Angelika Frankenstein Makes Her Match(39)

Chapter Twelve


Angelika and Christopher rode back to Blackthorne Manor in the dark, and rather drunk.

“I’m highly suspicious of Father Porter,” Angelika told Christopher with a slur in her voice. She held her loose reins by the buckle and had not offered much input to her mount, Percy, who thankfully knew the path home. “I wonder what secrets he is hiding.”

As they had admired the baby’s milky skin, carrot-red hair, and periwinkle-blue eyes, Angelika had found herself repeating a reflexive prayer of thanks. To whom, she wasn’t sure. She was just grateful to the universe. Clara was not Will’s wife, nor Edwin his child, and she had enjoyed a surprisingly lovely afternoon. It was a respite from the tensions in Blackthorne Manor. To atone for that, she planned on ordering a crate of vegetables and meat, to be delivered to Clara on Mondays.

And apples. She would send her a bag of apples a week, saving them from their fate.

Drinking in the tavern had softened the wound of knowing that Will, deep down, completely believed he would never wed her. But now, under the rising moon, she was rallying her troops, to borrow an expression from Christopher.

She spoke to herself firmly.

Regroup, Angelika. You will not win Will by drooping and crying. Give him time. Think of the miracles you have already witnessed! A marriage proposal is hardly out of the realm of possibility.

Christopher brought her back to their conversation. “Father Porter is a man of God.” Then he grinned and pointed skyward. “His big secret is that he has no real employer at all.”

She nodded her approval. Another atheist. “If my own dear father had not been so manipulated by the church, we would have ten times the estate we have now. They bled him slowly over many years. And when Mama—” She broke off, emotion choking her.

Christopher wanted to know. “She died when you were young?”

“When I was thirteen, and Victor was sixteen. Papa was to bring a doctor to the house, because she had scarlet fever. Father Porter convinced him to pray for my mother’s soul instead. It did not work, of course, and Papa died of grief three months after her. There is nothing I despise more than a thief, and that is what I believe Father Porter is at heart. He stole that last chance to save her. And so that is why Victor and I do not attend on Sundays. We will not be taken for fools. Heathens and witches, yes. But not fools.”

“I have heard that he will be replaced soon. Hopefully by somebody younger and more progressive in their thinking.”

She snorted. “He was ancient when I was a child, so someone younger would not be difficult.”

“I’m sorry that happened. To lose your father to grief is especially tragic.” Christopher sounded like he was uncertain.

She shrugged. “It is part of the Frankenstein temperament. We are passionate people. When my beloved dies one day, I expect that I shall die, too.” She rode in silence for a few minutes.

If Henry Hoggett’s body had been sold to the morgue, as she deeply suspected, who else had the good father cashed in on? She would pull on this new thread for Will. “I’ve got to be a glutton for punishment,” she said out loud.

Christopher’s seat in the saddle had loosened considerably these last few miles, and Angelika thought she might be about to witness a rare crease upon his immaculate person. That must be why her eyes kept returning to him. It was an undeniable fact: he had wonderful thighs. Absolutely marvelous.

“Not much further now,” she said. “I can go on alone from here.”

“After the story you told me, about some oaf in your orchard, petting your hair? Not a chance.” His attention was completely on her. This had been the case from the time they sat down in the tavern, and the first and second ale mugs became the third and fourth. She’d gradually revealed more of herself to him; the parts that she knew were most unattractive.

Her habit of wearing trousers? He’d grinned.

Her interest in science? He’d asked her if she knew anything about chemistry. They’d discussed the various ways gunpowder could be unreliable, and the scientific papers she had read on the subject.

Her past suitors? Her impression of the elderly Swiss count had him crying in laughter.

And this is why I’m on the shelf, she’d concluded.

Some men can’t handle serious weaponry, Christopher had replied, and Angelika had no doubt he could. But as they turned through the manor gates and she guided Percy over the buried pressure plate to signal her approach home, new feelings began to rise up. She’d missed dinner and whilst Victor would be kissing Lizzie in a dark corner somewhere, Will was probably overwrought with nerves. He fretted over the recent disturbances in the village, and the types of people who came out after dusk.

She moved her horse’s pace up. “I’ve probably caused a bother at home. I should have sent a message. I can go on from here.”

“I’d like to meet your brother.”

Angelika arched an eyebrow. “Reeking of ale, with your shirt untucked?” She cackled when he reacted with violence, searching himself in vain, and then gave her a dirty look. “Calm yourself. I would wager my entire dowry that you don’t have a single horse hair on your trousers. Victor is a complete mess, you are forewarned.”

“I’ve heard enough of Victor to know he’s terribly informal, and I shall like him a lot. I may be tidy, but I don’t require others to be.”