As a headache set in, Clara massaged her twitching temple. How could it be done? She scoured her mind for a solution, a means, a way, but none came. Try as she might, she couldn’t figure something out this time. She looked at the derelict shop window, where fractured glass cut across her haggard reflection. Taut lines entrenching along her brow, shadows looming beneath her eyes. With a wobbly hand, she brushed aside a fallen tendril of black, now powdered gray with dirt and dust. Perhaps shouldering everything alone was taking a toll.
Perhaps her family’s keeping really was beyond her control.
“There you are, ladies!”
Mr. Arthur clank-tapped toward them, panting as he carried their luggage along with his crutch. Setting his loaddown, he wiped a sleeve over his perspiring brow. “You two took a decade off my life! Do you know how dashed hard it is to run while hefting this lot? I never thought to catch up. From now on, warn a chap before you go gallivanting—” His gaze settled on her, and the corners of his eyes pinched. “I say, Miss Stanton, do you need help?”
Yes, she did. And for the first time in her life, Clara couldn’t pretend otherwise.
CHAPTER
20
“That lad snores like a snub-nosed pug with hay fever, but he’s a fine man.”
For the first time, Clara could offer no refute to Mum’s declaration of Mr. Arthur’s good character, too wonder-struck was she that he had taken care of everything.
Without deferment. Without angling for something in return. Without so much as one patronizing remark, Mr. Arthur had assessed the situation and set to work. He’d acquired a picnic basket with a handle, dual lid, and soft gingham lining to use for the kits’ transport. He’d negotiated with a widowed innkeeper to let them bury the vixen in her garden and persuaded Mum to condense the funeral to twenty minutes. He’d also taken measures to throw Mr. Forrester off their trail, including paying for a room at the widow’s inn, departing through a back door, and taking a circuitous route to the station. Finally, he’d secured tickets for the day’s last train and convinced a wary conductor that Mum’s basket contained alitter of puppies being transported to cherub-faced nieces it would be a shame to disappoint.
Now here they sat in a first-class carriage, clickety-clacking alongside five other passengers who’d no idea the wicker basket nestled in Mum’s arms contained wild foxes.
Clara endeavored to relax against the cushioned seat and not think about the locked carriage door, the speed of the train, or railway madness. Instead, she tried to divert her thoughts from her lingering fear of locomotives by envisioning the words of Grand’s latest clue and imagining how they’d sound if read by his dear voice.More curios of yet-to-be-memory await you on the Grande Îlein Strasbourg, France. On this leg of our journey, wewon’t—
A snore bellowed in the confined space, inciting peeved stares at their snub-nosed pug.
Clara snipped a budding smile before it could bloom, lest she provoke greater annoyance, and proceeded to study said pug. Mr. Arthur slept on her immediate right, beard drooped upon his chest and arms limp across his weathered overcoat. Bruises from the pickpocket still marred his face, and a new series of scratches glared red on the top of his hand, compliments of a startled Todd. Rather than being angered by the injury, Mr. Arthur had apologized to the kit for the rude awakening.
Her smile blossomed then, unpruned. He really was a fine man.
Another cacophony of congestion resounded from Mr. Arthur’s sinuses. Clara bit back a chuckle. Did he always snore so spectacularly, or was the poor manthatexhausted? Feeling the heat of glares directed Mr. Arthur’s way, she shot their traveling companions an austere glower punctuated with a raised brow. After what he’d done for her today, Mr. Arthur could snore as loud as his snub nose pleased.
A nip to her finger drew Clara’s attention to Fred, his longfurry body curled about her bandaged hands like a muff. While his mouth remained ajar to appear pelt-like, Fred’s black eyes had abandoned the pretense of lifelessness to gaze up at her with an imploring look that made his wee eyes shine.Message received, little rascal.
After confirming the other passengers were occupied with newspapers and needlework, Clara scratched Fred’s tiny chin, her finger concealed beneath his body. The movement pulled at her fresh scrapes, now bound in white linen strips that Mr. Arthur had procured. He had insisted on cleaning and dressing her bloodied palms before the funeral, and she’d been too overwrought for argument. Hours later, she could yet feel the warmth of his calloused hands as they carefully tended her and could yet feel the strange, tranquil sensation of not needing to do ... anything.
Of being held, rather than holding on.
Of being still, rather than striving.
Of being taken care of, rather than taking care of everything and everyone.
A lump formed in Clara’s throat. She’d forgotten what that felt like. Since Granny’s death and Mr. Forrester’s betrayal, it seemed she had forgotten many things.
Mr. Arthur snored again, and his eyelids fluttered as though he were dreaming. His lips moved with unintelligible mumbles, and without thinking, Clara inclined toward him.
A grimace darkened Mr. Arthur’s features as mournful words dropped from his mouth like unbidden tears. “I’m sorry ... so sorry.”
Clara’s brows pinched. Never had she heard an apology laden with such sorrow. Such pain. Mr. Arthur flinched and shifted in his seat, reciting his regret with increased volume and despondency, as though in an act of penance. She turned to Mum, who eyed Mr. Arthur with concern. “Should I wake him?”
The other passengers had taken to gawking, some with brazen curiosity and others with pallid fear.
“Stop!” Mr. Arthur’s scream jolted Clara’s every nerve. She whipped around to find him writhing. Head thrashing against the carriage window, he sobbed. “Stop ... please.”
The broken plea chilled the blood in Clara’s veins. This was no dream.
It was a nightmare.
“Ducky, wake the lad. Wake him now!”
