“I’ve lived through lean times, and I know what a strain it can be. Each of you is a valuable part of this household. I’ve decided since it’s too hard on someone’s pride to ask for help, the best thing to do is intervene. Instead of having distrust and tension, I’m simply increasing everyone’s salary.”
Goodhew sniffed. “I’ll not take a cent more. I won’t be painted with that extortionist’s brush.”
Everyone else started to chime in, but Miss Emily held up a hand to silence them. “No one is to speak of it again. Not a word. I’ve made a decision, and it’s a condition of your employment.”
Brigit shook her head. She’d never seen such a sad set of circumstances—or so she thought until later that afternoon when she was clearing away the luncheon dishes. Poor Miss Emily had no more than risen from the table when she collapsed into a dead faint.
Trudy let out a screech.
“Stop that noise and go fetch Goodhew,” Brigit commanded as she raced to Miss Emily’s side. She immediately loosened the throat of Miss Emily’s gown and chafed her hands.
A shadow fell over them, and Duncan boomed, “What did you do?”
Brigit glanced up at him. “She swooned. I don’t know why.”
He scooped Miss Emily off the floor and headed for the stairs. “Fetch Cook to help me and have Goodhew send for the doctor.”
Trudy, Cook, and Goodhew arrived at the same moment. Cook must have spilled something in her haste. The front of her dress and apron were drenched. “I’ll see to her,” Brigit volunteered and hurried up the stairs right behind Duncan.
As soon as he settled his sister on the bed, Duncan turned his back. He rasped, “Loosen her. . .dress improver. She oughtn’t be wearing one in her condition.”
Brigit gave fleeting thought to ordering him out of the chamber. It wasn’t proper for him to be there. It wasn’t even proper for him to allude to such an intimate issue. Squabbling with him wouldn’t tend to Miss Emily, though. Brigit quickly unfastened Miss Emily’s gown, unlaced her corset, and covered her with a blanket. She then dipped a cloth in the pitcher and draped it over Miss Emily’s forehead.
Duncan wheeled back around. “Leave.”
For the next three days the young captain who once sparkled with humor and intelligence prowled around the house like a hungry panther, ready to pounce. Brigit counted the days until he set sail again. The man was wound like nine days on a seven-day clock.
Brigit’s heart went out to Miss Emily. The poor woman was distraught, and she didn’t do well at hiding that fact. Oh, to be sure, she tried; but ’twas clear as an icicle that her feelings knotted her something fierce. Brigit tried to do tiny things to ease Miss Emily’s sadness. She made an effort to open drapes to let in the weak wintry sunshine. She hummed lilting tunes. Cups of tea, an unasked-for footstool—anything Brigit could think of, she did for Miss Emily.
Phillip, the wee scoundrel, had taken Julie’s doll and dumped her down the laundry chute. He’d confessed that rotten deed; yet the pretty little china doll never ended up in the laundry bin in the basement. Duncan brought in a small grappling hook. He cleverly dropped a rope down the chute, tied the hook to the end, and slowly pulled it upward. By doing so, he recovered Fortuna Hunter.
Later that day Brigit saw Duncan tinkering with sliding more things up and down the chute. She figured he’d come to the same hope she had: Mayhap the ring had been sent down the chute and got lodged as the doll had. Her hopes soared, then crashed as Duncan finally slammed the chute and stalked away.
❧
The world was turned upside down. Folks seemed to want to pick on one another. To hear half the folk talk, President Lincoln was the devil incarnate; the other half would drag a chair up to Christ’s right side for him. Slave and free, rich and poor, North and South—strife and contention fulminated just beyond the property line. Until now it had stayed there—but the peace of the Newcomb home and life were no longer assured.
Duncan watched for an opportunity to restore that peace. He’d not managed to nab absolute proof that Brigit was the thief, but every last fact pointed toward her. He’d heard the rustle and click before he discovered Anna’s ring had gone missing. The door to the servants’ quarters in the attic clicked. He’d checked, and it sounded like the noise he’d heard. Then, too, the very last maid down to see what the ruckus was about just so happened to have been Brigit. She must have taken a few moments to hide the ring.
Duncan gave consideration to tearing the attic apart to locate the ring, but it was such a wee band, it could be in countless places—many he’d not even consider. As soon as he proved her guilt, he’d force Brigit to reveal where the ruby ring went.
Aye, ’twas she. Logic gave firm reason to rule out every other member of the household staff.
Emily pointed out that Phillip swiped Julie’s doll, and they’d all presumed it had been stolen. Most of the other items were minor and could easily have been misplaced. But she couldn’t explain away the figurine or the ring.
John vacillated between trusting Emily’s judgment and wanting to fire all the maids. Because it would upset Em too much, he didn’t want to tilt her precarious peace of mind based purely on conjecture.
Waiting. Of all things, Duncan counted patience among his weakest traits. A man of action, he hated to stand by and let time pass without doing something. Clearly something needed doing.
Sixteen
Brigit cleaned the windows in the library. I should have traded with Trudy. I could be scrubbing the tub instead of this. Then I wouldn’t have to be here, remembering how Duncan O’Brien hid in here, trying to escape from Miss Emily’s marriage candidates.
Deeply troubled by the shadow hanging over the household, Brigit tried to banish any worries or suspicious thoughts. She’d done nothing to earn anyone’s distrust or animosity. Duncan alternated between being his suave, clever self and rumbling with all of the fearsomeness of thunder. ’Twas a crying shame he’d lost his peace.
Oh, he’d not outright say so. A man had his pride and didn’t want others to know when things bothered him. It was just that Duncan never seemed much of a mystery to her. From the day she’d been a coconspirator by keeping his presence in the library a secret, she’d thought they’d gotten along well enough. Reading his thoughts came as easily as scanning a newspaper. The only problem was, Brigit kept getting the wild notion he was watching her.
Miss Emily kept telling her to go the extra mile, to be sympathetic about the pressure Duncan was under. What with the political matters at a near boiling point and the frustrations of dealing with supplies that weren’t arriving on time for the ship building, Duncan simply wasn’t himself—at least, that’s what Miss Emily said.
On top of all of that, they were having foul weather. Men pontificated about how the Farmer’s Almanac rightly predicted this relentless stream of storms, and Brigit had felt the icy sting of the sleet on several occasions. For the past few days, the temperature dropped even farther, and they’d experienced snow. Surely, for the men to be working out of doors gave adequate cause for Duncan to come home in a black mood.
Since he’d announced a thief was in the house and spilled his ugly thoughts, Brigit had become increasingly self-conscious. Thoughts about finding a new position filled her mind; but with the uncertainties in the political climate and the facts that she had no funds upon which to fall back and her parents relied on her, she had to stay. Brigit decided to keep vigilant. She loved Miss Emily and wanted to help put an end to this travesty. She’d do it because it was the right thing to do, but also because Miss Emily had been so kind to Mum and Da.
Mum and Da looked so pleased when she’d brought what Cook called “the autumn baking crate.” Why, with just a bit of meat and eggs, they’d have most of what they needed to eat for quite some time. Aye, and that extra jar of apricots Cook gave—Brigit nearly cried with delight over how good the Lord was to add that extra bit of sweetness to her parents’ life.
She’d been giving alm
ost all of her pay to them when she visited on her day off. Da picked up a day job here and there, but mostly bosses wanted to hire stronger, younger men. The voyage over left Mum frail of health. She’d not last a month if she took on any labor. Each day Brigit woke with a sense of gratitude that God provided this job.
Beautiful things filled the Newcomb estate. Aye, the home boasted grand rooms with fine appointments. Upkeep on such a place was a never-ending proposition. Miss Emily kept the staff busy. In the past two days she’d taken to giving orders here and there that should have been customary; but what with the suspicion that a thief might be in their midst, the chores took on a different flavor. The tensions stretched tight.
Brigit swiped at a tiny streak along the edge of a pane. For all she’d endured until now, she’d always found contentment in her circumstances. She suspected Duncan O’Brien felt that same way. Whoever was behind the robbery had stolen Duncan’s serenity as certainly as he’d taken all the goods.
Worn out from yet another busy day, the entire household retired early. Brigit stood at her attic bedroom window and fidgeted. When Duncan came home, he’d been in a good mood—as if the sea winds blew away the worries he’d carried when first he set sail. Now he hovered. Every time she turned around, he seemed to be there. His smile didn’t reach his eyes, either. Like a lightning bolt, the realization struck her as she mopped the floor tonight. He’s hunting for the robber, and he thinks I’m guilty!
Holy Savior, what am I to do? I can declare my innocence, but what would that accomplish? She rested her forehead against the icy pane and blinked back tears of frustration. A pair of verses from the twenty-fifth chapter of Proverbs ran through her mind. “If thine enemy be hungry, give him bread to eat; and if he be thirsty, give him water to drink: For thou shalt heap coals of fire upon his head, and the Lord shall reward thee.”
Feed Duncan. Fill his glass. Be kind. Such seemingly simple things to do—but with the suspicious way he’s behaving toward me, Father, those acts will take every last shred of my will and a boatload of Christ’s love to accomplish. I don’t want to obey Your holy Word only to keep my job. If I did that, ’twould be living by law and not by grace. I’m praying now for wisdom and a forgiving heart. Help me, Lord. Help me minute by minute. I cannot do this on my own.
Sleepless, she continued to stand at the window. A slight movement caught her attention. She spied the stranger she’d seen on those other occasions in the yard. She couldn’t tell much by the weak moonlight, but maybe he was involved somehow. I simply cannot stay silent about seeing him any longer. If he is a guard, he’s had to have seen something; if I’ve been wrong about presuming he’s a guard, then I need to get one of the men to capture him.
Brigit’s heart pattered as fast as a toe-dancer’s feet as she slipped into a wrapper and ran to the servants’ staircase. She grabbed the knob and twisted, but the door refused to open. The stubborn thing wouldn’t budge.
“Oh, no!” She tried twice more, each second pounding with her heartbeat. He’ll get away. I’m fiddling with this stupid door, and that man is getting away!
Frustrated and unwilling to let the matter alone, she dashed back to her room. Ignoring the icy weather, she opened her bedroom window and crawled out onto the roof. Slick it was, and so cold, it felt burning hot beneath her hands and knees. Normally Brigit rather enjoyed looking out her window, but looking down from this vantage point didn’t give her any pleasure—it nearly scared the wits straight out of her.
She tried to recall the house’s floor plan. Could she go right and drop down onto one of the children’s balconies? No, wait. Right would be Duncan’s—well, she did need to get him. She stood and wobbled. Clumps of snow slid away and made soft, distant plops as they hit the ground. She started to pray aloud, “Dear Lord Almighty, don’t let me turn into one of those plopping sounds myself!”
Cold. Oh, cold, cold, cold. Each step she took made her shiver worse. Brigit strove to keep her footing as she crossed the roof, then groaned as she drew close to a chimney. In her effort to keep from slipping right over the edge, she’d gone too far. Both arms stuck out to help her balance, she looked behind her. No. She couldn’t possibly turn and go back. She’d barely kept alive going straight ahead. Turning all the way around would be pure folly. “Lord, You know I’m not here to kill myself. Aye, You do. I’d take it kindly if You’d grant me deliverance.”
The trellis—the very tips of a trellis stuck up beyond the edge of the roof. She whispered her thanks to the Lord, then swallowed hard. He’d given her a way down, but it wasn’t going to be easy. Then again, how many times had Da said most of the good things in life didn’t come easy?
Sure she’d skid right over the edge if she took another step, Brigit took a deep breath to steel herself. As it was, she slipped as she laid down on her belly with her feet toward the dropoff. Her fingers scrabbled for any hold, but it was a vain effort. She skidded over the edge and barely muffled her shriek as she caught the trellis and held on for dear life.
For a second she closed her eyes. “God, don’t stop now. I need Your help, and I’m needing it badly.” She opened her eyes and saw violets. Violets? Oh! Her gown and robe were hooked on the trellis—as if God had snagged her there for safety’s sake! She had to hold on with one hand while she freed her slushy garments with the other. The clammy fabric slapped at her legs, and she shuddered. When she got hold of Duncan and he apprehended the stranger because of her tremendous effort, that man was going to owe her at least a dozen apologies.
It being winter, the vines on the trellis were dried-out, rough things. Nary a leaf remained—something Brigit counted as a blessing, because she’d end up slipping on them or wearing them if they’d been present. The whole trellis wobbled, and she didn’t waste time. It might snap.
She also hurried because she needed Duncan to nab that stranger. The longer it took her to alert Duncan, the greater the chance was that the intruder would slip away.
“Fine thing for a young lady to do in the dead of winter, in the middle of the night,” she muttered as she climbed down. “’Tis nothing short of a miracle I haven’t broken my neck.”
A big, rough hand clamped around her ankle. “That could still be arranged.”
Seventeen
One quick yank, and Duncan pulled Brigit off the trellis. He caught her—a chivalrous thing to do, all things considered. The mud puddle there would have been a just reward for her perfidy.
“Duncan!”
“Surprised?” He clamped a hand over her mouth and hauled her toward the kitchen. He didn’t want her crying alarm and warning her partner. Hopefully, John would catch him. It took every last shred of decency for Duncan not to shake her senseless. What had she taken this time, and to whom was she going to pass it?
Just tonight, after everyone else went to bed, he and John had a quick exchange. The two of them concocted a solid plan to capture the thief once and for all. Duncan no more than set foot into his bedchamber and went to shut a crack in the curtains when he saw a bit of snow slide over the edge. It wouldn’t have been anything to catch his attention, but then several more followed. Realizing someone was on the roof—of all things!—he ran outside.
He could scarcely believe his eyes. Brigit. Regardless of what logic told him and the way he’d been behaving over the last two weeks, deep in his heart, Duncan secretly still fostered a thread of hope that she was innocent. The thread snapped, and the full weight of her betrayal hit him. He’d trusted her with his family and almost with his heart—he’d been ready to propose! Anger mixed with incredulity. He nearly bellowed her name, but cold reason washed over him. If he startled her, she’d likely slip and break her neck; he wanted the satisfaction of doing that deed with his own hands—not that he would, but the thought satisfied a savage need inside of him. Besides, if he made a noise, he’d scare off her accomplice.
For having been as skilled as she’d been with her other episodes of theft, she wasn’t smooth this time at all. The daft woma
n had let out a shriek loud enough to wake Methuselah, then muttered to herself the whole time she scrambled down the trellis. No doubt about it, the woman had a death wish.
Now Brigit didn’t act innocent. No, she surely didn’t. She squirmed and struggled—even tried to bite his hand. He got her in through the kitchen door, kicked it shut, and bumped into the counter ere he reached the table. The whole while, Brigit gave him more grief than a tiger in a burlap sack.
He dumped her onto the table where Cook usually kneaded bread. Keeping his hand firmly over her mouth, he anchored Brigit in place by clenching the belt to her robe. “Don’t you make a sound.”
She reached up and closed both hands around his wrist. Though she tried, she couldn’t yank his hand away. Before Duncan could imagine the depth of her desperate insanity, she turned loose and threw herself backward. A tug and loud rip ensued. Within a second, she ended up in a heap on the floor; he stood with a soggy belt to a flowery robe in his hand. He tossed it aside and dove after her. She smacked at him and yelped, “You’re letting him get away!”
Duncan pinned her to the floor. “Let me guess: He won’t even bother to come after you. Regardless of the cliché, I’ve found there is no honor among thieves. You’re going to have to shoulder the blame yourself.”
❧
Brigit stared at Duncan in disbelief. Here she was, trying to unravel the mystery and catch whomever it was that had been robbing this good family of their treasures. What happened? Duncan considered this as proof that she was the guilty party.
She glowered at him. “While you’re wasting time with that ridiculous notion, the thief is making his escape!”
“I’ll settle for one of the pair.” He reached across her and grabbed the torn belt. Quick as could be, he grabbed both of her wrists in one of his massive hands.
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