Angelika Frankenstein Makes Her Match(96)

The smile was fading off Victor’s face. “What the hell, Will?”

“I echo that sentiment,” Christopher said. “Did you know about this?” This gobsmacked question was for Angelika. “If you knew about this, I think you very wicked.”

Her pretty mouth dropped open in hurt.

No matter that she loved Arlo, she craved Christopher’s approval all the same. It was a dangerous loose thread; one that the accomplished hunter would find, and pull on, until her faithful heart slowly unraveled. Weeks, years, the commander would never stop, because why would he settle for a sturdy widow and her son, when he could have this magical creature, this heiress, this trophy?

Would Father Northcott see a carriage pass by one day after his Sunday sermon, and see a married woman’s silhouette, and die completely?

“Miss Frankenstein is a good and honorable Christian woman, is she not?” Father Porter slanted his eyes toward Arlo.

The magistrate found his voice. He was emotional, his eyes glassy with tears, apparently having a religious epiphany. “Father Northcott, I don’t know how this has happened, but I believe now. Miracles do happen. Praise the Lord.”

“I believe there is something more complicated at play,” Christopher interjected, but he was interrupted.

“Amen,” Father Porter said. “Thimms, please prepare a faithful record of these remarkable events. If you agree with us that a miracle has occurred here, Father Northcott, please lead us in prayer.” No one else heard the threat in his tone.

Arlo opened his mouth, and badly out of breath, he managed: “Our Father in heaven, hallowed be Your name. Your kingdom come, Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”

Victor turned on his heel and strode off into the night.

“It’s time to go,” Angelika said to Arlo firmly. “What is happening to you? We are leaving now. Bring the carriage alongside,” she shouted after Victor. They had all traveled in grandeur into the village today, as a reminder of their standing in society. Arlo had ridden Solomon alongside. Now he couldn’t possibly get a foot in the stirrup.

“I cannot go,” Arlo told Angelika. “I feel strange.”

“Come now, of course you can,” Angelika urged, pulling a face. “My goodness, don’t you look pale.”

Christopher observed it, too. “Perhaps you should sit down.”

If Father Porter ruined them, the Frankensteins would not be able to set foot in the village ever again. Crowds bearing torches would advance on the manor, chanting, eyes gleaming at the prospect of a little comeuppance.

Sometimes, love required a sacrifice.

“I think . . . I think . . .” Arlo’s heart was beating erratically, first gulping up in his throat, then dropping to his belly. It must have been the exertion. “I think you must leave me here, Angelika. It might be for the best.”

He was practically eight years old again, putting on a brave front, being left somewhere he didn’t want to be, aching for the moment he could put his face into a strange pillow to cry. The one in the coffin would do at this point. He tapped on his chest now with his fist. Heartbreak felt different than how he imagined.

Angelika was flummoxed. “Stay here? Why on earth? Stop this nonsense at once.”

Father Porter smiled benignly. “He has come to the realization that his church requires his ongoing devotion.”

“Marry him,” Arlo said, meaning Christopher. “Have a baby. Live your life. Promise me you will live.”

“I will marry you, and only you,” Angelika gasped. “Why are you saying this?”

“I—I don’t feel—” Arlo’s legs gave out, and he fell to his hands and knees. “My love, I think it is happening.” The loose soil at the edges of his own grave crumbled and moved. Everything inside him began to draw outward, and he thought of chimney smoke. “But I don’t want to go. Don’t leave me here—”

As Angelika’s frantic questions turned into screams, all he could think of was that he was so glad he had told her the truth: that she was beautiful, and he loved her.

And if he could tell her one more thing? He would be a star directly above Larkspur Lodge, her heart’s true home, forevermore.





Chapter Thirty-Four


Death was wise to recognize Angelika Frankenstein as a formidable opponent.

“He is stabilizing, for now, but things are . . .” Dr. Corentin searched for the right phrase before settling on, “Comme ci, comme ?a.” He began writing something down. In his heavy French accent, he continued: “The laudanum must be administered strictly as I write it here, as he appears to be in a great deal of pain. Mon Dieu, I have never seen injuries such as these. Was he at war?”

In their panic, the Frankensteins had forgotten about the scars delineating each of Arlo’s joints. He was laid naked from the waist up in Angelika’s four-poster bed, almost as white as her French linen sheets.

“He’s lived quite a life,” Victor said to the doctor. “But he is a survivor.”

“His blood is brown when I do a pinprick. I am not sure enough to try bloodletting.” It was becoming clear that the doctor wasn’t sure of anything.

“He will not die.” Angelika said this so adamantly the candles flickered around them. “I refuse it. I will bring him back, again and again. We haven’t come this far to let him be overcome by exhaustion. That’s all this is, of course.”