Miss Wonderful (49 page)

"I
didn't want to wake you so early," she said. "You never get
enough sleep. And I'd hoped it was a mistake: that Papa had appointed
to dine with one of the neighbors, and as usual forgot to tell
anybody. All the way home, I was expecting to meet with a messenger
telling me he'd dined with the Dunnets, for instance, and ended up
spending the night because of the storm. I kept telling myself, 'Any
minute now, I shall turn back, and go to London, where I shall cause
Mr. Carsington no end of aggravation.'" Her voice wobbled.
"Alistair, I mean. It will take me a while to get used to
provoking you by your Christian name."

"You
may provoke me by any name you like," he said. "Only come
away from this place. It is desperately romantic, but at present not
conducive to optimistic thinking. One ought to come here to brood,
Mirabel, not to plan how best to run a missing parent to ground."

She
turned away from the moors and started with him down the path.

"He
cannot be in any danger," Alistair told her. "He knows the
place too well, every last twig, moss, and lichen of it. You must not
make yourself anxious."

"Yes,
he is somewhere safe at this moment, no doubt," she said.
"Perhaps in one of the hamlets he likes to visit. He is probably
quite comfortable in someone's parlor or the local inn, talking about
Sumatran camphor trees and reducing everyone in hearing range to a
helpless stupor."

MR.
Oldridge was far from safe, though he was reducing his lone listener
to a helpless stupor.

The
sun was setting, the laudanum was wearing off, and the old dodo was
lecturing Caleb Finch about Egyptians and poppies.

It
had started out in Greek, which Caleb couldn't understand a word of,
and didn't see any reason to, he said, as it was a heathen language,
made to worship false gods.

"In
eastern parts," said his aggravating prisoner, "it is the
language of the Christian church, and no more a pagan tongue than
Latin."

"Popery
is as good as paganism," said Finch.

Mr.
O sighed and said, "In his great work, the Odyssey, Homer tells
of Helen, a daughter of Zeus, who poured nepenthe into the wine the
men were drinking at the feast, to make them forget all evil. She
learned of this medicine, Homer tells us, from the wife of Thos of
Egypt, where the fertile land produces so many balms, some good, and
some dangerous. The men at the feast were grieving for their friends
and family lost in the Trojan War, you see, and the opium mixture she
put into their wine gave them tempo-rary forgetfulness. A respite.
That is all I meant," he said, half to himself. "A way to
think of terrible things with less distress. I thought he might sleep
better, poor boy. Virgil wrote of the poppy, as did Pliny the Elder."

"I
wish I had some of that elderberry cordial," Caleb said under
his breath. "That and the bottle Jackson took. I'd help you
forget, all right."

He
walked to the door—the hovel was windowless—and looked
out. As soon as it was dark, he promised himself, he'd lead the old
man out. A blow to the head, a long drop into a mine shaft, and
that'd be the end of his preaching and rubbing it in how he was an
educated gentleman who knew Latin and Greek. That'd be the end of his
prat-ding on and on about mosses, poppies, and heathens.

Then
the red-haired hussy would be sorry. And in time she'd be sorrier
still. Pretty soon Lord Gordmor's canal would cut right through her
fine meadows and farms and precious trees. Every day, all the rest of
her life, she'd have to look at it.

Caleb
stood in the doorway and watched the sky darken.

ALISTAIR,
too, was studying the sky, as the horizon began swallowing the sun.

Mirabel
watched him. At a respectful distance, her search party waited. She
had told them to rejoin her here at sunset. At the time, she'd
assumed mey would have found Papa long before now. At present, she
saw no choice but to give up for the day and let everyone go home.
They were all tired and hungry. The others would be able to eat and
sleep. She would try to do so, for her father's sake. She would try
to wake tomorrow refreshed and hopeful.

Alistair
turned to her. "The sky has cleared considerably," he said.
"The moon will be up in a few hours. It isn't quite full, but it
will give some light. I suggest we use the interval to eat and rest.
An hour's nap will do a world of good. I asked Mrs. Entwhistle to
prepare provisions. Someone should be here soon with baskets of food.
Those who choose to return to their homes may at least do so on a
full stomach."

"You
mean to continue?" Mirabel said. "To search through the
night?"

"Yes,
since we shall have some moonlight," he said.

Then
she remembered: his friend had searched for him at night. Had Gordmor
not done so, Alistair would not be here at this moment, so sure and
confident. While she listened to him, her own flagging spirits
lifted.

He
was so certain, it was impossible to doubt.

He
rode over to the group of men and told them the nighttime strategy.
They would divide into two groups. One group would remain. The others
would return home, get a good night's rest, and rejoin them as the
sun came up. At that time—if Mr. Oldridge had not yet been
found—those who'd searched through the night would return home
and get their rest.

The
provisions arrived as he finished his short speech. He rejoined
Mirabel. The men made quick work of their food, then divided
themselves into two groups.

Mirabel
watched from where she sat with him, upon a large, flattish rock.
"They are so orderly," she said, watching the mysteriously
chosen half depart. "Like soldiers. I could not believe it when
you left it to them."

"Why
are you surprised?" he said. "You know I am irresistibly
charming."

"I
think it is something greater and deeper than charm," she said.
"I think you are a born leader."

He
withdrew a sandwich from the heavy basket, cut it in half, and gave
half to her. "Yes, that, too." His voice dropped to the
lowest rumble as he added, "I led you astray with very little
difficulty."

"I
beg to differ," she said. "It was I who led you astray.
Pray do not forget who made the first move. Pray recollect who was
first to disrobe. On more than one occasion." She bit into the
half sandwich.

"That
was all part of my diabolical plan," he said.

"I
can almost believe that," she said. "You are a gifted
planner. I hadn't considered whether we'd have moonlight or not. I
didn't think of ordering provisions. I didn't think of dividing up
our search party."

"I
had plenty of time to work out a strategy on the way here," he
said. "I hadn't an army of attendants to deal with. I did not
have to work out how to coddle the vanity of both Captain Hughes and
Sir Roger—two men accustomed to ordering others about—and
try to guess which assignment would best please them. Furthermore, as
much as I like Mr. Oldridge, he is not my father. I have not your
attachment and cannot feel as deeply as you do. It is easier for me
to view the situation with a degree of objectivity impossible for
you. Do stop criticizing yourself and eat your sandwich."

Mirabel
ate, though she didn't want to. Later, when he put down blankets for
her, she rested, though she couldn't sleep. She closed her eyes and
listened to his voice as he talked quietly to some of the men. She
could not hear what he said, but the sound of his deep voice
comforted her.

She
must have fallen asleep, because the next she knew, he was rumbling
her name. She opened her eyes and saw first the moon, not quite full,
but bright, then him.

His
expression was very grave.

She
came full awake then, and was up and upon her feet in an instant.
"What's wrong?" she said. "What's happened?"

"I'm
not sure," he said. "What do you know of a man named Caleb
Finch?"

Chapter
19

CALEB
Finch considered himself a peaceable man, who never raised a hand
against his fellows. He'd much rather outwit his fellows or trade
favors.

At
the moment, though, he had a powerful urge to dash Mr. Oldridge's
skull against a rock.

He'd
been rattling on for the last hour about some tree that grew in some
cannibal country in Africa or China or one of them godless places,
and didn't seem like he was anywhere near the end of it.

Caleb
couldn't put an end to it, because Jackson was there. He'd come back
minutes before the inky blue sky blotted out the last streaks of
sunset.

"Koempfer
said, 'Sed haec arbor ex Daphneo sanguine non est,'" Mr.
Oldridge said. "It is most definitely not of the Laurus genus,
but Dryobalanops, as Gcertner declared. However, Mr. Colebrook
proposes to name it Dryobalanops camphora, rather than D. aromatica.
The trouble is, he is not a botanist, and his description is not
altogether satisfactory. Furthermore, the specimens he received did
not survive the cold weather, and he had only the seeds upon which to
base his conclusions."