Now that she played the scene out in her mind, she saw how ridiculous it sounded. Lord Gordmor wouldn’t think his friend was disloyal; he’d think Mr. Carsington was insane.
He would think…
“Insane,” she said softly. “Ailing. Getting worse. Insomnia. A fatigue of the nerves. The doctor said so.”
And quickly, before her conscience could gather strength enough to stop her, she sat down and started writing the letters.
It did not take long, and when she was done, she went in search of her father, to get his signature.
According to Benton, Mr. Oldridge was unlikely to have gone far this day. A new specimen from foreign parts had been delivered this morning, and he was exceedingly worried about it.
She found her parent in a hothouse, frowning over a droopy piece of unidentifiable plant life. Captain Hughes was with him, apparently attempting the impossible: an intelligible conversation.
She greeted the captain, and after apologizing for the interruption said, “Papa, I need you to sign these two letters.”
“Yes, my dear. In a moment.”
Where her parent was concerned, “in a moment” could easily mean “not in this lifetime” and, possibly, “not for all eternity.”
“I’m afraid it cannot wait, Papa,” Mirabel said. “We have not a minute to lose. These messages must go out express.”
Her father turned away from the plant to her and blinked. “Good heavens. What has happened?”
“You need not make yourself anxious,” she said. “I have the matter in hand. Only sign them, please. It is improper for me to do so.”
Since he was constantly making notes about his collection of vegetable matter, pen and ink were nearby. He did not, however, merely run an absent eye over the letters as usual and scribble his name. This time he read.
When he had done reading, he did not immediately take up his pen. Instead, he looked at her, much in the way he’d been scrutinizing his enfeebled new plant.
Mirabel assured herself that no one, and most especially not Sylvester Oldridge, could possibly deduce from looking at her face that, a few hours ago, she had lain naked in the arms of the Earl of Hargate’s third son. Nor could Papa ascertain from her features the disgracefully wanton means by which she’d managed the feat.
“I do not think—” he began.
He did not complete the thought, because at that moment, Captain Hughes’s footman Dobbs hurried into the hothouse, red-faced and panting.
“Beggin’ pardon, sir—sirs—miss—but Mr. Nancarrow tole me to cut along smartly to the captain, as it won’t wait and—”
“Then get on with it,” the captain cut in. “What’s amiss?”
“It’s Mr. Carsington, sir. He’s run away.”
“Ah, well,” said Papa. He moved away and signed the letters.
Mirabel could only stare at the servant.
“Have your wits gone begging?” the captain said to Dobbs. “The man’s too sick to run away. More likely he walked too far and got lost, or collapsed from fatigue.”
“Don’t look like it, sir. He went with Mr. Crewe, and they took their horses.”
“And no one made a move to stop them? Is Nancarrow incapacitated? Why didn’t he send for me the instant he knew of it?”
“He did, sir. He only just found out hisself. Had the news from the stables. At first we thought it was one of the stablemen’s jokes. But when I went up to Mr. Carsington’s room, all his things was packed up, and the window was open.”
“The window? Don’t tell me the man climbed down on knotted sheets.”
“No, sir. Mr. Vince took out the ladder this morning to check the rainwater heads, and he must’ve forgot it, because there it was, sir, right alongside Mr. Carsington’s window.”
THE second express letter from Oldridge Hall was delivered before cockcrow on Saturday, and awakened Lord Gordmor from a dead sleep.
With trembling hands, he tore the letter open. When he finished reading it, he swore violently.
He got up. Returning to sleep was out of the question. He paced his bedroom for a time, then summoned his manservant and told him to start packing.
It was well before the valet’s normal time of rising. He blinked several times to assure himself this was his master, wide awake at this unspeakable hour, and proposing to travel.
But he only said, “Yes, my lord. Where to, my lord?”
“The ends of the earth, God help me,” said his lordship. “Derbyshire.”
SINCE Lord Gordmor expected to make a longish stay in the wilds of the East Midlands, his servants would need several hours to complete the packing.
Shortly before noon on Saturday, therefore, the viscount called on his sister.
She was still abed when he arrived, and listlessly sipping her chocolate. She grew more animated, however, when he told her about the letter.
She had a great deal to say, most of it to the tune of “I told you so.”
“You did not tell me Car would become so ill,” Gordmor snapped, after the tragic chorus had gone on, in his opinion, more than long enough.
“I knew he was not the man for the task,” she said. “You won’t admit it, and no one will speak of it openly, but all the world whispers that he hasn’t been right since Waterloo. He spends more time with his tailor than anyone else—not to mention that he’s scarcely looked at a woman since he came back. I always said it was a pernicious melancholia at the very least, but who listens to me?”
“A per-what? I don’t recall your ever—”
“Now he is many miles away from all his friends,” she went on, “surrounded by people who bear you—and by association, him—a great deal of ill will.” She adjusted her frilly nightcap. “Very well, if you will look at me in that disagreeable way, I shall say not another word on the subject. But I am glad you are going at last, and only hope it is not too late.”
LORD Gordmor called next upon Lord and Lady Hargate. He found only her ladyship at home. Having risen and breakfasted long since, she met him in the drawing room.
“Oh, you’ve come about Alistair,” she said after they’d exchanged the usual courtesies. “We had an express this morning. Poor Mr. Oldridge is greatly concerned. But he has only a daughter and no experience of sons. I am sure his fears are exaggerated.”
If the Hargates were unconcerned, the letter to the parents must have been far less candid than the one to the friend and partner.
“I trust that is the case, your ladyship,” Gordmor said. “Nonetheless, I cannot be easy until I see for myself. I mean to set out for Derbyshire this day.”
Her sleek eyebrows went up. “Are you sure you are well enough?”
Lord Gordmor assured her he was fully recovered from the influenza.
She studied him for what seemed a very long time before she said, “You are pale, but that may be the consequence of spending so many weeks indoors. I daresay you know your own constitution best. You are concerned, naturally, about the canal business.”
“I had planned to deal with the Derbyshire side of matters myself,” he said. “Then I fell ill and had no way of knowing how long I should be incapacitated.”
“Time is of the essence, I understand,” she said. “If Parliament does not pass your canal act before they rise for the summer, you might have to wait as long as another year to begin your work. We cannot be certain whether Parliament will sit again in the autumn.”
“At any rate, we should prefer to begin digging in the good weather,” he said.
The truth was, the work must begin this summer, sooner if possible.
Every delay would make the project more expensive. At some point, it would become prohibitively so. More than one canal had languished, partly built, for lack of funds.
Meanwhile, Gordmor’s mines would languish as well. While Peak coal was not renowned for its quality or quantity, it was adequate to fuel the steam engines used in local industries, devices which could only increase in number in the coming years.
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His coal need not travel far, certainly not all the way to London. He only needed to transport it quickly and cheaply to customers ten or twenty miles away.
Once he could sell easily to larger markets, his bailiff had told him, it would be economically feasible to invest more in the mines and get more out of them. Moreover, once he had cheap transport, other minerals would justify the costs of getting them out of the ground. His Derbyshire property would eventually bring in a handsome income, rather than the meager funds it now provided.
He did not express his anxieties or his ambitions to the countess. He preferred not to dwell on them in his thoughts, either. This day, however, while he preserved his usual unflappable demeanor, they raced through his mind.