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Surely he should have more care for her than that. ForBecky, she emphasized to herself sternly. Fondness for any other woman was obviously quite out of the question.
Later, having helped the servants clear and clean as best as possible, she moved upstairs to comfort Becky in her tearful reminiscences and assist in the repacking that yet remained. It was past midnight, according to the longcase clock that had sounded twelve triumphantly, when she finally encouraged Becky to get some rest, seeing as the captain was due tomorrow morning.
Theo moved to her own room, drew the curtains closed, and wearily exchanged her gown for a night rail. She blew out the candle and lay in her bed, listening to the familiar creaks and groans of the house. Tonighthadgone well, despite the absence of the captain. Her heart grew tight. She had no wish to take it personally, but it did feel like a slight. But no. This was probably for the best. In a matter of hours, this brief interlude of interest in her life would be over. He would leave, and she would find solace in God’s promises and be content once again. It would be best for her mind to stop its turning and succumb to her exhaustion.
But wishing for rest did not make it so. Unnamed concerns made her toss and turn.
And when the captain did not appear at nine, then made no appearance yet by ten, well past the appointed time for departure, Theo determined to ride her horse, Gracie, to Mannering. Having missed her breakfast, she plucked an apple from the kitchen and, employing Robert Brigham as an escort, she rode through the misting rain prophesied by Grandfather and knocked upon Mannering’s freshly painted door.
Really, the place looked very smart, and no one would ever know it had been subject to recent tragedy.
“Perhaps he’s had a big night.” Robert twisted his cap in his hands.
“Perhaps,” she agreed doubtfully. Though Captain Balfour had never struck her as the kind of man to seek comfort or courage in a bottle.
“Want me to see if anyone is around the back?”
“Yes, please.” She knocked and called again, then, remembering that Mr. and Mrs. Drake had submitted to Mrs. Drake’s sister’s pleas to live with her by the sea and wouldn’t be here anyway, she bolstered her courage, turned the handle, and pushed it open. “Excuse me, Captain!”
The darkness spooling across the hallway led to a still-darker patch toward which she tentatively inched, calling out his name. A moment later she discovered a large hole of broken floorboards, and Captain Balfour’s body lying brokenly in the cellar far below.
Chapter 9
There were sorry plights that one might term a pickle, then there was falling through a floor and breaking one’s leg.
Daniel was quite certain it was broken. The angle at which it now rested, as much as anything else—like the relentless throbbing pain—suggested he would be lucky to have only broken one bone.
How it had happened, he still did not know. One minute he’d been marveling at the improved grounds and house, the next he’d heard an ominous crack, and the floor—not the ceiling, as he’d always supposed—had fallen in, and he’d plummeted to the broken bricks below, striking his head on the ground and going out cold.
Such must’ve been the case, for when he next woke, the shadows and sounds were different. Instead of bright sunlight, he saw dimness and heard the crowing of cockerels and patter of rain.
He heard other things, too, and was fairly certain his eyes had not been playing tricks on him when the small scurrying creature fled when he’d shifted his foot. Ugh. Some might call him a hero, but he’d never been able to overcome his dislike of mice, and that creature had been far too close to his leg for ease of mind.
Since then, he’d drifted in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware there was something he was supposed to be doing, something he was supposed to have done, but for the life of him he could not recall. Still, the belief fueled hope that someone might realize he was not there and do what they could to learn his whereabouts.
He drew in a careful breath, inhaling mustiness and dust. His mouth twisted. If only he hadn’t been so magnanimous as to send the Drakes off with his blessing, to enable their visit far sooner than they had anticipated. Even if that had been partly decided upon by his own need to escape the wilds of Northumbria and prevent further distraction, as he was wont to do.
Blast and nonsense. Whatwashe to do? A noise, high up, drew his attention to the light. “Lord, help me,” he prayed aloud for the hundredth time.
The agitation in his soul eased a mite, and he shifted on the broken bricks, working to alleviate the discomfort. But such efforts drew such a thrust of pain that he fainted again, and lingered in the rest, savoring the blissfulness of sleep.
When next he awoke, it was to hear the faintest sound. Not like his imaginings, but a knocking, a call. He shifted again, tried to speak, but his throat was as dry as his stomach empty. Not that he hadn’t been in similar situations before, but few had been the times when his hunger had accompanied such pain.
“Hello?” a voice called.
He tried to wave, but the effort drew so much energy he nearly fainted again.
“Excuse me, Captain—oh!” A gasp.
He forced his eyelids open. Far above moved a blurry figure that seemed vaguely feminine. “Are you an angel?” he called, his voice cracked and rusty.
“No.”
“You sound like an angel.” His eyes closed once again. “Voice of one, anyway.” His thoughts seemed to swim slowly, a heavy lethargy rolling across him in a way that made him care for nothing. He shivered and his teeth chattered as when his unit had been trapped for a winter in the Netherlands, when their beards had grown icicles and too many good men had died for want of a blanket and nourishing food.
“Captain Balfour?”
That voice again.
