AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Chapter 16
ti-ti-vate(verb). To make small alterations or additions to one's toilet.
Stranded as I am in a washing room, at least I have time fortitivation—I vow my hair has never looked so smart!
—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent
It occurred to Blake as he was eating supper later that night that he would very much like to kill Miss Caroline Trent. It also occurred to him that this was not a new emotion. She hadn't just turned his life upside down; she'd flipped it sideways, pulled it inside out, and, at certain unmentionable times, lit a fire under it.
Still, he thought generously, perhaps kill might be slightly too strong a word. He wasn't so proud that he couldn't admit that she'd grown on him just a bit. But he definitely wanted to muzzle her.
Yes, a muzzle would be ideal. Then she couldn't talk.
Or eat.
“I say, Blake,” Penelope said with an apprehensive look on her face, “is this soup?”
He nodded.
She looked at the nearly transparent broth in her bowl. “Truly?”
“It tastes like salty water,” he drawled, “but Mrs. Mickle assures me it's soup.”
Penelope downed a hesitant spoonful, then took a rather long sip of red wine. “I don't suppose you have any of that ham left over from your snack?”
“I can assure you that it would be most impossible for us to partake of that ham.”
If his sister found his wording a trifle odd, she didn't say so. Instead, she put down her spoon and asked, “Did Perriwick bring anything else? A crust of bread, perhaps.”
Blake shook his head.
“Do you always eat so…lightly in the evening?”
Again, he shook his head.
“Oh. So then this is a special occasion?”
He had no idea how to answer that, so he just took another spoonful of the atrocious soup. Surely there had to be some sort of nutritional value in it somewhere.
But then, much to his surprise, Penelope clapped her hand over her mouth, turned beet red, and said, “Oh, I'm so sorry!”
He set his spoon down slowly. “I beg your pardon?”
“Of course this is a special occasion. I had completely forgotten. I'm so sorry.”
“Penelope, what the devil are you talking about?”
“Marabelle.”
Blake felt an odd sort of clutching feeling in his chest. Why would Penelope bring up his dead fiancée now? “What about Marabelle?” he asked, his voice completely even.
She blinked. “Oh. Oh, then you don't remember. Never mind. Please forget I said anything.”
Blake watched his sister in disbelief as she attacked the bowl of soup as if it were manna from heaven. “For God's sake, Penelope, whatever it was you were thinking about, just say it.”
She bit her lip in indecision. “It's the eleventh of July, Blake.” Her voice was very soft and filled with pity.
He stared at her in one blessed moment of incomprehension until he remembered.
