Angelika managed to hold back her tears until she was upstairs. Below, she could hear a bewildered Will asking, “What did I do to her?” She couldn’t bear the look on his face if she explained, so she ignored Will’s knocking on her bedroom door until he gave up.
Angelika thought that perhaps she should give up, too.
Chapter Eleven
Clara Hoggett, the widow of the deceased military officer, was crippled by grief. She had been shocked to find Angelika and Commander Keatings on her doorstep, then burst into tears. Twice she had gone to fill a teakettle, and both times left it abandoned.
Commander Keatings—Christopher, as he insisted on being called—took one look at the fireplace and went outside to cut some wood.
In her cramped sitting room, Clara moved from each pile of clutter, apologizing profusely. “I received the commander’s calling card, of course, but I cannot remember the days anymore.” She bundled some children’s clothing into her arms but could not figure out where to place them. “I do not know if it is day or night.”
Angelika was alarmed at the woman’s increasingly frantic motions. “Please, rest yourself. You do not have to tidy up. I don’t care if your home is pristine.” She retrieved the armful of laundry from the woman.
Angelika was grateful to have left Blackthorne Manor. The sleepwalking incident had driven a splinter into her heart, and it pricked every time Will looked at her.
What did I say to you last night?
You said enough.
Christopher reappeared, interrupting the bad memory, with cut logs stacked on his forearms. Once the fire was crackling bright, Angelika could not see a single crease on his coat. He understood her perusal and grinned. His nature was thankfully not starchy. He’d be unbearable otherwise.
Together, they coaxed Clara to sit in the chair by the fire and made tea for her.
“You’re the first visitors in . . . well . . .” Clara didn’t need to finish her sentence. It was very obvious she was without any support. “I’m just glad my boy is sleeping. Thank you so much,” she repeated again as she leaned down to creak open the lid of the wicker basket they had earlier presented her with. “I have not had meat in an age.” Judging by the kitchen larder, she had not had much of anything.
“Our hogs are kept in our apple orchard, and they eat the fallen apples. It gives the meat a marvelous flavor, and they live so happily.” Angelika sat down onto a low stool. She began attempting to fold the laundry, something she did not have much experience with. These were such small, oddly shaped clothes. Christopher would be better suited to this task. She held up a tunic. “How old is your baby?”
“He is just turned one. Do you have children, Miss Frankenstein? Oh, goodness.” Clara went red. It was the first color they’d seen in her face. “Of course you do not, an unmarried lady. I apologize. I’m so muddled.”
Angelika grinned. “It’s quite all right. I’m overdue for one, I do admit.”
“You must get organized on that front. If I can assist in any way, do let me know,” Christopher urged her with an easy smile. The mood of the room depended on how Angelika would respond.
“Shocking impertinence,” Angelika replied, and they all laughed. Christopher lightened the spaces he occupied; it was a surprise to realize she could, too.
While Clara resumed her grateful review of her hamper, Angelika tried to think of how to bring up the topic of her dead husband without ruining the new cheerful tone.
“I should like to see your baby, if he wakes before we leave.”
“I’ve no doubt he will.” Clara grimaced. “We moved here and I do not know many people. I was so lucky to have a husband like my Henry. He always woke in the night when Edwin cried. Now . . .” The tears were back in her eyes.
“Tell me about Henry, if you can. It might help to talk about him.” Angelika felt ashamed of her underhandedness and applied herself to folding the remaining clothes as perfectly as she could.
Christopher filled the pause as Clara wept. “He was a fine man—though I only just arrived, I could tell that much. Excellent officer, I’m told, and always quick to laugh. At my welcoming ball he had our whole table in stitches.”
Clara was smiling now, even as she cried. “He was quick, for sure. The house always felt lively.” She addressed Angelika, trying to think of how to describe him. “He was a fine dancer. He was a great marksman who always brought home a goose or pheasant for us. We ate well. He was the only one who could stop the baby crying, and he didn’t think himself above doing the household chores normally reserved for a woman. We had a silly made-up song we sang together. He was my greatest help, and my best friend.”