Fortune Favors the Wicked (7 page)

“I must order one of these for evening work,” decided Mrs. Perry. “You know, Mr. Frost, Tiresias was blind.”

“I'm sorry, I do not know the name.”

“The mythical Theban prophet of ancient Greece. He was struck blind by a goddess, but in return he received the gift of prophecy.”

“Would that I had been granted such a gift,” Benedict said lightly. “I receive only half pay from the Royal Navy and a small pension from the Naval Knights.”

“Along with a room in Windsor Castle,” added the vicar.

Mrs. Perry ignored these interjections. “It's a fascinating tale. Either the ancient Greeks had finer imaginations than we do, or the world was far more interesting in their time. Tiresias was blinded after being asked to settle an argument between Zeus and Hera as to whether—”

“May I see the noctograph now?” interrupted Charlotte. “Thank you, Mama. Just hand it over your shoulder—yes, I have hold of it.”

Now, why had she interrupted her mother?

Perhaps she was overcome by curiosity about the noctograph. He liked the idea that she was fascinated by the ways in which he adapted the world to suit himself.

The newly expert Mrs. Perry spent the next few minutes showing Charlotte how the noctograph worked. Then the older woman asked, “How did you lose your sight, Mr. Frost?”

Since the question seemed to be asked not with prurience but with the same scholarly curiosity that marked her every other query, he did not mind answering. “A tropical fever encountered in the Americas. I do not know its name, but it felled people in different ways. Some went lame; some died. I had great pain in my joints, and then in my head. And then my vision began to deteriorate.”

They were all silent for a moment in the face of this dispassionate recital. Charlotte was the first to speak. “Do you still suffer from the other pains?”

“No, they went, too. Which was a small consolation.”

His calm stripped from his words the nightmare of those days. Of the ship turned into a floating sickroom, of the slightest bit of sun like a knife to his eyes, and more and more covers hung over the tiny window to block out a pain that could not, in the end, be stopped. Darkness crept inward until the world was a tunnel, its end spotted and dim.

Beyond, there was no more light at all.

All the way back to England, he grieved. For the loss of his sight, for the end of his days sailing about the world.

When the ship docked, he put an end to such wallowing. With the help of his captain, he applied for a pension. On receiving the first installment, he bought himself a hickory cane with a metal tip and began learning his way through the world by sound.

And the more he learned of it, the more he wanted to learn.
What good is that?
the vicar's wife had asked. He could not answer that, but there was value in the search for an answer, surely.

There had to be. There had to be value in any type of search, for otherwise what was the point of so much of life?

Now that the young barmaid, Nance, had lost her life, he wondered anew. There was more to seeking the royal reward than asking questions and poking about in crannies.

There was danger in this particular search, and not of the sort from which one could protect oneself with feigned blitheness and a metal-tipped cane.

After having a look at the noctograph, Charlotte left the others inside and stood on the stoop, searching out Maggie. Daylight was fading, and the road was a dusky ribbon. The short strip of lawn between vicarage and road was covered with coarse grass, across which Maggie backed, waggling a stick before Captain.

Charlotte spread her shawl and sat upon it. “Stay away from the Selwyn lands,” she called.

The girl nodded. She tossed the stick, and Captain's head listed with interest—but the old hound's flesh was weak, and she could do no more than trot in the direction of the thrown stick, beloved young mistress alongside.

Four years before, when she'd last visited Strawfield, Charlotte had made the mistake of bringing along a puppy. It was a curly-coated
Pudel
she had coaxed from a German admirer; she had been fascinated by its unusual appearance. After tying a great blue silk bow around its neck, she'd presented the fluffy black and white dog to Maggie.
He will keep you company, dearest, in case anything happens to Captain
.

Maggie did not stop crying until the puppy was taken from the vicarage.

Charlotte brought it to the only other person who could be permitted to know of the
Pudel
's origins: Edward Selwyn, whose visit to Strawfield unhappily coincided with hers. He promised that his children would love it. This earned him the sort of withering glance such a remark deserved, and he laughed. “My
other
children.”

Another withering glance. She had asked Edward time and again never to speak of such matters, especially since his marriage to the frosty Lady Helena.

The other dog of Charlotte's youth, Frippery, had loved her. Captain had for Charlotte only the sort of vague fondness a dog had for anyone who treated it well. And Maggie's was the human equivalent: that dutiful liking a child possessed for a relative one hardly knew.

If Charlotte could make Captain love her, though, perhaps Maggie's love would follow.

“May I throw the stick for her?” she called.

Maggie hesitated, shoving unruly hair back from her face. “I'm not done yet, Aunt Charlotte. I want to throw it some more.”

“Oh.” Charlotte smiled, hiding the pain that was much larger than the small size of the girl's
no
. “That's fine. You throw very well.”

Maggie tossed the stick into the air and caught it, then ran closer to Charlotte. “I taught Captain some tricks. Want to see? She can lie down whenever I say the words.”

Many other times, too,
Charlotte thought, as the old hound rolled onto her belly.

“Oh, look! She must have heard what I said.” Maggie walked back to stand above her pet. “Up, girl! Up to catch the stick, Captain!”

As Captain heaved herself up, the front door opened, and a booted tread descended onto the stoop. “That dog outranks me. I feel I ought to salute her.”

Charlotte smiled. “Hullo, Mr. Frost. I don't think Captain will care if you salute her, but Maggie would like it.”

“Your mother is not yet ready to surrender the noctograph back to my keeping. May I join you?”

“Please. I have spread a shawl on the grass, if you would care to sit beside me.”

Without pause or hesitation, he took the single step down and strode toward her. He was a noticing sort of man, and a remembering sort, too. It seemed no detail went unfiled or forgotten, and he made his way through the world with unassuming grace.

Twenty-four hours ago, she had not known this man. Now he was in possession of her greatest secret.

Well, one of them.

She did not know what sort of person he was. But she thought—she hoped—that he would hold her trust as the fragile, precious thing it was.

When he folded himself onto the shawl beside her, her breath came a little more quickly, her stays tight about her breasts.

“Miss Perry,” he murmured, “I rescued some gristly beef from the kitchen before coming outdoors. May I offer it to the hound?”

Thus winning the heart of both beast and girl. If only Charlotte had thought of that. “What a good idea. Of course. A dog of Captain's age should have treats aplenty.”

He pulled forth a napkin-wrapped bundle. “Miss Maggie! Sir!”

“I'm no ‘sir'!” Maggie tossed the stick again, then darted to the shawl and peered down at the pair of adults, panting slightly from her exertion. “Why did you call me ‘sir,' Mr. Frost?”

“I called your dog by that honorific,” Frost said gravely. “She is a Captain, and therefore she is my superior and I must refer to her with respect.”

“Sir.” Maggie laughed. “That's a silly thing to call a girl.”

“Maybe so. But would Sir like some beef?” He pushed forward the small packet. “Your aunt thought she would.”

“Aunt Charlotte! What a treat for her! Oh, thank you. She wouldn't eat anything earlier today, but she'll like this.” Swooping down on the beef, Maggie carried the small package several yards over to the stiff-legged Captain. The hound's heavy ears lifted, and she nosed through the napkin to find the meat.

Maggie laughed to watch her—not a sound of humor, but of someone taking delight in watching a beloved creature feel joy.

Charlotte chuckled for the same reason. “Mr. Frost,” she said low enough that Maggie couldn't overhear, “that was sly of you to imply the beef was my idea. I thank you.”

“My pleasure. As a traveler, I'm in people's lives for only a moment, so I might as well hand along any goodwill that comes my way.” His tone was a little wistful—or maybe she was only imagining she heard the feeling that dwelled in her own heart.

“There's nothing she loves better than Captain. I believe she thinks of that dog as a living link to her mother.”

There, she'd said the
m
-word as though it were nothing significant.

“My sister,” she added. “Of course. The late Margaret Perry Catlett.”

“I knew what you meant.”

Charlotte slapped at an insect, then picked at the tasseled edge of the shawl spread beneath them. Captain seemed revived by the food and followed Maggie's tossed stick at a tolerable lope, the girl following behind until she was nothing but silhouette and laugh.

When Frost turned his face to hers, his expression held a pinch of roguery. “When your mother began telling me about the blind prophet Tiresias, you turned her away from some anecdote. I'm curious as to why. Would you be willing to tell me?” The way he posed the question meant she had simply to say
no,
if she wished.

This made it much easier to say
yes
. “Although I warn you that it's rather scandalous. Mama doesn't always think of such things, but I knew it would give my father the vapors.”

As a vicar's wife, Mrs. Perry ought to spend more time with villagers and less time with ancient prophets. Every time Charlotte visited, though, the balance had tipped further awry, and her parents seemed more distant from each other. Now they were cordial housemates who had little in common. Surely it had not always been thus? Or maybe she remembered through the rosy glass of her own youthful blitheness, when all seemed full of promise and potential.

“I cannot swear not to do the same. I'm easily shocked. I might need you to hold my hand to comfort me afterward.”

She had thought him possessed of a
pinch
of roguery? Benedict Frost had it by the cupful.

“Yet somehow I feel you will survive.” She drew up her knees, folding her arms around them. “The story—which, I am slightly shocked to admit I learned from my mother—is that Tiresias was punished for some trespass against the gods by being transformed into a woman.”

“On behalf of present company, I find that insulting.”

“Yes, I never liked that either. But the ancient Greeks thought even less of women than does our present society.”

“Well, that is not so lascivious a tale as I feared.”

“Hoped for, you mean?” Charlotte teased. “That is not the part that will give you the vapors. Once Tiresias was a man again, he was asked to settle an argument between Zeus and Hera as to whether . . .” Was she blushing? Surely not. Nothing had made her blush for a decade. “As to whether men or women derived more pleasure from the marital act.”

Frost leaned back upon his elbows and laughed. “And I thought Londoners would bet on anything. Those old Greeks may have them beaten. I probably shouldn't ask what the answer was, but I've got to.”

“Women. Tiresias was blinded by Hera for noting this, but Zeus gave him the power of prophecy to make up for it. Though I imagine it depends on the man.”

“I imagine it does.”

She ventured a quick look at him before remembering she didn't have to be circumspect about that sort of thing with Benedict Frost. So she let her gaze rove over him, boot to knee to the long, strong line of his thigh in its uniform breeches. Flat abdomen, broad chest and shoulders. A strong-featured but sensitive face, with eyes as dark and deep as they were unseeing.

Had he taken lovers since losing his sight? She was almost sure of it. His careful notice was a caress, his mischief sweetly erotic.

She wrapped her arms more tightly around her legs. It would not do to forget herself: she was Charlotte Perry, maiden aunt to the granddaughter of a vicar.

“Are you cold, Miss Perry? Would you like my coat?”

I should like to see you shrug out of it.
“No, no. I'm quite all right.” Certainly her cheeks were heated. “Have you been in Derbyshire before?” It was a nothing question, a distraction as she let the breeze cool her face. In the road, Maggie had taken hold of the stick and was teasing Captain with it again.

“Never. I've traveled little around England. It's been all London and all roads to somewhere else.”

“Such as Edinburgh?”

“Yes.” He tipped his head. “Tell me, what do you like about this place? What makes Strawfield distinct?”

This was a question more difficult to answer than it first seemed. Was not everything different between the Peak District and, say, London? What did such a slow place have to recommend itself?

Well, there was Maggie, gamboling with dauntless energy from one side of the grass-flanked road to the other. But Maggie would make any place precious.

“I like the grass,” Charlotte decided. “It's rare in cities—and in truth, it's rare here, too. So much of the Peak is scrubby moorland, but grass unrolls like a living blanket during its short season.”

“And what else?” Frost sat up, unwittingly matching her indolent posture of arms draped about the knees.

“People who like stars may find many to see here. And sunsets—they aren't covered over with coal smoke.”

“What color is the sky now?”

She squinted, deciding. “It's like the edge of a bruise, just where purple goes to blue and peach.” Too much poetry and contemplation was not safe for the soul.

He grinned. “Miss Perry, you are a natural-born memoirist.”

“It's a gift,” she agreed. “Describing the world in terms of blankets and injuries. And tell me, how does the world strike you? You heard a feeling for Maggie in my voice that I thought no one would ever notice. You must be surrounded by hidden wonders.”

“Nothing that wouldn't be obvious to anyone who gave the world the same attention I do.” He tilted his head. “I can tell that Maggie and Sir are coming back our way, and that the dog has begun to favor one of her legs. Her steps are uneven through the dry grass.”

“Poor Captain. She is much older than Maggie, and she is footsore.”

“But after she is rested, she'll have all the room to roam that she could wish. I have never lived anywhere with much space. In my parents' shop, I always felt as though I were about to be crushed under bookshelves.”

“A scholarly way to die. My mother would be honored.”

“Yes, well. Hugo would probably like it too, but I—I was never much of a reader. And when I went to sea, my world was a sling in a wooden box on an endless ocean.”

Within Charlotte's long sleeves, the fine hairs of her arms prickled. How fine it sounded to slip across the world in truth, as she had so often pretended to do. “I wish I could leave England someday,” she murmured.

A blunder. She realized this at once—and so did Frost, for he said lightly, “What of your time in dull bits of the world, doing virtuous deeds?”

“Yes, well, you knew that wasn't true. But it is a convenient sort of thing for my parents to tell the curious. It shuts questions right down; no one wants to hear about a tedious spinster and her dismal virtues.”

In their rare letters, her parents never asked any questions about how she passed her years. She wondered if by now, the fiction had taken on heft enough that they had begun to believe it. Certainly they had long ago stopped thinking of Maggie as hers. The girl was Margaret's, and she was theirs.

Charlotte supposed this was a good thing for Maggie, though it made Charlotte herself an interloper in her daughter's life.

Maggie ran up just then, breathing with the hard clean gasps of a strong young body enjoying its exertion. “Would you like to throw the stick for Captain, Mr. Frost?”

“I'd be pleased to, Miss Maggie.” Benedict accepted the clear compliment along with the stick, heaving it off to a respectable distance.

Maggie sped after the stick, Captain plodding slow-footed behind. “A fair throw,” Charlotte commented, trying not to mind that Frost had been permitted to join in the game of fetch when she had not.