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Chapter eleven

Mrs. Fredrickson was an absolute angel. She brought a tray with a steaming pot of tea, toast, jam, bacon, and porridge. It seemed a feast after the long night and shocking morning. She’d already bathed, fed, and tucked Cecily into bed.

“I’ve tended many a fever, Miss. There be a bucket of hot water should you require it. And here—” she pointed to the small brass bell on my food tray. “When ye be wanting help, stand outside your door and ring this.”

She’d left a stack of handkerchiefs, towels, an empty bucket should dear Cecily become sicker, and a little vase of flowers.

“Life wards away death, my dear.” She smiled brightly—too brightly.

A tear shimmered in her eye. If she’d tended many a fever, then she knew—we all knew what could come of them.

Losh, but we were so vulnerable within this broken world!

She wagged her finger at me. “Do eat up and keep your strength. Looks as though you could do with a sleep too.”

I nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Fredrickson.”

She cast a sympathetic glance at Cecily and left us.

I ate the feast before me with a thankful heart. As concerned as I was, I had to take this moment as a gift. A graceful sustenance to see me through to the next part of this challenging day.

Cecily blinked awake, her pale blonde hair splayed across her pillows. “Tessa.”

I moved close to her side.

“There was thunder and lightning last night. Did it rain? I did not feel it rain. Rain would feel so good on my skin.”

I put my hand on her forehead. Still burning hot. I snatched a cloth, dipped it in the cool water from the washstand, and bathed her face. The fever had deluded the truth. Mother nature had not cracked the earth with light and sound but the actions of the wicked.

Cecily took a long breath and weakly spoke. “It’s raining…” The water I bathed her face with made her think it. I hoped it brought her peace and that she’d never realize what she’d actually heard. She drifted off to sleep once more. The doctor couldn’t arrive quickly enough.

Two hours passed, but it seemed like no time. Not with all the thoughts swirling about my mind. Tobias didn’t want us to stay here—where would we go? And would he still need me? But Cecily was ill and I knew he wouldn’t dare move her. Not until she was well. That could take several days.

I looked from the window and saw Mr. Mulls returning with the magistrate in tow, the doctor nowhere to be seen.

The stable boy took the horse and led the hack away. Tobias rushed to greet the magistrate. They shook hands and Tobias led the way back to the ruins. A soft knock sounded. I opened the door and stepped out. Mr. Mulls.

“How does she fare? Poor lass.”

“Her fever is still high,” I said.

“Oh dear.” He rubbed a hand over his whiskered chin. “The doctor was seeing another patient and will be delayed. He will be another hour arriving, at least. He sends his regrets that he could not come sooner.”

“Thank you for relaying the message.”

He continued. “I am sickened, Miss Smith. Sickened that so much has been happening on these grounds. That it has become…” He shrugged with his hands out. “Used to be a peaceful place until…”

“Until what, Mr. Mulls?”

“Until it came into Chinworth hands.” He shook his head.

“I hate saying it. My sister-in-law’s family weren’t the best people but at least I could live in peace here.

Not that I blame Tobias, mind you, but…to think that death has come upon this place!

Unthinkable. Not to mention, I was nearly killed.

” He turned to go. “Someone wanted me dead. Wanted someone in London to think me dead and buried.” He pressed a hand to his heart.

“I am a threat to none. I am neither involved nor am I privy to any intrigues. Aside from Cummins’s gambling and whatnot.

I can’t imagine that my life matters a whit to anyone. ”

“That cannot be true.”

He shrugged. “The children do enjoy their kites.”

“A happy childhood is important. If a child can achieve many happy days—maybe as the result of a well-made kite, you will have done the child a service. Children don’t forget the happy days and what constituted them.

When they are older, they will reach into the past and the memory will give them hope when times are hard.

” I put a hand on his arm. “You aren’t just making kites; you offer the heights of hope. ”

A smile lit his face. “Amid the grim reality, my dear, you have given me hope. I will pray for the child. She must live to fly her kite.”

“Indeed. She must live to do a great many things.”

He bowed.

“Thank you, Mr. Mulls.”

The kind gentleman seemed a bully at first, but he did much to put me at ease. He was a caring soul. The only true gruffness about him was the shaggy gray head of hair.

I retrieved a pencil and foolscap and sat again beside Cecily. I thought about the events surrounding my husband’s death. Why anyone possibly related to him would take on his name? It seemed a dangerous venture to do so, especially since I’ve had to use a different name so as not to be discovered.

Patrick, the real Patrick, had gone to the shipyard that morning to collect a payment on behalf of his employer.

He must have seen or heard something not meant for his ears.

Something utterly condemning. His employer had been demanding an overdue payment.

Perhaps they did not have the funds. But why kill the messenger?

No, it had to be something Patrick found out.

He had to be eliminated. They’d come after me and Joseph in case—in case he’d told us about it?

There hadn’t been time to do so. He was dead. Unless…unless Patrick knew sooner—discovered information sooner than the day of his death.

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to remember the days before the tragedy.

Those blissfully happy weeks I’d blocked out of my mind to survive the grief.

How ignorant I’d been about the future I’d have to survive.

The days leading up had been good. Patrick was lighthearted, more than usual. We were planning a trip to Scotland.

I stood and paced, reaching into the distant memory. We were going to be gone for an extended time…

“But what about your work?” I queried. I was tired of combating societal gossip.

He grinned. “My work can wait, and you know I can afford to do as I wish.”

I did indeed. My husband had chosen work instead of being an idle gentleman.

“Buy fresh gowns, darling. And anything you might require.”

“Anything?” I laughed as I wiped jam from his chin with my napkin.

“We leave in three days.”

“Three days? Not near enough time to buy cloth and have gowns made, you know. I can’t possibly be ready.”

He lifted me off my feet and spun me around. “Order the trunks brought down. Fill them as you will.” He kissed me and left for work.

I’d never see him alive again.

The joy of those plans blackened into sorrow as I’d never known.

Patrick hadn’t come home for supper. Joseph offered to fetch him from his office.

When he found it empty, his employer had been equally confused about his absence.

He gave Joseph directions to his last known location.

He wasn’t there, but by pure coincidence—or by God’s hand—Joseph had taken a shortcut under the docks. There he’d found Patrick's body.

After getting the attention of the constabulary, his body had been hauled away. Joseph made his way to me to break the news. Only he’d been followed. We were attacked.

I paced the bedroom floor as the memories flooded.

And paced some more. Patrick knew something before his death.

The sudden plans to travel to Scotland had been out of the blue.

He wanted to get away. He knew something, but what?

Joseph and I had turned it round and around and we could never find an answer.

Whatever secret Patrick held had died with him. But why resurrect his name? Who was that man trying to fool?

Definitely his killer—the one I’d shot as he ran off.

Mrs. Fredrickson opened the door, an anxious look over her brow. “Pardon me, Miss Smith, but Mr. Chinworth asked me to bring you this message.” She handed me a scrap of paper.

I opened and read.

Tessa,

The Audlington imposter clings to life, but near death’s door. Bringing him inside. Wanted you to know, but not to fear.

—Tobias

He was alive. I sank into the chair by Cecily’s bed.

Mrs. Fredrickson approached. “I hope you aren’t ill too?”

“Not at all. Do you have time to brew a pot of coffee?”

She nodded. “I’ll do so straight away.” She left me to my wonderings. Someone wanted it believed that Mr. Mulls was dead, though he was not—was it the same someone who desired it believed that Patrick Audlington lived ?

To what end? Nothing made sense. I needed to see the list again. Was Mr. Mulls’ name on it? With a black dot by his name? We’d been too distracted by Patrick’s name being listed, perhaps we didn’t notice.

I needed to speak with Tobias and soon.