Miss Wonderful (52 page)

She
threw her arms about him, and felt the ground shift. He pulled her
clear, and a heartbeat later, the hole caved in.

They
watched silently as the earth swallowed Caleb Finch.

For
a long while afterward, no one spoke. They stared at the place for a
time, then turned away.

After
they'd helped her father onto a horse, the stranger finally broke the
silence.

"I'm
sorry, sir," he said to Alistair.

"Jackson?"
Alistair said. "I thought I recognized your voice."

"Yes,
sir," the man said. "I truly am sorry, sir. This is all my
doing—all mine—but I never meant for it to turn out like
this, I swear."

Chapter
20

ALISTAIR
did not intend to stay at Oldridge Hall. He wasn't satisfied with
Jackson's confession and wanted to think it over. If matters were as
he suspected, honor forbade his accepting Mr. Oldridge's hospitality.
In any case, the farther Alistair was from Mirabel, the clearer his
thinking would be.

But
Mr. Oldridge proved amazingly obstinate.

They
had ridden to the house, and Alistair—intending to go on to
Bramblehurst and impose upon Captain Hughes—was trying to brush
off the older man's thanks and graciously decline the invitation.

"No,
no," Mr. Oldridge said. "It is not convenient for you to
depart. I cannot be chasing you all over the neighborhood. You are
here now and I don't doubt Benton has already ordered hot baths. He
thinks of everything, you know. You will bathe, and sleep, and we
will wake you in time for dinner. Someone will find your servant
between now and then, I daresay. But if we cannot find him, you must
dine in a dressing gown and refrain from going into a decline because
of it. You will not die because you lack a starched neckcloth or
whatever it is you make such a fuss about. I shall see you at dinner,
then, and we shall talk."

Throughout
this speech, Mirabel stared at her father, her eyes opening wider and
wider.

Mr.
Oldridge met her gaze. "Caleb Finch was holding a knife when we
fell," he said. "On impact, it might easily have entered my
body instead of his. A great deal passed through my mind between that
time and your arrival. Nothing on earth is so dear to me as you. I am
heartily sorry that I've been like a stranger to you, and that it
wanted the recent series of shocks to bring me to my senses."

He
gave neither of them a chance to respond but hastily dismounted, and
hurried into the house.

CREWE
was there to wake his master at the appointed time, and to apprise
him, during the dressing process, of all that had occurred while
Alistair slept.

Mr.
Oldridge had refused to bring charges against Jackson, who'd been
allowed to set out immediately for London.

He'd
set out to alert Gordy, of course.

Gordy,
the traitor.

"All
Jackson's idea, indeed," Alistair muttered, as he buttoned his
trousers. "As though he'd dare do such a thing—abduct a
gentleman—without his master's express order. 'I'll settle
matters here,' Gordy said. I can guess what he was whispering to
Jackson behind my back."

"Sir?"

"It
cannot wait," Alistair said. "First thing tomorrow, we must
set out for London. See to it, please."

"Yes,
sir."

The
dressing continued through a long silence, finally broken by a small,
meditative cough.

Alistair
sighed. "What is it?"

Crewe
handed him a neckcloth. "I merely wished to observe, sir, that
you slept undisturbed."

"No,
I did not." Alistair wrapped the linen about his neck. "I
dreamt of the circular railway at Euston."

He
remembered the dream clearly: the locomotive steam engine racing
round and round the track, Gordy shouting at him to get off.

In
reality, Alistair had ridden the machine safely, all those years ago.
But a short time afterward, the locomotive had fallen off the track.
Trevithick hadn't funds for repairs. Others had made the device work
elsewhere, though. Weren't they using locomotive engines running on
rails, to carry coal in Wales?

The
rail track was the great advantage. Locomotive engines were not much
faster than horses, except on level ground. But horses could not
gallop endlessly for hours, where the steam engine would go on as
long as it was fueled. But the great advantage was the rails. They
made the way as smooth as water. A horse could tow a much heavier
load traveling on water—or along the rails of a tram-road—than
it could carry on its back.

Rails,
however, could be laid almost anywhere. You didn't need locks or
aqueducts to get over inclines. You didn't need great reservoirs.

His
mind busy with engineering matters, Alistair quickly tied his
neckcloth. He was only distantly aware of Crewe's shocked look as he
helped his master into his waistcoat and coat.

"I
want you to pack," Alistair said. "We must set out for
London, first thing." Without so much as a glance in the mirror,
he hurried out.

MR.
Oldridge continued in tearing good spirits at dinner. He made light
of his recent travails, calling them adventures, and was delighted
when Mirabel explained how Alistair had discovered and interpreted
the message hastily scratched on the table.

After
dinner, when they retired to the library, he became more solemn. As
soon as the tea was brought in and the servants had gone out, he said
to Alistair, "You must not be too hard upon your friend. He was
under a very great strain—and Mirabel's writing to him that you
were not right in the upper story did not help matters."

Alistair
was too astonished by the man's prescience to answer.

Mirabel
tried to say something, but her father held up his hand. "A
moment, pray. I signed those letters to Lord Gordmor and the Hargates
because I was deeply worried about Mr. Carsington, too, as was
Captain Hughes. He'd sought me out that day in an attempt to
comprehend my theories about Mr. Carsington's ailment."

"But
it is no great mystery," Alistair said. "I suffer from
insomnia."

"He
was dreaming about Waterloo, Papa," Mirabel said. "It turns
out that Mr. Carsington had amnesia, and the bad dreams began when
his memory returned."

"A
conscientious captain prefers a happy ship," Mr. Oldridge said
as though he hadn't heard her. "The men are united, and work and
fight better. A good captain is closely attuned to the mood of the
vessel in general as well as in the particulars."

Mirabel
looked at Alistair, whose mystified expression mirrored her own.

"They
live in such close quarters, you know, so many men crammed together,
isolated from the outside world for days, weeks, months," Mr.
Oldridge continued. "It would be difficult not to notice when
one of the officers, for instance, becomes dispirited or withdrawn
into himself, or grows dangerously reckless in battle, or otherwise
undergoes a radical change of behavior. Captain Hughes, I reasoned,
was therefore more likely than the average civilian to have
encountered and attempted to deal with ailments of the mind and
spirit. He must have seen more of such things than the average
country physician. But I was unable to make my meaning clear to the
captain."

Shaken,
Alistair set down his tea, got up from his chair, and walked the
length of the library, to the windows. He looked out, and recalled
the first day he'd come here. He'd looked out of the drawing room
windows, unmoved by the scenery, his attention riveted upon Mirabel,
the single bright spot in the dreary landscape.

But
the view had changed since then. The world beyond the windows was
beautiful, changeable, ripe with possibilities. And it was Welcoming.
It was… home.

He
turned and found two pairs of blue eyes watching him.

"I
had always thought of dandies as frivolous, shallow creatures, not
overly intelligent," Mr. Oldridge said. "When Mirabel
proclaimed you one of the species, I was deeply puzzled. My
botanist's instinct told me your attire was armor of some kind."
He glanced at Mirabel. "Cactus spines."

Armor,
to protect what was inside, Alistair thought. What had he been trying
to protect? What was he hiding from? Uncertainty, perhaps. The chance
that the battle had damaged his mind permanently. And always, in the
background, even when he couldn't remember the details of the battle
and its aftermath, there hovered a vague sense of shame.

He
now knew that the carnage had shocked and sickened him. Every time
he'd fallen, a part of him had wanted to stay there and weep for the
dead, strangers and comrades alike. Young men, boys had died about
him, some in horrible agonies. He'd gone on fighting, though,
mindlessly, because thinking would only yield grief and despair.