MIRABEL
made it to her room without attracting attention and slipped under
the bedclothes, though she knew she would not sleep a wink.
The
next she knew there was a stir about her, footsteps hurrying to and
fro, muffled voices. She glanced at the window. The sky was still
grey, the sun not yet risen. There was a tap at the door connecting
her room with Mrs. Ent-whistle's. A moment later, the lady herself
appeared in an amazing profusion of ribbons and ruffles. Her sleeping
attire was, though it hardly seemed possible, even more frivolous
than Mirabel's seraglio costume.
"My
dear, I am so sorry to burst upon you like this," she said. "But
Jock has come with distressing news."
Papa.
Something had happened.
Heart
hammering, Mirabel leapt up from bed, threw on her dressing gown, and
hurried out to the hall, where a sopping-wet Jock stood.
A
bad sign, a very bad sign, if the groom had been sent to her in bad
weather in the dead of night.
He
apologized for disturbing her, but Mr. Benton had said they must not
lose a minute.
"Master
never come home to dinner, miss," the groom said. He said more,
though no more needed to be said.
Not
long afterward, she and Mrs. Entwhistle, their entourage and
outriders, were all racing back to Oldridge Hall.
THE
clamor outside—of horses being put to harness and servants
bustling between inn and carriage—woke Alistair, but only
briefly. He glanced toward the window, saw it was still dark, and
groggily assuming the noise he'd heard was the storm, returned to
sleep. It was the soundest sleep he'd had since arriving in
Derbyshire a month ago.
He
dreamt he was riding in a carriage towed by Mr. Trevithick's
locomotive steam engine, Catch-Me-Who-Can.
Alistair
was going round and round the circular track at Euston at the mad
pace of twelve miles per hour. Gordy was shouting at him to get
off—it was dangerous, bound to explode—and Alistair only
laughed. He was young, and whole, and fearless—or at least
believed he was. Waterloo lay years ahead, in a future his
still-immature mind couldn't possibly imagine.
The
carriage shook violently, and he could barely hear Gordy over the
engine's shrieking.
"Sir,
please. It is nearly nine o'clock."
Alistair
opened his eyes. The room was only a degree less dark than before.
Crewe was regarding him worriedly.
"Nine
o'clock?" Alistair repeated. He struggled up to a sitting
position. "Why is it so confoundedly dark?"
Though
the storm had passed hours earlier, the sky remained thickly
overcast, Crewe told him.
Alistair
remembered then that Mirabel's party had taken over the better rooms,
exiling him and Crewe to this dismal corner of the inn, where what
feeble daylight there was could scarcely penetrate.
He
prayed the isolation had worked in her behalf. If anyone knew of her
prolonged stay in this room…
Surreptitiously
he began to feel about the bed for stray hairpins. Then he remembered
her entering, her glorious sunrise colored hair tumbling about her
shoulders. She had worn only the nightgown and the dressing gown,
both of which fastened with ribbons. And the silk slippers. She could
not have left any stray bits of attire behind for nosy inn servants
to find.
His
eyes widened. He had deflowered her! The sheets!
He
leapt from the bed and flung back the bedclothes.
Nothing.
Not a spot.
Before
he could consider the meaning of this lack of evidence, Crewe called
his mind elsewhere.
"Sir,
I must beg your pardon," the valet said. "I overslept, else
I should have wakened you long since."
"You
were standing guard again, I collect," Alistair said. "Far
into the early morning hours."
"I
knew you would not wish a certain lady's visit to be misconstrued by
malicious persons," the valet said tactfully. "I am happy
to assure you that the lady returned to her rooms without attracting
any notice. The inn staff were busy below, in the public dining room,
accommodating travelers the storm had waylaid. They hadn't time to be
spying upon other patrons."
"Remind
me to nominate you for sainthood at the first opportunity,"
Alistair said as he headed for the washstand. "Meanwhile, as
soon as my business affairs permit, I shall double your wages."
"I
wish I deserved it, sir," said Crewe. "As it happens, I was
asleep at my post and failed you."
Aware
that Crewe's standards of service were impossibly high, Alistair
poured water into the bowl. "That I rather doubt," he said.
He began splashing water on his face.
"Miss
Oldridge and her party departed some hours ago," Crewe said.
"For home."
Alistair
straightened, his face streaming water. "She's turned back?"
But she'd agreed to continue to London, and go on plaguing him.
"Her
father has gone missing, sir."
JACKSON
would not go away.
According
to the plan, he was supposed to make sure Caleb had matters in hand
and enough money for the trip to Northumberland. Then Jackson was to
return to assist his master in London.
But
all because Caleb had encouraged Mr. Oldridge to swallow a few drops
of Godfrey's Cordial, Jackson decided to play nursemaid. When the
storm came on Wednesday night, it was Jackson who made them stop at
the mine foreman's deserted cottage.
It
was no good Caleb telling him there was no harm in Godfrey's Cordial.
Doctors made their patients swill buckets of it, didn't they? Jackson
only looked sour and fussed over the old man like it was his own dear
pa.
Mr.
O was no dear pa to Caleb. He was an aggravating old man,
half-senile, and no good to anybody. Amiable, was he? Then how come
he never put his little red-haired hussy daughter in her place? How
come he let her stick her nose where it didn't belong? How come he
never had one good word to say for Caleb, after all those years
serving him faithful? Instead, the old fool let her turn off Caleb
without a character. It was as good as slandering him, to dismiss him
without any explaining to anybody what she was about and refusing to
write even ten words commending him to the next employer. Because of
her, people wouldn't talk to him. No one would take him on—him,
who'd lived among them his whole life, and his parents before, and
their parents before that. It was worse than if she'd blackened his
character outright or had him put in the stocks.
But
she didn't dare have the law on him, because she knew she didn't have
a scrap of real evidence against him.
She'd
persecuted him, and it was the old man's fault, for letting her do as
she pleased. He let her run roughshod over people who knew more than
her, never caring if it was almost the same as sending a man to the
workhouse.
This
was Caleb's thinking, and the more he stewed about it, the less he
liked the idea of traveling all the way to Northumberland, nursing
the old dodo and looking after him like he was royalty.
If
Jackson had only gone away, like he was supposed to,
Caleb
could have poured some more cordial down the crackbrain's gullet
early last night and dropped him into the nearest abandoned mine. The
hill was honeycombed with old mines and shafts. Accidents happened
all the time. People would think Mr. O took a tumble, like he was
bound to do, sooner or later, with his wandering the hills like he
did, in every kind of weather. No one would be surprised when they
found his body. If they ever found it.
But
Jackson wouldn't go, and now they were stuck, the three of them, in
this smoky little hovel—and Mr. O, being a gentleman, got the
one bed, and all the best victuals, and even wine, if you please.
Wednesday
night passed into Thursday morning, and the cordial's effects having
worn off, the old man tried to give them the slip. After that, they
had to start dosing him regular with the laudanum Caleb happened to
have on hand—in case of mining accidents, he said.
But
Jackson was the one who dosed their prisoner, and he was almighty
stingy with the drug—only enough to keep Mr. O smiling and
dreamy and happy to sit in one place, looking at an old twig or a
feather for hours on end.
As
the morning wore on, Caleb's patience wore down, too. "The day's
wasting, and Northumberland ain't getting any closer," he told
Jackson.
"I'll
see about hiring a carriage," Jackson said. "I'll be back
as soon as I can."
He
soon left, taking their one horse and, to Caleb's vexation, the
laudanum bottle.
ALISTAIR
did not reach Oldridge Hall until well into afternoon. He found the
place nearly deserted, most of the staff being out assisting with the
search for Mr. Oldridge. Three separate parties were out combing the
botanist's usual haunts. Sir Roger Tolbert had organized a party to
search the area about Matlock and Matlock Bath. Captain Hughes and
his group were covering the southeasterly por-tion of Longledge Hill.
Mirabel and her servants were working their way over the vast estate
itself.
Mrs.
Entwhistle remained at Oldridge Hall as search coordinator, receiving
and dispatching messages from the various parties. When Alistair was
shown into the library, he found her at the writing desk.
She
did not waste time with social niceties but promptly apprised him of
the situation.
Mr.
Oldridge never missed dinner, she reminded him. It was only very
rarely that he could be prevailed upon to dine away from home. When
he failed to appear Wednesday evening, Benton immediately surmised a
mishap. Mr. Oldridge never became so lost as to fail to return home
in time for dinner. He was never hindered by inclement weather, and
yesterday had not become inclement until well past the appointed
dinner hour. The only possible explanation was that he had met with
an accident. This was why Benton instantly sent word to his mistress.
As he reasoned, if Mr. Oldridge turned up in the interval, it would
be easy enough to send another messenger to intercept Miss Oldridge
as she was returning.
Mr.
Oldridge did not, however, turn up in the interval. He had not dined
elsewhere.
"Consequently,
one can only hope the mishap was a minor one," Mrs. Entwhistle
said.
Alistair
remembered his own tumble into the Briar Brook. A sprained ankle. A
minor concussion. He might have broken his neck.
"Mr.
Oldridge has been wandering the countryside most of his life,"
he said. "He is nimbler than I—really, he is as nimble as
a boy, I think. Who knows these hills and dales better than he? It
cannot be anything but a minor accident. And with so many engaged in
the search, he is sure to be found before the day is out. Please tell
me how I can help."
"You'd
better go to Mirabel," the lady said. "She knows what she's
about, but she could do with moral support." The ex-governess
fixed him with a steely stare, which was a disconcerting contrast to
her plumply feminine appearance. "You are capable of providing
that, I trust?"
While
disconcerting, the stare—which had surely reduced erring
children to terrified obedience—was nothing to the Gorgon glare
his paternal grandmother could administer. "Certainly ma'am,"
he said, quite uncowed, "that and whatever else the lady
requires."
Nearly
an hour later he found Mirabel at the outlook where, he now realized,
his perceptions of Longledge had first begun to change. She was
mounted upon the imperturbable gelding rather than the high-strung
Sophy, but she was alone, and in a very short time it would grow
dark.
He
had come in the nick of time.
She
heard his advancing hoofbeats and turned his way.
"You
are vexed with me," she said, reading his countenance all too
easily.
"Of
course I'm vexed," he said. "You're alone, the ground is
still slippery from last night's storm, and I know you hadn't much
sleep. It is a dangerous combination."
"Have
you come to look after me?" she said.
"I
am your betrothed, not your nursemaid," he said. "I've come
to help you look for your father. You should have sent word to me
before you left this morning. But you were too upset to think of it,
I daresay. Come, you cannot remain here staring at the moors and
making yourself heartsick. We shall find him."