“Are you unhappy?” Mama asks, mistaking my thoughtfulness for dismay.
I shake my head and smile.
I cannot remember a nicer day in my household. It goes without saying that Father is away. He’s at his club or business office or somewhere. Mama is feeling tired so she rests in her boudoir and invites me to sit at her side as Cordie reads the Ladies’ Home Journal aloud. My mother laughs at the humorous articles and interrupts the more serious ones to discuss plans for Cherub’s new nursery and wardrobe.
I finally understand about families—why they enjoy spending time together. It has taken me two decades to grasp the meaning of this bond.
At supper, I shoo Cordelia out of my bedroom so she might enjoy a meal with her friends in the kitchen. I tuck a large square napkin into the collar of my gown, and run my fingertips over the tray. Now to practice for Wednesday’s excursion. There’s a round plate flanked by a set of utensils. Fork on the left—knife and spoon the right. A ceramic mug containing buttermilk sits three inches above. I spill half my drink when I bump it with my wrist, but it’s no great loss since I dislike buttermilk.
The entrée smells like poached chicken. No herbs or sauces, just a bland, rubbery thigh if this meal follows my usual menu. I touch the sides of the plate and find servings of rice and peas. Scooping at them with my spoon, I feel like I’m playing a game of chase. The peas bounce off the plate and the rice drops everywhere when I try to eat it. My stomach rumbles, and I stab at the chicken thigh. Hacking at the meat with the side of my fork, I cut off large wedges. I chew the chicken as quietly as possible, but it is hopeless with the size of the bites. Mama and Cordelia both would be appalled and rightly so. All things considered, supper is a failure. An especially messy one with my lap covered by rice and peas.
Thunderation. How will my clothes survive? I won’t have the blasted napkin tucked into my collar when I’m at tea with Kelly. A frisson of excitement runs through me as I think of the outing—my first real meal taken in town. I have two more days to practice feeding myself. Forty-eight whole hours to ensure that this basic skill is second nature.
Won’t Mama be surprised if I succeed?
It is almost midnight, and Cordelia is snoring like a banshee in the room next to mine. I worry for her nasal cavity. How does it hold up under the strain? Tom pushed me to have her move closer, as a protective measure. Everyone else in the house is asleep as well, except for the cook and the butler. They’re being rather amorous behind closed doors in the servant’s wing.
Well, at least the case of the missing butler has been solved.
I wear a wool gown and a heavy, hooded cloak to ward off the evening chill. Stepping as lightly as I can, I cross the library, carrying my cane under my arm. I pause at the French doors, and check one last time for any suspicious noises, but there are none.
Everything safe, love? Do you need my help?
No. Be there in a moment, Tom.
Once I am outside, I close the door, and turn to find him a few feet away. We embrace briefly and then walk to where he tied his horse in the orchard. Tom helps me step up onto a tree stump.
“We’ll use it like a mounting block,” he says aloud. “So it’s easier for you to get on the horse.”
He guides the animal over to where I stand on the stump. I pat the horse gently, missing my own poor Jem.
I don’t think I’ve ridden this one before. Is it a he or a she?
“Technically a he. Dad bought some geldings at auction a few months ago.”
I rest my hands on Tom’s shoulders, enjoying my increased height while standing on the stump. We must be nearly eye to eye. Would you please use telepathy?You know the clairvoyant rules.
Sorry, love. I always forget them.
Yes, you do. What’s his name?
Whose name?
The horse, Tom.
He laughs softly. It’s Banquo.
Pulling some sugar cubes out of my pocket, I turn to Banquo and offer him the treat. The horse blows on my hand, his breath warm and moist. He eats the sugar and brushes my palms with his smooth, nibbling lips. Nice fellow. That’s right. Tom trains his equines well, and this one is no exception. Banquo stands quietly as I take hold of his mane and swing my leg upwards onto his back. Tom gives my backside a boost until I’m sitting astride. No saddle for us tonight. I push my skirt down to cover my knees, and Tom hops up behind me.
He makes a clicking sound and the horse begins to walk. Tom’s arms encircle me as he holds the reins. We’re a good ways from the estate when we break into a gallop. I can’t imagine anything more thrilling than this. I am speeding through the wind, arms outstretched, cloak flapping. Free of spectacles and stays, I might add. My hair is undone, flying out behind me.
And into poor Tom’s face. He grabs some of my tresses, holding them with one of his fists. When I think up something especially mischievous, Tom laughs and gives my hair a slight yank. I do not know our destination, but the journey itself is pure joy.
The ground grows steep, and Tom directs his gelding to the right to avoid sliding backwards. Cool, damp air. Night creatures in the distance. Mountain sage.
Where are we going?
Stonehenge, love.
To town?
No. The rocks.
Why?
I prod him a few more times. Tom applies gentle pressure to my hair until the back of my head rests against his chest. I tilt my face up, and he kisses me.
Patience, Hettie. You’ve heard of that, haven’t you? In theory at least?
Smiling, I relax my body, content to be held close and warm. After traveling east for a few miles, we arrive at Stonehenge, or Old Stoney, as the locals call it. I have only been here on rare occasions, and it is still relatively unknown to me.
“What a harvest moon,” Tom says, as he dismounts. “The rocks glow in its light.”
He helps me down, and we walk to the natural formation which many say resembles the Stonehenge in England. It sits atop a bluff and the wind sweeps down from the mountain above, blowing my hair in all directions. I shiver and pull up the hood of my cloak. Tom and I circle the area inside the ring of stones, and I create a kind of grid in my head to estimate its width and length.
Tom leaves me and goes back to the rim of the henge. I tune out the wind, kneel, and strike the ground with my hand. Vibrations spread outward, bouncing off the rocks, painting a sound picture in my head. Tom slaps the pillar closest to him and then moves on to the next one. What’s he up to? I lift my face, tracking his movements as he hits each stone. What’s the distance between us? Twenty-five, maybe thirty feet?
Returning to me, Tom drops something on the ground near my feet. It has a metallic rattle. I poke at it with the toe of my boot and find a rectangular case. Tom takes an object out of it, and slips a thin handle into my grasp. He guides my finger down the flat side of a blade, approximately six inches in length. The weapon is narrow and feels perfectly balanced.
A knife, Tom?
A throwing knife, love.
I cannot resist testing its sharpness. Just a little. The result is a tiny nick. It barely stings but Tom puts the tip of my finger to his mouth, sucks the blood away. Then he checks the scratch over and drops my hand.
Must you always touch things, Hettie?
You know I’m the curious sort. Why the knife?
I want you to learn to defend yourself.
Tom takes the weapon back, slides it into something. A sheath probably. He puts it into my hands, and I run my fingers over sleek leather. Two other knives are stored inside the sheath. Tom presses the attached straps and buckles into my palm.
Lady’s boots aren’t high enough to conceal this. You strap it on your thigh. Where it won’t slip on the stockings.
How does one begin to respond to such a gift?
My love kneels down, and I hear a scratch, a flare, and then smell the faintest whiff of sulfur. It’s a Lucifer being lit. Metal clanks and glass rattles. Must be the old bulls-eye lamp that usually
hangs in the Craddock barn. How did it get up here? Did Tom prepare this location ahead of time? I suppose that’s romantic. In a way…
He switches out of telepathy. “I’ll take those weapons, if you please.” Tom puts the knives away and like a magician, returns with another trick up his sleeve. He hands me a cloth bag, tied at the top. The surprises just keep coming—I’m afraid to ask what’s inside.
Tom loosens the top of the bag. “I know a group of seamstresses. They gather at the farm next to ours a few times a month, and I repair their scissors, sharpen them when they get dull. These are spare sets that I’ve taken apart.”
And what do these women look like?
His gravelly-sounding laugh does things to my body chemistry. “Farmer’s daughters, you know. Buxom, bonny wenches.”
Buxom?
“Oh, yes, and grandmothers several times over. The youngest is sixty.” Tom puts half a pair of scissors in my hand. “They pay me with pie, you goose. Though they have hinted at introducing me to a granddaughter or two.”
Don’t you dare!
Taking me by the shoulders, he spins me around. “Which way are you facing?”
North.
“Spot on. You’re as good as a compass. Now let’s have you practice throwing a bit before we use actual knives. Aim for the place where I slap the stones. That’ll be the killer’s heart.”
I shake my head, disliking the thought of hurting anyone. But I don’t want—
“It doesn’t matter what you want right now,” Tom says, interrupting the pattern of my thoughts. “An attempt was made on your life. Was it the murderer from the Halloween vision? Or the heir of Archimendax? Can’t say as yet. But we need to surprise whoever’s after you, and make them bleed first.”
His serious manner dampens my mood, and I feel cold despite the cloak. Tom rubs my arms and sets me away from him. Then he teaches me a throwing technique where I begin with most of my weight resting on my back foot, until I bring the shear up and throw it while shifting the balance to my front foot. We discuss follow-through and blade rotation, with Tom counting off the circles the weapon makes on the way to its target.
“I’ll take the lamp over to the rocks with me so I can see how precise you are. Throw the shears directly at the sound that I make.”
How do you know about this kind of thing?
“I have an uncle in California. A blacksmith. He forges knives as a hobby, collects them, too.” I hear Tom lift the lamp and walk over to the stone. “Taught me to throw when I was a lad.”
Taking a few steps forward, I nearly jump out of my skin when he hits the rock. I’m not prepared at all, but I throw anyway.
“Low and wide. You’ve missed the baddie by two feet but the innocent fellow next to him won’t be having children. Concentrate.”
I do better with the next stone. I hit it at least.
“That’s my girl,” Tom says, laughing. “Scratched the villain’s ankle.”
Short. High. Plain feeble. This is how my further attempts are graded. Close. Not-even-close. Ugly. My shoulder is tired, but I rub the soreness away as Tom gathers the scissors.
“Again.”
Over-heated and sweating, I remove my cloak after the next round. I throw until I can barely lift my right arm.
“You’re doing famously, vita mea,” Tom says. “They’ll be calling you The Mistress of the Blade in no time.”
I hate this. It’s too hard.
He picks up my cloak, tucks it around my shoulders. “No. It isn’t. We’ll work on your left arm tomorrow and allow your right to recuperate.”
There’s no way I’m coming back here tomorrow. I haven’t had a wink of sleep.
Tom swings up onto his horse and then reaches for me, telepathic once more. You’ll be fine after you’ve rested.
Aren’t you tired?
Aye, I’m weary. But the cows will need milking when I get home, and there are chores to be done. Don’t worry about me.
We make the trip down the mountain and turn onto the main road. That’s all I remember until I wake up some time later. Cordelia is puttering around in the next room, as though she has just risen.
I am lying in my bed wearing my chemise and drawers. No cloak. Or dress for that matter. And the green scent of alfalfa covers my skin. I suspect that Tom tossed my clothes under the bed or into the armoire. I don’t know how he managed my slumbering bulk or why I’m surprised by his audacity, but this confirms what I learned years ago.
The man has magic in his hands.
9
Aliquis latet error.
Some trickery lies hidden-Virgil.
The next night is much like the one before. Tom and I meet at twelve, and ride to the mountains. I throw the scissors with my left hand until an hour or so before daybreak, and then we head home, like Romeo and Juliet after a romantic evening of weaponry.
We walk toward The Revels and Tom praises my efforts. You’re a natural attack artist, Hettie.
He takes my hand and twirls me around. My feet get tangled, and Tom pulls me against him. We sway side to side, and it occurs to me that we’re dancing. Perhaps it is my fatigue or the early hour, but this ridiculous gesture seems so sweet.
You know, Tom. Once I become the Mistress of the Blade, I could branch out and get a gun. Transform into the Countess of the Colt, the Dueling Duchess, the Baroness of Bullets.
His laughter is soft enough to be a short intake of breath. I bow to My Lady Smith and Wesson.
Actually, that’s brilliant. How difficult can it be to shoot? I need a boot pistol immediately.
One instrument of death at a time, love. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
Tom kisses me goodnight, and I leave him with reluctance. You didn’t take liberties when you brought me upstairs last night, did you?
Absolutely not. I’m a country gentleman.
I squeeze his hand before entering my home via the library. Tom whispers in my mind as I close the door and lock it.
I did enjoy the lace on that chemise though. Very pretty.
This makes me smile as I tiptoe up the stairs and into my room. I can tell Cordelia is asleep, but luckily, there is no snoring. Thank heaven for small favors.
I undo the hooks at the top of my dress and slip it over my head, drop the petticoat, unlace my boots, and get into bed. I mean business now. I do not dream, or toss about. I sleep deep as the dead. Then I wake up briefly, feel the warmth of the flames in the fireplace, hear a few servants moving about the house, put a pillow over my head and doze again.
Unfortunately, Cordie must be worried that I have contracted some soporific disease for she keeps trying to roust me when I do not wish to be rousted—putting her hand on my forehead and testing for fever, calling my name again and again.
“You really must wake up, Miss Hester. It’s near one o’ clock. You’re to meet Dr. Kelly for tea in a couple of hours. Wouldn’t you like to use the water closet at least?”
Well, now that it’s been mentioned…
Sitting up slowly, I stretch, then climb out of bed, use the WC, and take a rather chilly bath. Copper is not my friend when combined with cold water.
“It’s your own fault,” Cordie says. “The hot pails were brought in same as usual, steam floating all over the place, but Sleepyhead couldn’t be bothered to bathe then.”
Cordelia can be such a kind person. And then she has her Marquis de Sade moments. She’s in a huff for some reason, and refuses to get me anything more substantial than a dry piece of toast.
“Breakfast was at nine. As always.” My companion hustles about, getting my tea ensemble in order. “And you don’t want to spoil your appetite.”
Her quips continue as I get ready for my appointment, and for reasons unknown to me, I accept this reversal of power. Maybe it is penance for my assignations with Tom.
“Your escort has arrived, Miss Hester. Promptly, I might add. He knows how to follow a schedule.”
And none too soon. Cordelia has almost reduce
d me to self-flagellation and haircloth. Dr. Kelly’s voice at our front door signals a liberation devoutly to be wished. Cordie hands me my cane, makes one more swipe at the back of my velvet cloak, and follows me downstairs.
Mama has decided to overlook the awkward dinner with Kelly, letting bygones be bygones. He is unattached, has an education, and performs a valuable service within the community. Therefore, allowances for his behavior are being made. She now attributes his blunt speech not to rudeness but to a New England sensibility. Mama even visited Kelly’s office and asked him to be her personal physician, given that her previous doctor retired and moved to Arizona.
She is feeling weary today, and Cordelia is remaining at home with her instead of chaperoning me at tea. My companion pulls the cloak’s hood into place over my hair just before the doctor and I step outside.
Kelly takes my hand and slips it into the crook of his arm. “You look like a Dresden figurine that I saw in a shop window once—a skater named Snowflake. Everything she wore from her hat to her shoes was white. But you’re all in blue, Hester. Perhaps I’ll call you Violet.”
I smile at this, and Kelly helps me up into his buggy, then claims the driver’s seat. He throws a blanket over my legs and snaps the reins. The horse walks forward and breaks into a light trot.
“Borrowed this rig from a colleague,” he says. “Speaking of which, I need to drop by the hospital on the way to tea. You don’t mind waiting while I sign a few documents, do you?”
I nod in agreement. Kelly is paying for my meal later on, after all.
“So cooperative.” He gently bumps my shoulder with his. “You are Hester Grayson from Stonehenge, Colorado. Not her doppelganger or long-lost twin?”
He banters this way, teasing me frequently, until we reach the mews near the hospital. We leave the buggy with a stable boy, walk a couple of blocks, and enter the building through the back. The physician’s portal, Kelly says. He leads me down a long hallway and sees that I am comfortably seated on a chair.
“My office is just a few doors away. Thank you for being such a good sport about this, Hester. I’ll buy you an extra scone.”
Veritas Page 7
