by Tessa Candle
Frobisher leaned in. Surely this topic would produce some sign, if Miss Dawling were feeling the same connection as he had done. But Miss Dawling's face twisted into a look of scorn. "I must confess that you are not reading my sentiments very well at all, no matter how good you are at reading palms. I desire no such intelligence, thank you."
"Ah." The hermit sighed. "Well, I confess I was only guessing based on experience. It is a topic most young ladies never tire of, and there is much of interest inscribed in your hand. But if you will not hear it…" He shrugged.
"Oh come now!" Frobisher intervened. "Let us not have secrets. Tell us what you see, Mr. Hatch. Miss Dawling can have no objection."
Miss Dawling rolled her eyes. "As for matters of love, Mr. Hatch, perhaps my palm may describe some means by which I may be rid of my suitors." She scoffed and added, "I know who they are very well, and I need no assistance in attracting their attention."
The hermit looked away for a few moments, as though staring past the fortune-seeking lady into the mists of the occult, before saying, "It was not your suitors I would speak of, but the true longing of your heart. Yet I will tell you instead of what you ask—how to be rid of your suitors. Your hand shows two paths. You may avoid these eager men—run away from them and hide, in short. This path leads to an unforeseen consequence—it doubles back on itself in some way. Or you can make yourself bereft of the thing that is attracting them."
Miss Dawling looked impressed. "This is sound advice and quite sensible, for all that it comes from a mystical source. However, I believe I shall elect the first option—for divorcing myself from the irresistible charms of my inheritance does not appeal to me."
Mr. Hatch nodded his assent and turned to Lady Goodram. "Would my lady condescend to have her palm read?"
Frobisher huffed in exasperation, barely conscious of Lady Goodram's passing him as she exchanged places with Miss Dawling. There was no magnetism at all between Mr. Hatch and Miss Dawling. Was it only he who had felt anything? Why did his fingers twitch to have Mr. Hatch hold his hand again?
Chapter 37
Rosamond shuddered as she watched the party wander happily away. It was now clear that Frobisher had not recognized Mr Hatch as the man who had intervened in the attempted murder, but all these close calls were unnerving.
She shook as she seated herself once more in the sole chair. He had not acted as though he recalled Mr. Hatch from any other place. Something else, however, had really affected him. Although he could not penetrate any of her masks, he nonetheless detected her, experienced her without seeing.
It had affected her, too. She had been all nerves and twitches. She almost lost her voice entirely when he spoke of the widow. He was so earnest about finding her, about making amends and protecting her—Rosamond. It was Rosamond about whom he spoke with such… she could only call it tenderness.
And all along she had thought he meant to expose her, perhaps even to bring her to the authorities at the behest of Rutherford and his new wife. Had Rosamond known before what Frobisher's real intentions were, she might have let herself get caught.
He left her utterly shaken.
Was it fear of detection and exposure? It was not. She dared not name to herself the peril she now courted. Of all the things that she had to fear, that she had carefully crafted her existence to protect her from, this was one threat she had not seen coming.
Ah, but it was folly! And perhaps she deluded herself into thinking he felt it too. What if what really distracted him was Miss Dawling?
Rosamond knew who Miss Dawling was. She had not been introduced, but the Duke of Grendleridge's daughter had been pointed out to her more than once. It was odd that the young woman was never addressed by her courtesy title, but no matter what she called herself, if such a match occurred, it would be a grand marriage.
Was he interested? Certainly he was at least extremely curious about Miss Dawling's love life. And he had actually huffed when Rosamond advised the young lady to flee from her suitors. Rosamond chuckled. Served him right for being so nosey.
And yet, was Rosamond not the nosey one? After all, what was it to her if these two should be wed? She had no claim, no authority to pry. It would be a very eligible marriage. Age, connections, rank, and even their tempers were well matched. What else could they need? Ah yes, love. That elusive thing.
If Rosamond were not mistaken there was no love at all from Miss Dawling's side.
Rosamond chastised herself. This was foolish thinking and none of her affair. Except… she could not force the memory of that spark out of her mind. When she took his hand, it was as though she were completely exposed, her body lit up like a beacon. She had been gripped by the mad expectation that he would see through her disguise entirely in that moment.
But he had not, though he appeared as affected as she was. Rosamond felt it in his pulse. Was it a connection to her that he was feeling, or was his heart stirred by Miss Dawling?
She decided to leave the cottage before she went mad. The master had come and went. And although she had only barely escaped an invitation to dinner by her own reticence and the repugnance of Frobisher's superior mother, she was now left to her own devices.
There were no further visitors to be expected and Frobisher had, while shaking her hand repetitively, told her where to find the rods and tackle and invited her to fish wherever she liked on the estate. She might as well go out and enjoy her manly status.
There was a stream that ran between Brookshire and Fenimore estate. Her father had taken her fishing there when she was a little girl. She knew where the best spots were, and it would be a boon to spend an afternoon enjoying the outdoors in peace.
Perhaps she could finally put the marquess out of her mind.
Chapter 38
Frobisher decided it was too late to return to London that day, and so rode back to Blackwood estate behind Lady Goodram's carriage. He wanted to know if anything more had been learned from Tilly and Rutherford's prisoner.
Actually, what he really wanted was to recover his senses. He knew he could not trust himself to be alone with his thoughts, as they would hearken back to everything he had felt in the hermitage, in that private enclosure he had shared with Mr. Hatch.
As Rutherford showed him into the library, Frobisher was once again struck by how neat and tidy everything was. Perhaps his mother was right. She insisted that the deplorable housekeeping at Fenimore resulted from there being no lady to preside over the manor and make the servants look sharp. Or perhaps he should hang the butler who was either leading the staff's mutiny, or completely indifferent to it.
"You look troubled, my friend. Did Lucifer throw you off in a ditch somewhere?" Rutherford slouched in a chair and idly stretched out his long legs.
"Hmm. No. I have hardly had time to ride her. I thought she might get her hopes up about returning to your stables if I rode her over here today, so I took another mount. What is troubling me is that I have not yet earned her."
"You mean by finding the reticent Widow Colling? Well, not to worry old fellow—I will give you another horse besides if you give up the mission."
"Oh, enough of that. I will find her, Rutherford, and there is an end to it."
Rutherford shrugged. "Fancy a glass of something?"
Frobisher sighed. "Aye, fetch me some wine. Perhaps it will help."
"What is wrong with you?" Rutherford poured a glass and handed it to him. "I don't believe I have ever seen you so down in the mouth when there was not a woman around to be repulsed."
"It is not about a woman." Frobisher sipped his claret without tasting it. "It is about my new hermit."
"Ah yes. Read your fortunes, I understand. Lady Goodram was quite diverted. Did he tell you something you didn't like? That is a true sign of a proficient augur, you know. Any fool can make up stories that flatter and please."
"Quite. But, to be honest I scarcely recall the fortune—something about how I had wronged someone in my household and needed to make a
mends, or some such rubbish. It is just that…there is something about him. I cannot put my finger on it, Rutherford, but I felt as though we are connected in some way."
Rutherford's face was openly mocking. "It must have been the mystical powers of the otherworld."
"You can laugh, but I swear it has completely unnerved me." He drained his glass and gave it back to Rutherford for refilling. "I am conflicted now. On the one hand I wish to return to London to find Mrs. Colling. On the other hand I am drawn to this hermit, and I do not wish to leave him. I feel like he needs my protection. Is that not the most mad, asinine thing you have ever heard?"
"No, no!" chuckled Rutherford. "I have heard much worse, believe me. But it is odd. You have never been one to suffer under—what shall I call it? The deeper instincts of the heart. True, you have never been an entirely direct man, but you have always been rational, almost to a fault, I might say."
"Quite. Just so. This is not rational. It is an instinct of the heart, as you say. And I do not like it." Frobisher frowned and took another deep quaff from his refilled goblet. "Enough. I came here for distraction. What of your prisoner?"
"Mr. Codger?"
"Oh, he has a name, has he? That is something."
"If it is his real name. Otherwise he has given us only a few details." Rutherford looked glum. "At least he has now admitted that he works for Screwe. I took your advice and began denying him food."
"Really? And it took one missed meal to induce him to tell all?"
"Well, actually Tilly was feeding him behind my back, so not really. But he is also remarkably fond of gin." Rutherford shrugged. "So he will tell us whatever we like, so long as we give him a glass of that. It helps that he is quite taken with Tilly."
"I do not suppose that sits well with you."
Rutherford scoffed. "Nothing of the sort, I assure you. Anyone who spent any time in her company would come under her spell. I did. And he is not lewd or forward. He has become so respectful and obliging around her that I find it hard to reconcile with what I know of his character."
"Well, if voracious, man-eating debutantes can present a genteel face, I suppose even murderers might display pleasing manners when it suits them to do so."
Rutherford laughed and refilled his glass. "Hear, hear! Now this is speaking like the Frobisher I know of old. But, Mr. Codger's adoration of my wife aside, I believe I may simply have to take him back to London and let Bow Street deal with him. Hopefully his testimony will be enough to get Screwe put back in gaol where he belongs. But other than that, he really seems to have no idea at all why he was to murder Mrs. Steele, or why Screwe should want him to. He only said that Screwe was looking for some people that he wanted to dispatch, so he put anyone who owed him something to work."
Frobisher's curiosity was piqued. "And how was Codger to know who these people were? Did Screwe give names and directions, or were they to go about stabbing people at their whim?"
"Screwe had found out Mrs. Steele—not where she resided, but what neighbourhoods she had been known to frequent. I assume he discovered that the person he sought was living under the assumed name of Steele. Screwe showed Codger a painting, but it did not look anything like Mrs. Steele."
Frobisher nodded. "It is fair to say that the lady is disguised."
"True, and that fact later became known to Screwe. He described the disguise for Codger—it is rather distinctive, after all. The henchman had only to wait around the area where she had been seen until he caught sight of her one day."
The horror of the moment flashed through Frobisher's mind. It had very nearly been the end of Mrs. Steele, and he would have felt all the guilt of not assisting her sooner. Frobisher wished he might find the man that had rushed to intervene. If only he could give him some reward for his bravery, it would make Frobisher feel less like an ineffectual ass. "Did he tell you anything that might lead to the heiress you seek?"
Rutherford sighed. "Sort of. Apparently there was a young girl with red hair in the painting next to Mrs. Steele. Screwe said he was also looking for her, but that she would be grown into a young woman now. Codger says that Screwe and Red Martha were working together to discover these two women."
"That comes as no surprise, as you already knew of their alliance."
"No surprise at all. Except that I had not known there was a second quarry. I now believe that this girl may be the heiress."
"That is a sound theory. But why on earth has she not brought an action against Screwe for all his embezzlement?"
"She may simply be friendless in the world. What can an unprotected girl do to take legal action on her own—and against the man who is presumed to be her protector? But I will know more when I speak to my solicitor. I received word this morning that Mr. Borland is to arrive soon, perhaps two days hence. He is bringing the will." Rutherford smirked slyly. "You could attend the meeting, if you are interested."
The situation was frustrating. Now that things were getting intriguing, he would have to leave for London. He huffed. "No matter how tempting this new mystery is, Rutherford, you will not persuade me to stay until Mr. Borland comes. I am leaving tomorrow for London. I will find Mrs. Colling."
"Oh very well." Rutherford tilted his head. "But will you at least stay for some supper? Tilly is talking to Codger now. She wants him to describe the girl in the painting in as much detail as he can recall and outline any additional information Screwe gave him."
"Quite." Frobisher tapped his fingers in thought, not attending the invitation to dine. "I hope it may help you find her—and quickly. You can be sure Screwe means to do something unspeakably bad."
"Indeed. It would be nice to have your assistance, old boy." Rutherford fixed him in a stare.
Frobisher squirmed, and then stood up abruptly. "You will have to do it without me, my friend. I must leave tomorrow."
"And will you not stay to supper?" Rutherford invited a second time.
"I cannot stay. I…" Frobisher swallowed. "I have plans."
Then, sending his compliments to Tilly and the many guests, Frobisher quitted Blackwood Manor before he could be further tempted.
It was maddening to be pulled in so many directions. Had he known there would be such an abundance of intrigues to divert him, he would not have started all the improvements on his property. They were utterly dull by comparison.
Except the hermit, who was the very opposite of dull. Frobisher was already tempted to defer his trip for London because he did not wish to leave Mr. Hatch behind. Rutherford's baiting him was merely providing an excuse to stay which was less preposterous.
Who would ever believe it, if he said, "I decided my duty to find Mrs. Colling was far less important than spending time with the new hermit." No one would. He would look like a fool. He could scarcely believe his own impulses.
He must put an end to this madness. Before he went to see Rutherford, he had set the kitchen staff to assembling several baskets of food and other provisions for Mr. Hatch. Other servants were tasked with making the cottage more comfortable. It pained him to see the man living in such deprivation. If he returned in time, Frobisher could go with the servants to see the improvements at the hermitage and to personally wish Mr. Hatch a hearty appetite.
He brightened at the idea. It was perfect. They could have a nice, civilized chat—no palm reading, just a brief, completely normal visit. Thus Frobisher would put all the nonsense of this afternoon out of his mind entirely.
Then he could travel to London in the morning with a clear head and a rational outlook.
Chapter 39
Rosamond rested under a shady tree by the stream in which she fished. The dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves charmed her dozing mind and raised fairy images in the dreamscape that drifted into view before her eyes.
She was about to succumb to the gentle lure of sleep, when a thrashing about in the trees behind her thrust her into abrupt wakefulness.
"Hurry! Take the basket and the blanket. I shall go back alone."
Rosamond, slightly dazed, remained perfectly still. Did she recognize the woman's voice?
"No!” replied a man. “You must not meet that monster without protection. A man as debased as he will never understand the purity of our love. He will fly into a passion!"
"He will not know of it. You were never here. I merely went out for a walk."
"What of my cart?"
"It is a cart. The man who drives it comes only to fetch some of our farm's produce. There is nothing suspicious about it. Only wait a while before you return to it. I will send you word, and then you should leave quickly."
"I cannot leave you alone with him."
"You must." The woman's voice was growing more distant. "Do as I say, and all will be well."
"Blasted man!" The sounds of rocks being kicked punctuated this outburst. "Why he should pick this time, of all, to foist his unworthy company upon the wife who flees him? Perverse timing for a perverse character!"
Rosamond's mind was disoriented. Was she dreaming? But then, as her presence of mind returned to her, it was pricked with an uncanny irritation. The woman's voice. Rosamond suddenly recalled the lady who had come to reside at Brookshire on the day that she had gone there to retrieve her father's ring and letter.
Was this Cousin Peter's wife? Rosamond's blood ran cold. If it were his wife, then Cousin Peter had come to join her at Brookshire unexpectedly. This was very bad news. Her instinct was to leave her tackle and rod behind and flee. But she dared not move, or she would certainly be detected by the woman's paramour, who stayed where he was, sighing and muttering.
Rosamond remained very still. She tried to calm herself and think. What could have brought him to the countryside? When she last saw him, Cousin Peter was at Mrs. Holden's boarding house. No doubt he had somehow heard of her being seen there. Her suspicion that he was conspiring with Red Martha grew. It would explain why he came to Mrs. Holden’s. But what would lead him here? How could he possibly make any association between the pretty widow and Mr. Hatch?
