“It’s not a lovely day at all!” Mother said to Father. “It’s misty out and positively dreary.”
“Oh, a little mist never hurt anybody,” Father said. “Wright, could you fetch my walking stick?”
The butler left and then returned with the requested item, silver-handled of course.
“I’m not sure about this, Martin,” Grandmama said skeptically. “To suggest we all take some sort of…outdoor exercise. Are you sure you are quite right in the head?”
“I am. My eldest daughter informed me over breakfast this morning that I was in danger of busting the buttons on my waistcoat. Well, we shall see about that.”
“I fear I am too old for such energetic adventures.”
“Does that mean you’ll be staying behind? With George?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! The day I’m as slow as that old man is the day that I am dead. I’m afraid, Martin, you’ll all just need to walk at my pace. Grace, lend me your arm. I don’t imagine that you’ll ever go too fast for my liking. And I further don’t imagine God can do without me.”
Chapter
Twenty-Five
Raymond Allen checked his long-legged stride once again to accommodate the far shorter one of his chosen walking companion, the rotund Meriwether Young. Why, even the dowager countess, up ahead on Lady Grace’s arm, was making faster progress toward the church than they were.
When the weekend had commenced just two days ago, the duke had fancied himself and Mr. Young as rivals, operating against each other to achieve the same prize: the beautiful hand of Lady Katherine in marriage. But now, he figured, they were in the same boat, and that boat was sinking fast.
“Well, I suppose that’s us out of it, then,” the duke said with a chin nod to indicate Benedict Clarke walking ahead beside Lady Katherine, his head leaning close to hers in conversation. Or as close as it could get to hers, given that wide-brimmed hat she had on her head.
“Oh, I needed to at least try, but I knew that I was never in the game, not really,” Mr. Young said with an endearing self-deprecating laugh. “After all, what chance could there ever be for an old, short, fat businessman from London?”
“You’re not that old,” the duke said, in an effort to be reassuring.
“Thank you for that,” the other man said, laughing again. “Now, if only we could do something about the parts of me that are too short, too fat, and too untitled, perhaps I will make another run at Lady Katherine yet.”
The duke had to admire Mr. Young his ability to look at his life’s situation with a sense of humor. Thinking of his own situation—that despite his wealth and title, he’d no doubt die without ever knowing real love or being loved—he found little to laugh at.
“Daniel?” the duke called over his shoulder. “Do you think you might hold that umbrella a bit steadier? I think my top hat is getting mist on it.”
“Yes, Duke,” came a voice from behind, followed by the requested adjustment.
Back at the house, before they’d set out on this impromptu walking journey, the duke had asked Daniel to accompany them to church as his valet.
“But I’m not your valet at the moment, Your Lordship,” Daniel had said. “I’ve helped you get dressed for the day and now I’m back to being the footman, and my presence is required here to help the others get everything set out for your luncheon following your special, private church service.”
“Did you and the other staff already go to church in the village early?”
“When would we’ve had the time? We were busy getting your breakfast.”
The brief exchange that followed brought home to the duke something he hadn’t thought of before: that while the Clarkes and their guests would enjoy their special just-for-them church service today, the circumstances of the weekend meant that the staff would have to do without completely.
There would be no God for the staff this weekend.
“Oh, I see,” the duke had said, feeling unaccountably chastened. But then he shook off the feeling. It wasn’t his fault that things were the way they were. “Yes, well, I’d still like you to accompany me.”
What the duke was thinking was that when they’d gone outside of the abbey for their hunt the day before, Daniel hadn’t accompanied him then even though the duke had asked him to, and look how that had turned out. Now that they were to be going outside of the abbey once more, he certainly didn’t want a repeat of that performance!
“I doubt Jonathan and the others will appreciate the extra bit of work, what with my hands gone, but if that is what you wish, Your Lordship.”
“It is. And do you think you might find something else to call me besides ‘Your Lordship’?”
The footman had simply stared back blankly at this.
Honestly! Was it that hard to understand? “Only,” the duke had explained, “when there’s more than one titled person in the vicinity, it does get confusing for me. I always find myself thinking, ‘Are they talking to me or one of the other ones?’”
“What do you propose I should call you instead?”
The duke had brightened considerably at this. “Duke would do nicely!”
Someone else who had brightened considerably? Daniel, upon spotting Lady Grace in her church finery when they’d all assembled in the entry hall. Well, perhaps “considerably” was taking it a bit too far. Did Daniel ever do anything considerably? Such a cautious young man, even for a footman, footmen not exactly being known for their risk-taking. Why, if they were possessed of derring-do, would they even be footmen? The duke didn’t think so. But Daniel had certainly brightened a bit, before stoically turning his gaze away—the duke was certain he’d seen that.
And now here they were, in front of the family church. It was made of stone, and despite its modest size, it still did manage to contain its allotment of spires and stained glass on the exterior with pews and stone floor as they entered the interior.
“This is cozy,” he said to his walking companion. Then he indicated the pew all the way at the back, near the doors they’d just entered through. “Shall we?”
“Yes,” Mr. Young said with a laugh, “I suppose the back of the room is the place for the likes of us.”
The duke watched as the earl and countess, the dowager countess, the three daughters, and Benedict Clarke and his mother took seats at the front, although the youngest daughter, Lady Elizabeth, seemed to be sitting off to the side a bit in that cloak of hers. But no sooner had Lady Grace gotten her grandmother settled than she rose again, making her way to the back of the church, where she squatted slightly before whispering to Mr. Young, “Merry, wouldn’t you like to sit up front? With us?”
Now, why didn’t I think of that? the duke thought. Maybe if I asked people to call me something less formal, I’d endear myself to them, too? But what would that be? Raymond? Ray?
“You are so thoughtful,” Mr. Young said, patting her hand where it rested on the edge of the pew. “But having walked so far and finally sat down, I fear I must at least remain seated and rest until the service is over. These old bones, you know.”
Looking disappointed, Lady Grace returned to the front.
The duke thought about what Mr. Young had said, Until the service is over…
Once it was over, there would be the luncheon, followed by the trip to the train station, and this part of his life—this brief interlude—would be at an end, part of his past.
But for the service to be over, it would have to start first. And for it to start, there would need to be a vicar.
Where was the vicar?
Simultaneous to this thought arising in him, he noticed the family members up front beginning to grow restless, and it occurred to him: when they’d arrived at the church, there’d been no vicar to meet them at the doorway, to greet them with a godly word or two. Why, there hadn’t been a horse or a trap outside or even a motorcar—if the vicar were really well compensated—to indicate that anyone else was here at all and that the vicar had arrived to perform the duty that had been
requested of him. He wouldn’t have just appeared out of nowhere. There had to have been some sign of a conveyance, and yet there wasn’t.
Well, if there was no vicar, there would be no service, surely. So now, not only would there be no God today for the staff—like Daniel, standing behind them to the side of the closed church doors—but there would be no God for any of them, either.
“I’m sure the vicar has an excellent reason for not being here,” Martin Clarke said in a booming voice as he rose to his feet. Then he made his way the short distance from his front-row seat to the altar. “In his absence, I shall perform the service. I may not be a vicar, but I think I’ve seen enough of these in my lifetime to know how the thing is done, and as the Earl of Porthampton…”
If only he himself, the duke thought, were capable of adopting such a take-charge attitude. Perhaps then his life might have turned out differently. Never mind Daniel, he supposed he could do with a little derring-do, too.
Of course, as the Earl of Porthampton, Martin Clarke was not only a landowner with a title, he was also, in a very real sense, the spiritual center of Porthampton Abbey, the entire village really.
Why, look at him now, the duke thought, leading a religious service at the drop of a hat and even giving a little sermon—and he did it all so well!
…
“What a lovely service that was!” Fidelia Clarke said to her husband as he stood near the doors at the back of the church greeting the congregants as though he really were the vicar.
“If we ever lose Porthampton Abbey, Martin,” the dowager countess said, “I do believe you could support us all as a snake-oil salesman.”
“Bite your tongue, Mother, we shall never lose Porthampton Abbey,” the earl said, but he said it with a good-natured laugh.
It was easy to see that the earl was pleased with himself. Well, who could blame him? To have that confidence, that ability to just get up and speak before a group unplanned, to offer consolation and hope and…
“Truly lovely,” Mr. Young was saying now, seizing his turn to congratulate the earl, following which, he nodded at Daniel, indicating the church doors. “Can you get those for me?”
Daniel obliged, and Mr. Young stepped out.
The duke patiently waited his turn to offer the earl his compliments. After all, he didn’t want to be the only one caught out not saying some kind, congratulatory words.
But before he got his chance, he heard Mr. Young’s voice, shouting a greeting from the other side of the church doors, which had been left ajar.
“Dr. Webb!” Mr. Young called out with real joy in his voice, as though he’d just discovered gold. “You’ve made it back! So everything in the village turned out all right, I trust?”
Dr. Webb?
The duke forsook the opportunity to congratulate the earl, electing to go outside instead and see what was going on. The others must have had the same inclination, for soon they were all crowded around the exterior in their Sunday clothes.
What the duke saw then was disturbing—there was no other word for it.
Dr. Webb was lurching toward the church out of the mist, something terribly off about his halting gait. More specifically, he was lurching toward Mr. Young.
“Are you all right, Dr. Webb?” Mr. Young called, the former joy in his voice replaced now with concern for the other man.
“Merry!” Lady Grace called out a warning. “Don’t go any farther!”
“But can’t you all see?” Mr. Young said, still walking forward. “Poor Dr. Webb is sick.”
Yes, Dr. Webb was sick. His clothing and general appearance were all disheveled. And he smelled bad, too, the duke realized, as a rotting stench made its way to his nostrils, which flared in response. Why, the smell was similar to that which had enveloped the dead valet, his dead valet, yesterday. Perhaps Dr. Webb had acquired the wretched smell while tending to some poor person in the village?
Dr. Webb still lurched, his arms spreading out now as Mr. Young approached.
“Merry, please!” Lady Grace cried. Then she moved to step forward herself, no doubt to try to stop Mr. Young, but Benedict Clarke held her back, catching her with one arm around the waist.
And now Mr. Young was opening his arms wide, too, as though to warmly greet the returning doctor, but when their bodies met and the doctor embraced him, he immediately began to chew on the closest part of Mr. Young’s body that was available to him, which, in this case, happened to be his upper arm.
The duke watched, frozen in horror as no doubt the others were, too, as the doctor chewed through Mr. Young’s jacket and shirt, straight down to the flesh beneath. It might have been almost comical, were it not so downright horrifying. Among the things you never expect to see in life: one human being attempting to feed on another like an animal.
Mr. Young screamed and struggled, but he was no match.
The group outside the church took a single step forward, en masse, in a hesitant fashion, as though unsure what to do but wanting to do something.
It was easy to know what to do about the typical hazards of daily life, even for a duke: someone falls, you help them up, or you ask a servant to do it, and all the other et ceteras. Far more difficult, though, to react quickly, to know what to do about a shocking sight one never could have imagined seeing in this world—one person of your acquaintance chewing on another person of your acquaintance. Indeed, it would be just as shocking if it involved two human beings one didn’t already know at all.
Later, the duke would think, If only someone had reacted quicker. If only I had reacted quicker.
But there is no proper and logical reaction to the unimaginable.
“Stand back!” a voice shouted, a female voice, and the duke followed the direction of the sound only to find Lady Elizabeth in the process of pulling a pistol from somewhere in her cloak. Then she strode forward and struck a stance, legs spread as she gripped the pistol in both hands.
“Lizzy!” her mother cried.
“Dr. Webb, let go of poor Mr. Young this instant!” the dowager countess cried.
“Don’t shoot Merry by mistake!” Lady Grace cried.
At this last, Lady Elizabeth’s steady grip began to waver, and she shifted the gun a bit.
A shot rang out and the duke saw, he saw Dr. Webb take a bullet to the arm.
But the strangest thing happened then.
Or didn’t happen.
The doctor didn’t react at all. Even though there was now a bullet hole straight through his arm, he did not cease chewing on Mr. Young except to shift his teeth to a fresh spot.
Mr. Young screamed yet louder, a horrible sound to hear.
He’s been shot and he’s not hurt at all! the duke thought in giddy horror. And now he’s trying to bite Mr. Young in the head!
Lady Elizabeth shot the pistol a second time, this time striking Dr. Webb in the shoulder, but again her efforts failed to elicit a response. It was as though the doctor hadn’t felt the impact at all, or the pain that should have surely followed, even though there were now two holes in him. Indeed, while something resembling blood was now coming out of him, like you’d think would after being struck twice with bullets, it wasn’t the gush of vivid red you’d expect, but rather a slow ooze of sludgy rust.
Mr. Young had ceased screaming and struggling, merely lying limp in Dr. Webb’s arms, which was somehow worse than his wretched screams had been.
But the duke had no opportunity to register what that might mean.
For now Lady Elizabeth was striding boldly forward, her pretty church hat whipped off her head by the wind in the process, and there came shouts for her to stop, to proceed with caution, but she didn’t stop until she was right behind Dr. Webb—rotten-stench Dr. Webb, who was taking another bite out of Mr. Young—at which point, she placed the pistol directly to his skull and pulled the trigger.
Chapter
Twenty-Six
Well, that did the trick, Daniel thought.
He watched the doctor—hav
ing been shot in the back of the head after having already been shot twice in two places but to no effect—fall to the ground. And then Mr. Young, poor Mr. Young, no longer held in place by the doctor’s death grip, fell to the ground, too.
If he hadn’t seen what had unfolded with his own eyes, he would never have believed it.
He had seen it, and he still didn’t believe it.
Daniel had heard about what had happened to Will Harvey’s uncle. And he’d heard about what had happened to the duke’s valet, Parker, yesterday at the hunt. And then he’d been there, standing attendance, when the earl had read out loud each of the doctor’s increasingly alarmed missives. A part of him had known then that there was some further threat out there, somewhere, but he had never imagined anything like this.
Now Lady Grace was escaping Benedict Clarke’s hold on her and hurrying forward, falling to her knees, heedless of the damage to her pretty clothing, as she knelt on the ground beside the fallen Mr. Young.
“He’s still alive!” she yelled. “Somebody help him, please!”
Daniel waited and waited, waited for someone with more authority to step in and take over.
This wasn’t his job.
Even if it was Lady Grace out there now, and how he would have liked to help her, it wasn’t his place to do so. And anyway, wasn’t there someone else more equipped? Someone with the proper training?
But how could anyone be properly equipped, trained, for such an event? And unfortunately, the only one with any formal medical schooling, the doctor, was dead.
It’s not my job, it’s not my job, it’s not—
Oh, blast these people!
Daniel hurried toward Lady Grace and Mr. Young, tearing off his jacket and waistcoat as he ran.
Blast these bloody people!
Reaching them, he tore off his white shirt and then ripped a long shred off it, using his teeth.
Then he settled on his knees beside Lady Grace—it would be hell trying to get the grass stains out of his trousers later—and proceeded to fashion a tourniquet in an attempt to stanch the flow of blood coming from Mr. Young’s arm.
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