Angelika Frankenstein Makes Her Match(59)

They were interrupted by a distant howl. Animal or man, they could not ascertain.

“That poor man. His arm was absolutely ice cold.” Angelika put her hand on Will’s wrist to demonstrate what she meant, then recoiled, and patted him all over. “You’re rather chilly, too.”

She searched his face intently, relieved to note his skin still retained its healthy glow.

“It is very cold. The window is open.” He pulled the blankets more snugly to her chin. “What was wrong with the man’s hands? You said they don’t work.”

“It looked like he had no ability to make a fist or use his hands properly. He had trouble picking up an apple. Are you worried the same will happen to you?”

“It’s natural to worry about the future.” He allowed Angelika to gather his hand into hers. The rubbing massage was a ritual now between them, and she needed the contact just as much as he.

She kissed each cool knuckle. “Can you feel this?”

He continued his thought with a small smile. “When you have stepped outside of the natural progression of things, as I have, every day is a blessing, and each night a terror. I’m glad you’re here. The hours before dawn are the hardest for me.”

“I didn’t know that. I will stay all night.”

“I’ve always thought it would be difficult to get you out of my bed.” He curled her against him. “I will remain above the blanket, of course, to maintain propriety, in this race to win Angelika Frankenstein’s heart.”

“You already won it,” she told him, tired now. “It is my turn to win yours. Besides, I don’t think Christopher is still in the running. He’s forgotten me.”

“You’re wrong about that. Some men would be repelled by this type of competition. He is invigorated by it. He’s out tearing up the countryside, hunting for my shadow. He will want you more than ever before.”

“I’m not sure you’re right.”

“No one could forget you. Besides, Victor sent word of your ordeal to Christopher, in case he required the academy’s doctor. I think you will be receiving a visit soon.”

“I wasn’t talking about toadstools that long, was I?”

“A very long time. And you thought you were speaking Latin,” he said.

They lay together, holding hands, utterly respectable and chaste, until the sun came up and it was time for her to leave.





Chapter Twenty


Clara had increasingly requested, in a variety of polite ways, that everybody not stand behind her while she worked on her portrait of Will. At each single mark she made on the page, someone uttered an encouragement.

“Marvelous.” “A clean line, that one.” “A gift, if ever I’ve seen one.” “The artist is officially at work.” “Brava!”

It wasn’t until she became so flustered she broke her lead, and then hit her head retrieving it, that Will jerked his thumb and told the audience: “Out.”

The following spectators exited in a subdued file: Victor, Lizzie, Christopher, Sarah, Jacob, and the new junior kitchen maid, Pip.

Mary was still gone, and without her, housekeeping limped along. No one knew where anything was kept, or what time things should be done. Clean undergarments were a rare luxury. But Angelika was glimpsing moments of Sarah taking charge.

“Out,” Will said again, in a kinder tone, to the last two remaining onlookers.

“We don’t have to leave, do we, Winnie?” Angelika said to Edwin, dancing him around the room in a waltz, his hand clasped around the base of her thumb. “We are allowed to stay and watch.” She was recovering from her ordeal, and the lump on her head was smaller. But on the next twirl she grew dizzy, and she halted before anyone could notice.

Angelika adjusted the cuff of Edwin’s new flannel trousers. Sewing baby clothes was one of the only ways she could take her mind off Mary’s disappearance. She had an idea that if she could prove she had been usefully occupied, Mary would return and be impressed.

Clara was at her wit’s end. “Miss Frankenstein, I cannot think with you twirling about, let alone put my lead up to ruin another fresh sheet. Will, please,” she appealed to him.

“No exceptions,” Will told Angelika.

“I have told you repeatedly, Clara, call me Angelika. Hmm,” Angelika hummed to Edwin and carried him to the seated Will, allowing the baby’s feet to kick his shoulder. Perhaps he’d boot a little paternal instinct into the man. “I suppose if it means this face is captured for all time—”

“In a rough sketch for the magistrate,” Will cut in wryly.

“Then I can allow being evicted. Clara, can I commission you to commence an oil portrait after this? And do you paint lockets?” Angelika was jealous of how Edwin mewled and reached for his mother, but she handed him back.

“Lockets?” Clara echoed in despair over her son’s head. “You have seen no proof of my talent to warrant a further commission.” The sheet on the easel had a one-inch line.

Her arms now horribly empty, Angelika went to Will. “My love, you are so terribly handsome, I would have your portrait painted inside the lid of my casket.” She tidied his thick dark copper hair, aware of Christopher’s ice-blue stare through the door crack.