She ducked her gaze.
But she had another question, and perhaps it was safe to ask it under cover of the literally spirited discussion.
“If the heroine of the story is confronted by something scary and must run away, and her only choice is to flee into the attic, which may or may not also be scary... is she still brave?”
She was touched by how everyone seemed to take the question seriously.
Mrs. Pariseau was gazing upon her with approving interest. “It’s quite a choice, isn’t it? Not everyone has the nerve to even run from something scary. Some would just give up straightaway, I should think. So Ithink one would have to be brave. Or perhaps optimistic, or possessed of faith.”
It was a very good answer. Shewaspossessed of faith. Even if she hadn’t yet heard from Mr. Erasmus Monroe.
“I thinkyou’reever so brave to go on a journey across the ocean by yourself, Mrs. Gallagher,” Dot flattered. “Which is why I think you would like this story. It’s a story about abravewoman who goes into the attic.”
Not astupidwoman,were Dot’s unspoken words.
It was well played. Mrs. Pariseau cast her eyes heavenward and sighed.
“Does it have a happy ending?” Aurelie ventured. Suddenly she was curious to hear how other terrifying stories ended.
“I don’t think I ought to tell you how the story ends,” Dot said, craftily. “Because that’s the best part.”
Aurelie suddenly, fervently hoped this was true.
“I think we should read aloud fromThe Ghost in the Atticwhile we can, because Bellingham will probably want to read sermons aloud or some such,” Mr. Delacorte said grimly. “And make little declarations and moral pronouncements and whatnot.”
“I suppose it could go either way,” Mrs. Pariseau said. “He seems amusing. And I should think vicars have seen and heard a good deal of humanity and are the recipients of all manner of confidences, and that little surprises them.”
“Well, he’s never met Delacorte,” Lord Bolt said idly.
Aurelie’s head shot up worriedly. But Mr. Delacorte snorted in delight, looking positively radiantly pleased to be teased.
“At any rate, we’ll find out tomorrow,” Angelique said with relish. “Mr. Bellingham expects to arrivejust a few hours after Mr. Tweedy. And Mr. Tweedy will be here first thing in the morning.”
The notion that other people did indeed carry about burdens they could never share with anyone but a vicar, or perhaps a priest, made her feel briefly less alone. She wondered if it would show on Mr. Bellingham’s face—the secrets he carried about.
She touched a hand to her cheek, then dropped it immediately.
She wondered if it showed on her own.
Chapter Seven
“Berwick! You’re not dead yet, more’s the pity, you scurvy bastard.”
Berwick squinted through the smoke of the Goat’s Head pub and his broad, seamed face lit up with a blend of delight, surprise, and wicked speculation when he saw Hawkes approaching.
“Well, well. A pox on ye, Hawkes. I was lookin’ forward to spittin’ on yer grave, I was. Them Frenchies missed an opportunity when they didna shoot ye. Ye’re not quite lookin’ in the pink, are ye, sir?”
Affectionate greetings out of the way, in one fluid motion, Hawkes yanked a chair out, sat down, and thunked the bottle of gin in the center of the table.
All eyes nearest them in the pub went to the sound. They knew precisely what it was, and most of the men in there dangerously hungered for it.
Hawkes counted on it.
Seven years ago, Berwick had tried to rob Hawkes in an alley, and found himself up against a wall, the point of Hawkes’s knife glinting at his throat, instead. They’d swiftly come to an understanding whereby Hawkes agreed not to send him to the gallows if Berwick fed him useful information. They’d ultimately forged a sort of alliance. And after a fashion, a friendship.
Berwick became a hack driver after that failed robbery. It was, in fact, Berwick who had driven the man suspected of being Cafard to his own wedding in Norfolk and, showing admirable initiative, had lingered to read the church register, where of all bloody things, Cafard had signed the name Florian Vasseur. And Hawkes had only pointed out Cafard to Berwick once before.
Truthfully, Hawkeswasn’tquite feeling in the pink. He’d slept badly for days, unaccustomed to decent beds and beset by fitful dreams. But the morning had begun with a triumph: Mr. Harrigan of Harrigan & Sons had scrambled to answer Hawkes’s questions when he’d stopped into their offices and produced the letter of introduction from the Earl of Brundage. Did an important personage such as the earl truly entrust Harrigan & Sons to keep all of his account books, present and past, both personal and for the embassy? By way of reply, Mr. Harrigan gestured proudly to the earl’s books, neatly labeled by year, arrayed on the shelf behind him. And would they be so kind as to give a former prisoner of war the address of a particular charity listed in one of those books so he could write to them and thank them for their efforts to supplement the meager prison rations?