Angelika Frankenstein Makes Her Match(99)
Victor’s mouth was in a rueful line. “What if it were Lizzie one day, giving birth, needing him to come at once? He’s right,” he tried to impress on her, but Angelika was turning redder than an apple. “Jelly, he does not have the expertise. There’s nothing more he can do.”
“Shut up.” She crawled up onto the bed and put her ear to Arlo’s mouth. “He’s still alive. Come on, help me.” Hating Victor’s reluctance, she wrenched the tube and funnel from him. “I have no idea how to do this.” Arlo’s body did not accommodate the intrusion willingly, but after several sweaty minutes she had poured the entire beaker into his stomach. “There,” she said, rolling up the wet tube and thrusting it back at her brother.
“Good work” was his reply. “Can’t hurt.”
Arlo’s body jerked. He vomited, and began choking. “Roll him,” Victor directed, and they caught the expunged liquid with towels. “His body still has these kinds of base reactions,” he told Angelika as they pounded his back. “I think this is a good thing.”
“A good thing?” Angelika wiped Arlo’s mouth. Her voice rose. “A good thing? You know what I see? You, standing about, being absorbed in yourself, jogging in the forest, working on your own precious body, doing absolutely nothing to improve this situation. Is it because he was originally a priest? Or is it because he loves me?”
“Jel—”
“You’ve never wanted anyone to love me. You’ve always laughed at my infatuations, and told me I am a fool, and nobody would ever want me.”
“I never laughed at you,” Victor said uneasily. “All right, maybe I did. But I was joking.”
“You were never joking, and you weren’t joking when you said it last night. But he loves me, and it’s not for my fortune or my face. He loves my flaws. He makes me feel like I could be a better person. We are connected, at a blood level.”
“I do not doubt the depth of your love.”
She ignored that. “You are going to be right, as always. Being dead is the ultimate in unattainable, wouldn’t you say?” In her rage, she was calmer than she’d ever been. “I will die of heartbreak. There’s a plot vacant beside his grave. Put me there. That is my wish.”
Victor’s complexion turned ashen, and he said nothing.
She turned her back on him. “Get out, and don’t come back until you can do something useful.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
The following morning, the foyer of Blackthorne Manor was well-occupied. “I can’t get a word out of her,” the cook, Mrs. Rumsfield, was saying like a complaint, before she jumped and clutched her chest. “Christ almighty, missus!”
Angelika was descending the stairs. She was gray, droopy, and her eyes were sunken into her skull. She smelled. If anyone had been able to look past this ghastly apparition, they would see that the portrait of Caroline was highly concerned.
“You look ruddy dreadful!” Mrs. Rumsfield hollered. Sarah appeared in the doorway to the kitchen hall, wiping her hands on a cloth. At the foot of the stairs, Angelika was surrounded by all the house servants, Jacob the stablehand, and even some of the garden laborers. She searched in vain for the face she ached for the most, and then dropped to sit on the bottom stair.
“He lives. Again.” She wrung her hands. “We must all rally together these next few hours.” She was touched by the worry in the faces looking down at her. Every single one of these people had been impacted by Arlo in some way; his kind leadership had brought them to Blackthorne Manor and, in turn, awoken the estate from its deep sleep.
Mrs. Rumsfield said, voice rich with self-importance, “I have some broth ready for when he wakes.”
“Very good,” Angelika replied, even though her hopes were fading. “But now, while he is asleep, we must make Arlo—ah, you know him as Will, but he is now called Arlo Northcott—we must make him proud, and do our best to run the house—”
She stopped when Mrs. Rumsfield tutted. “You are all done in, miss. Time for something to eat and some sleep.”
“There is no time. Boys,” Angelika commanded the ragtag crew, now knowing what needed to be done, “I want you all to begin planning the apple harvest.”
“Will told us it’s not something you do up ’ere,” one nameless laborer said, confused. “Everyone in the village knows that.”
“I am tired of waste. It’s something I would like to do from this season forth. Is it possible? Are there more folk in the village who would like to be hired for this?” Angelika saw every head nod. “I know this seems like an odd thing to occupy ourselves with, given the circumstances, but I feel that Arlo would be so pleased to hear we had done this fine thing without him. He is the one who gets everything done around here, isn’t he?” Again, more nods. “Let’s show him that he has taught us well. Jacob, you shall be the organizer. Our neighbor may have a groundskeeper you could ask for advice.”
The young boy nodded.
“What else?” She turned her face to the girls. “The remaining three cottages beyond the orchard require cleaning and whitewashing. One is for Sarah, one is for Jacob, and the last is for Adam. Mrs. Rumsfield, could you please keep everyone fed as they work?”