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Helen paused at the memory. She hadn’t noticed his hand last night, but this morning when she’d opened the door to the tower, he’d been holding a sheet of paper between his middle two fingers and thumb. His forefinger and little finger were missing on his right hand. What caused such a horrible mutilation? Had he been in some accident? And had this terrible accident also scarred his face and cost his eye? If so, he wouldn’t welcome her pity or even sympathy.
She bit her lip at the thought. Her last sight of Sir Alistair gave her a twinge of remorse. He’d been surly and unkempt. Rude and sarcastic. Everything she’d expected after the night before. But there was something else. He’d sat at that huge table, barricaded behind his books and papers and mess and he’d looked . . .
Lonely.
Helen blinked, gazing around the dim little passageway. Well, that was just silly. He’d make a terribly cutting remark if she told him her impression of him. She’d never met a man less likely to take kindly to the concern of another human being. And yet, there it was: He’d seemed lonely to her. He lived all alone, far from civilization in this great dirty castle, his only company a big dog. Could anyone, even a man who seemed to dislike people, be truly happy in such a circumstance?
She shook her head and began marching toward the kitchen again. There was no place in her life at the moment for such sentimental thoughts. She couldn’t afford to be swayed by soft emotions. She’d done that once and look where it’d gotten her—fleeing in fear with her children. No, better to be pragmatic about the castle and its master. She had Abigail and Jamie to consider.
Helen rounded the corner and heard shouting from the castle kitchen. Good Lord! What if a tramp or some other villain had invaded the kitchen? Abigail and Jamie were in there alone! She picked up her skirts and ran the rest of the way, bursting into the kitchen quite out of breath.
The sight that met her didn’t do anything to calm her fears. A stubby little man was waving his arms and shouting at the children, who were arrayed before him. Abigail held an iron skillet in both hands, resolute, though her face was pale. Behind his sister, Jamie hopped from one foot to the other, his eyes wide and excited.
“—all of you! Thieves and murderers, a-stealin’ into places you don’t belong! Hangin’s too good for you!”
“Out!” Helen bellowed. She advanced on the creature haranguing her children. “Out, I say!”
The little man jumped and whirled at the sound of her voice. He wore a greasy waistcoat over too-big breeches and patched stockings. His hair was a graying ginger, and it stood out in a frizzy cloud on either side of his head.
He had bulging eyes, but he narrowed them at the sight of her. “Who’re you?”
Helen drew herself up. “I am Mrs. Halifax, Sir Alistair’s housekeeper. Now, you must remove yourself from this kitchen, or I shall be forced to call Sir Alistair himself.”
The little man gaped. “Dinna talk nonsense, woman. Sir Alistair doesn’t have a housekeeper. I’m his man. I’d know if he had one!”
For a moment, Helen stared at the repulsive creature, nonplussed. She’d begun to think Sir Alistair hadn’t any help at all. Indeed, that prospect, dim as it had been, was preferable to the nasty manservant in front of her.
“What is your name?” she finally asked.
The little man threw out his thin chest. “Wiggins.”
Helen nodded and folded her arms. The one thing she’d learned in her years in London was not to show fear before bullies. “Well, then, Mr. Wiggins, Sir Alistair may not’ve had a housekeeper in the past, but he has one now, and I am she.”
“Go on with you!”
“I assure you it’s true, and what’s more, you’d best get used to the idea.”
Wiggins scratched his rear end contemplatively. “Well, if’n it’s true, you got a wagon load of hard work on yer hands.”
“Indeed.” Helen softened her tone. The little man had no doubt been startled to find strangers in the castle kitchen. “I hope I can count on your help, Mr. Wiggins.”
“Ur,” he grunted noncommittally.
She let it go for the moment. “Now. Would you care for some breakfast?”
“Naw.” Wiggins shuffled to the hall. “Hisself will be wantin’ ta see me and give me his orders for the day, won’t he?”
He stomped out of the kitchen.
Abigail set the iron skillet on a table. “That man smells.”
“He does indeed,” Helen said. “But we shouldn’t hold that against him. However, I want you both to stay out of his way when I’m not by your side.”
Jamie nodded vigorously, while Abigail merely looked worried.
opped his hand to touch a corner of the letter. He’d not even been a member of the 28th. His was a civilian position. Charged with discovering and describing the flora and fauna of New England, Alistair had been three months from returning to England when he’d had the misfortune of walking into Spinner’s Falls. Three months. Had he stayed behind with the rest of the British army in Quebec as originally planned, he wouldn’t even have been at Spinner’s Falls.
Alistair carefully refolded the letter. Now Vale and another survivor, a Colonial named Samuel Hartley, had evidence that the 28th had been betrayed at Spinner’s Falls. That a traitor had given the French and their Wyandot Indian allies the day when they’d pass by Spinner’s Falls. Vale and Hartley were convinced that they could find this traitor and eventually expose and punish him. Alistair tapped the letter gently against his desk. Ever since Vale’s visit, the thought of a traitor had begun to fester in his mind. That such a man was still free—still alive—while so many good men were dead was unbearable.
