Miss Wonderful (36 page)

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 Long-ledge. 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 tine 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…

There
wasn't. She had searched and searched. Her only hope of defeating the
canal scheme was to get rid of Mr. Carsington.

It
would be better for everyone if he were gone. Better for her heart,
certainly.

She
had not expected to see him mis day. She'd come early on purpose to
forestall that possibility—or so she'd persuaded herself.

Liar,
liar. She was still pretending, making excuses. Had she not come
herself instead of sending servants with the boxes? Obviously she'd
been hoping to hear his voice or catch one last glimpse of him.

And
she'd made everything worse. A word, a glimpse, wouldn't suffice. She
wondered what would. Nothing within the realm of possibility,
certainly. The longer she remained near him, the harder she made it
for herself.

She
must turn away, go on about her business, her pretend business.

She
looked up into the strongly chiseled countenance, into the burning
gold of his eyes.

"I
have not been to the petrifying wells in a long time," she said.
"I wonder if my glove is still being incrustated."

Chapter
14