“Alistair did explain the scheme to me in great detail before he left,” the countess said. “I was pleased to see him so enthusiastic. I had begun to fear he would never recover his spirits.”
“He only wanted a challenge,” Gordmor said. “Something to rouse his fighting spirit again.”
She regarded him consideringly. “All the same, you are uneasy letting him fight alone.”
“I confess I am, your ladyship. But then, as you are aware, a great deal is at stake, for both of us.”
MORE than Alistair Carsington’s fighting spirit was roused at present.
His conscience had become a Fury as fierce as any in Greek myth, and that was only a fraction of the turmoil in his heart.
He spent the rest of Friday poring over all the maps Wilkerson had, and making notes.
On Saturday, he rode out to Gordy’s mines to see the lay of the land for himself.
On Sunday, he walked the short distance from his hotel to the village of Matlock. There he attended services at its ancient church and prayed for divine guidance, as his brain wasn’t offering any.
He left the church feeling no more enlightened than he had after studying the maps or the mines and their environs.
He stayed after the regular parishioners had left, and walked about the churchyard, reading inscriptions.
Alistair knew none of the Oldridge family would be buried here. They had their own ancient church in Longledge. Their relatives would be interred there or in a mausoleum on the estate.
He hadn’t come to look for anybody’s ancestors, however. He simply had no reason to hurry back to his hotel. He could not conduct any business on this day. Without business, he had little to distract him from the viper’s nest of problems that had developed out of what was supposed to have been a simple matter of a waterway.
He had dreaded the coming of Sunday with its dearth of distractions. He would have too much time to think, and since he couldn’t think to any useful purpose, he’d rather have something to do.
Still, the familiar rituals in the unfamiliar church, among strangers, quieted his inner turmoil somewhat. The hilly churchyard, with its weathered and crooked stones, brought a measure of tranquillity as well.
The day was cool but not cold, the sky cloudy but not darkly so. Here and there a tree seemed to have taken heart that spring was coming and cautiously hinted at budding.
He slowly limped among the stones, pausing now and then to read those that were legible. Among the newer graves he found that of a Waterloo man.
Alistair laid his hand upon the simple headstone and stood there for a time.
That calmed him, too.
He didn’t ask himself why Waterloo had slaughtered this man and spared him. He knew there was no answer, no rhyme or reason to these matters. He knew he hadn’t been spared to any particular purpose. Nonetheless, unlike this poor fellow, Alistair was alive; it was up to him to give purpose to the life he’d been granted.
Thus spiritually fortified, he returned to his hotel and, in defiance of Dr. Woodfrey, read the newspapers Crewe had obtained the previous day and wrote half a dozen letters.
2 March
ON Monday morning, shortly before ten o’clock, Mirabel drove her curricle into Matlock Bath. She paid a visit to the postmistress and another to the proprietress of the newsroom and circulating library. Since these ladies could circulate news faster than the post or press, it was the quickest way to let all the world know her errand and, she hoped, keep gossip about her destination to a minimum.
Thence she proceeded to Wilkerson’s Hotel, where she requested an inn servant unload her carriage. When the servant had carried the contents into the building, she asked for Crewe.
The valet appeared within a few minutes, his expression professionally clear of any signs of curiosity or anxiety.
“I need not ask how your master does,” she said. “I know you take excellent care of him and make sure he adheres to Dr. Woodfrey’s regimen.”
“Well, as to that, miss—”
“I know you do the best you can, in difficult circumstances,” she said. “I have only come to deliver to him some items we’d forgotten.” She indicated the baskets the inn servant had set down nearby.
Though Crewe said nothing, he could not altogether conceal his bafflement when he glanced at the baskets.
Mirabel was well aware that Captain Hughes had sent Mr. Carsington’s belongings on to the hotel early on Saturday. This was what his ex-guest had requested in the note he’d left before escaping…via the ladder Mirabel had forgotten to move back to its original position.
“Some days ago, the ladies of Longledge Hill were so generous as to vouchsafe to me a number of remedies for Mr. Carsington,” she explained to Crewe. She took out a list from her reticule. “You will find several conserves and cordials, an essence for relief of headache, a vegetable syrup for something or other—but there is a note attached to the jar, and you may find out for yourself. Let me see what else. Acid elixir of vitriol—excellent for flatulencies, I am told. Asafetida pills—which serve as well for hysteric complaints as for asthma, though in different dosages. Edinburgh yellow balsam. Daffy’s elixir. Several jellies. Receipts for cooling drinks, wheys, possets, and wormwood ale.”
Crewe’s eyes widened. “Indeed, miss. Most…generous of the ladies.”
“When Mr. Carsington returns to London, he might set up as an apothecary,” she said.
“I thank you for the suggestion, Miss Oldridge,” came a growl from behind her.
Mirabel whipped about.
The famous Waterloo hero stood but a few feet behind her, leaning on a cane, his beaver hat in his other hand.
He had, as usual, not a hair out of place. His collar points touched the firm line of his jaw. His neckcloth was its usual crisp perfection. The green tailcoat fit smoothly over the wide shoulders and chest and tapered to his lean waist. The trousers…
Her mind flooded with images: those long, muscular legs tangled with hers, the powerful arms pulling her close, the so-skillful hands moving over her skin, touching her in the most intimate places…the touch of his lips on the back of her neck…the murmured endearments.
She directed her gaze to his face, and aware she was flushed from head to toe, lifted her chin.
He regarded the baskets, then her.
“Flatulencies?” he said, eyebrows aloft. “Hysteric complaints?”
“The former is sometimes a consequence of immobility,” Mirabel said. “The latter appears to be the way some of the ladies have interpreted Dr. Woodfrey’s diagnosis of a fatigue of the nerves.”
“My nerves are not fatigued,” he said. “I am quite well.”
He wasn’t. His golden eyes were sunk in dark hollows.
“Your eyes,” she began. Automatically her hand started to rise, to touch his cheek, but she drew it back and clutched her reticule with both hands.
“It’s nothing to do with illness,” he said. “I wish you would not—” He broke off and glanced about.
Crewe was making himself invisible as usual. However, the inn servant who’d carried in the baskets lingered in the hall. A maid had appeared as well and was dusting industriously nearby.
Mr. Carsington grew formal, asking after Mr. Oldridge
and Mrs. Entwhistle.
Informed that they were well, he said, “I must not keep you, Miss Oldridge. I know you have many important claims upon your time. I will walk out with you, if I may. I contemplate a visit to the petrifying wells. Everyone tells me these natural wonders are not to be missed.”
Mirabel assented with matching formality.
Once they were outside, strolling on the Parade and out of curious servants’ earshot, he said in a low voice, “I wish you would put your mind at ease. I’m not in the least unwell. I only look haggard because of not getting a proper night’s sleep. I keep fighting the confounded battle, night after night. Ah, yes, and there is a woman who plagues me as well.”
Mirabel did not want to be the one who kept him awake. Yet she couldn’t help but be glad that he thought of her. And she couldn’t help wishing she might be there when the nightmares plagued him. She could hold him and…No, she couldn’t. And anyway, before long he would be gone and out of her reach. Either his parents or Lord Gordmor would come soon and take matters out of his hands. And hers.
Once he was gone, she would become herself again. Eventually.
“You might try the baths,” she said. “You will have them all to yourself, and the proprietors will give you every attention.”
He sighed. “Very well, I shall try the famous baths. I have decided, at any rate, to become acquainted with all the tradesmen, museum keepers, and guides. Along with all the gossip, I might pick up an idea or insight that will help me solve the canal problem.”
Mirabel had already tried. She’d looked at the problem from every possible angle and discovered no acceptable compromises, let alone alternatives. The canal must travel along relatively level ground. Between Lord Gordmor’s mines and the Cromford Canal, the only stretch of such ground lay exactly where Lord Gordmor wished to build his waterway.
She had hoped to find he’d made a grave miscalculation, but he hadn’t.
If there had been any other way…