke. They stared at the place for a time, then turned away.
After they’d helped her father onto a horse, the stranger finally broke the silence.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said to Alistair.
“Jackson?” Alistair said. “I thought I recognized your voice.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said. “I truly am sorry, sir. This is all my doing—all mine—but I never meant for it to turn out like this, I swear.”
Twenty
ALISTAIR did not intend to stay at Oldridge Hall. He wasn’t satisfied with Jackson’s confession and wanted to think it over. If matters were as he suspected, honor forbade his accepting Mr. Oldridge’s hospitality. In any case, the farther Alistair was from Mirabel, the clearer his thinking would be.
But Mr. Oldridge proved amazingly obstinate.
They had ridden to the house, and Alistair—intending to go on to Bramblehurst and impose upon Captain Hughes—was trying to brush off the older man’s thanks and graciously decline the invitation.
“No, no,” Mr. Oldridge said. “It is not convenient for you to depart. I cannot be chasing you all over the neighborhood. You are here now, and I don’t doubt Benton has already ordered hot baths. He thinks of everything, you know. You will bathe, and sleep, and we will wake you in time for dinner. Someone will find your servant between now and then, I daresay. But if we cannot find him, you must dine in a dressing gown and refrain from going into a decline because of it. You will not die because you lack a starched neckcloth or whatever it is you make such a fuss about. I shall see you at dinner, then, and we shall talk.”
Throughout this speech, Mirabel stared at her father, her eyes opening wider and wider.
Mr. Oldridge met her gaze. “Caleb Finch was holding a knife when we fell,” he said. “On impact, it might easily have entered my body instead of his. A great deal passed through my mind between that time and your arrival. Nothing on earth is so dear to me as you. I am heartily sorry that I’ve been like a stranger to you, and that it wanted the recent series of shocks to bring me to my senses.”
He gave neither of them a chance to respond but hastily dismounted, and hurried into the house.
CREWE was there to wake his master at the appointed time, and to apprise him, during the dressing process, of all that had occurred while Alistair slept.
Mr. Oldridge had refused to bring charges against Jackson, who’d been allowed to set out immediately for London.
He’d set out to alert Gordy, of course.
Gordy, the traitor.
“All Jackson’s idea, indeed,” Alistair muttered, as he buttoned his trousers. “As though he’d dare do such a thing—abduct a gentleman—without his master’s express order. ‘I’ll settle matters here,’ Gordy said. I can guess what he was whispering to Jackson behind my back.”
“Sir?”
“It cannot wait,” Alistair said. “First thing tomorrow, we must set out for London. See to it, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
The dressing continued through a long silence, finally broken by a small, meditative cough.
Alistair sighed. “What is it?”
Crewe handed him a neckcloth. “I merely wished to observe, sir, that you slept undisturbed.”
“No, I did not.” Alistair wrapped the linen about his neck. “I dreamt of the circular railway at Euston.”
He remembered the dream clearly: the locomotive steam engine racing round and round the track, Gordy shouting at him to get off.
In reality, Alistair had ridden the machine safely, all those years ago. But a short time afterward, the locomotive had fallen off the track. Trevithick hadn’t funds for repairs. Others had made the device work elsewhere, though. Weren’t they using locomotive engines running on rails, to carry coal in Wales?
The rail track was the great advantage. Locomotive engines were not much faster than horses, except on level ground. But horses could not gallop endlessly for hours, where the steam engine would go on as long as it was fueled. But the great advantage was the rails. They made the way as smooth as water. A horse could tow a much heavier load traveling on water—or along the rails of a tramroad—than it could carry on its back.
Rails, however, could be laid almost anywhere. You didn’t need locks or aqueducts to get over inclines. You didn’t need great reservoirs.
His mind busy with engineering matters, Alistair quickly tied his neckcloth. He was only distantly aware of Crewe’s shocked look as he helped his master into his waistcoat and coat.
“I want you to pack,” Alistair said. “We must set out for London, first thing.” Without so much as a glance in the mirror, he hurried out.
MR. Oldridge continued in tearing good spirits at dinner. He made light of his recent travails, calling them adventures, and was delighted when Mirabel explained how Alistair had discovered and interpreted the message hastily scratched on the table.
After dinner, when they retired to the library, he became more solemn. As soon as the tea was brought in and the servants had gone out, he said to Alistair, “You must not be too hard upon your friend. He was under a very great strain—and Mirabel’s writing to him that you were not right in the upper story did not help matters.”
Alistair was too astonished by the man’s prescience to answer.
Mirabel tried to say something, but her father held up his hand. “A moment, pray. I signed those letters to Lord Gordmor and the Hargates because I was
deeply worried about Mr. Carsington, too, as was Captain Hughes. He’d sought me out that day in an attempt to comprehend my theories about Mr. Carsington’s ailment.”
“But it is no great mystery,” Alistair said. “I suffer from insomnia.”
“He was dreaming about Waterloo, Papa,” Mirabel said.
“It turns out that Mr. Carsington had amnesia, and the bad dreams began when his memory returned.”
“A conscientious captain prefers a happy ship,” Mr. Oldridge said as though he hadn’t heard her. “The men are united, and work and fight better. A good captain is closely attuned to the mood of the vessel in general as well as in the particulars.”
Mirabel looked at Alistair, whose mystified expression mirrored her own.
“They live in such close quarters, you know, so many men crammed together, isolated from the outside world for days, weeks, months,” Mr. Oldridge continued. “It would be difficult not to notice when one of the officers, for instance, becomes dispirited or withdrawn into himself, or grows dangerously reckless in battle, or otherwise under-goes a radical change of behavior. Captain Hughes, I reasoned, was therefore more likely than the average civilian to have encountered and attempted to deal with ailments of the mind and spirit. He must have seen more of such things than the average country physician. But I was unable to make my meaning clear to the captain.”
Dispirited. Withdrawn.
Shaken, Alistair set down his tea, got up from his chair, and walked the length of the library, to the windows. He looked out, and recalled the first day he’d come here. He’d looked out of the drawing room windows, unmoved by the scenery, his attention riveted upon Mirabel, the single bright spot in the dreary landscape.
But the view had changed since then. The world beyond the windows was beautiful, changeable, ripe with possibilities. And it was welcoming. It was…home.
He turned and found two pairs of blue eyes watching him.
“I had always thought of dandies as frivolous, shallow creatures, not overly intelligent,” Mr. Oldridge said.
“When Mirabel proclaimed you one of the species, I was deeply puzzled. My botanist’s instinct told me your attire was armor of some kind.” He glanced at Mirabel. “Cactus spines.”
Armor, to protect what was inside, Alistair thought. What had he been trying to protect? What was he hiding from? Uncertainty, perhaps. The chance that the battle had damaged his mind permanently. And always, in the background, even when he couldn’t remember the details of the battle and its aftermath, there hovered a vague sense of shame.
He now knew that the carnage had shocked and sickened him. Every time he’d fallen, a part of him had wanted to stay there and weep for the dead, strangers and comrades alike. Young men, boys had died about him, some in horrible agonies. He’d gone on fighting, though, mindlessly, because thinking would only yield grief and despair.
He now knew as well that he’d been terrified of the surgeons’ instruments—he, who’d always believed fear was for women and the weakest of men.
Mr. Oldridge’s voice called him out of the reverie.
“Perhaps I recognized your difficulty because it was something like my own,” the older man said. “I did not retreat from the world on purpose after my wife’s death. The thing came upon me, like a sickness or a pernicious habit, and I could not break its hold upon me. I found myself wondering if your grievous experience at Waterloo had a similar effect upon you. I retreated into botany, and you…” He smiled. “And you into the arcane science of dress.”
“Good heavens,” Mirabel said, eyes wide as she regarded Alistair. She rose from the sofa and crossed the room and looked him up and down, as though she’d never seen him before. “I had too much on my mind to take proper notice. But now that I do notice, I am astonished. My dear, you are all—” She flung her hands up, clearly at a loss. “Your neckcloth. Words fail me.”
Alistair looked down and blinked. He had tied the thing any which way. How had Crewe let him out of the room looking like this?
He looked at Mr. Oldridge, who was smiling. Alistair grinned. “If your theory is correct, it would appear that I’m recovering, sir,” he said.
“I’m relieved to hear it,” said the older man. “And to see it.” He walked to a set of bookshelves and plucked out a volume. “Since you’ve shown signs of returning to sanity, I shall await a private interview in my study. I believe you have something particular to say to me regarding my daughter.” He walked out.
London
HAVING received yet another express letter from Oldridge Hall on Saturday night, and not long thereafter a report in person from a greatly distressed Jackson, Lord Gordmor was unhappily aware of all that had transpired in the previous two days.
He sent Jackson to Northumberland to survey the devastation there and untangle matters as best he could. Meanwhile, his lordship stoically awaited public disgrace and possible private dismemberment.
He had a long wait.
The message from Carsington arrived ten days later. It requested his lordship appoint a time and place for a meeting.
Lady Wallantree was visiting her brother when the curt note arrived, and as usual had no scruples about snatching it from his hands.
“He is challenging you to a duel?” she cried. “But you must not fight him, Douglas. He is not in his senses. And he always was the better shot, as well as the better swords-man. I am not at all confident that his crippled leg will give you much advantage.”
Lord Gordmor gave her a mildly puzzled look. “Since when have you become an expert in affairs of honor, Henrietta? But why do I ask? What is between Carsington and me is none of your affair, and never has been. You always prophesy catastrophe, always discern the thundercloud within the shiniest silver lining. You make Cassandra seem jolly by comparison.”
“No one heeded her, did they?” she shrieked. “That was the curse of her gift. It is my curse as well. You mock me. You refuse to hear the truth.”
“It is truth distorted out of all recognition,” he said. “I have allowed your hysterias to disrupt the peaceful tenor of my life once too often. The last time constitutes a mistake I shall regret to the end of my days. However, if your clairvoyant powers prove accurate for once, those days may be mercifully few.”
Lady Wallantree promptly fell into a fainting fit.
Lord Gordmor summoned a servant to attend to her, called for his hat and cane, left the house, and went in search of the man who’d been his closest friend for twenty years.
ON the same day, the Monday following Easter, Alistair was pacing the richly carpeted floor of London’s most sought-after and expensive modiste.
At length his bride-to-be emerged from the dressing room. She paused before him. He shut his eyes.
“Lavender,” he said in martyred tones. “It is a gift, a veritable gift, I vow. A rare knack for finding—among a collection of gowns so elegant that even Parisians must weep with envy—the one that turns your complexion grey.”
“Alistair,” Lady Hargate said reproachfully.
He opened his eyes and stoically regarded his mother. She sat with Lady Sherfield, a handsome woman bearing a strong resemblance to her niece. They were looking over fashion books.
How he missed Mrs. Entwhistle’s lackadaisical chaperonage! His mother and Lady Sherfield were always about. He had not had one moment alone with Mirabel since they’d arrived in London the previous Thursday.
“If you are bored with this business,” his mother went on, “kindly take your ill humor elsewhere. Otherwise, Miss Oldridge might have second thoughts about marrying such a tactless, sarcastic brute.”
“I am never to wear lavender?” Mirabel said.
“No,” he said. “You must keep to warm, rich colors. That is a cool, pale color. It is not for you. And anyway, it looks as though you are in half mourning, when you are supposed to be a deliriously happy bride-to-be.”
“I like cool, pale colors,” she said. “They are so soothing.”
“Lea
ve it to me to soothe you,” he said. “Leave it to your clothes, I beg, to become you.”
“You have not been soothing company this morning,” she said.
He cast his gaze meaningfully toward his mother and her aunt, both again engrossed in the fashion plates, and made a pantomime of tearing out his hair.
“Yes, shopping is very tedious,” she said. “But you were the one who insisted on my replacing every stitch of my wardrobe.”
“You were also the one, Alistair, who insisted upon participating in these tiresome proceedings,” said his mother, without looking up.
“I did not insist she do it all at once,” Alistair said. “I had hoped to show my betrothed something of London. I had thought we might at least take a turn in the park. If we do not appear, people will wonder what we are hiding.”
Both older ladies looked up then.
“I believe they will also wonder why we need such close chaperonage,” he went on. “We are betrothed, after all. The notice appeared in the paper. We are to be wed in two days. We really ought to be allowed to go out alone in public. Do you not agree, Miss Oldridge?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “An excellent point. We do not wish to cause talk. Only let me get this horrid thing off, and I shall be out in a trice.”
THE whole business took rather longer than “a trice.”
They were obliged to take the chaperons home, and Miss Oldridge must change while Alistair borrowed his younger brother Rupert’s curricle. As a result it was close to four o’clock before they reached Hyde Park. In another hour, the place would be crawling with people. He and she not only would have no privacy but would be interrupted every few minutes as people came seeking introductions to his affianced bride, and to offer good wishes while appeasing their curiosity.
A number of men would be sick with envy as well, Alistair had no doubt. Mirabel’s moss green carriage dress was not only becoming, but au courant. They’d had it and several other items made up in a hurry. Though the fittings bored Mirabel witless, she was happy with her pretty new clothes, and this day she had let the maid take time with her hair.
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