Ashlyn Macnamara (16 page)

G
EORGE STALKED
down the road to the village, muttering under his breath. Emily Marshall was no better than a cow, although that assessment might well be an insult to bovines. How dare she run her cousin off? Given her connections, though, he shouldn’t be shocked. Isabelle’s closer relatives had turned her out completely and left her to fend for herself.

Halfway to the village, he met Revelstoke in the lead of a group of grim-faced, dusty men. Damn it, that could only mean the others had come up with no leads, either.

George fingered the rose-scented scrap of linen in his pocket. “Have you discovered anything?”

“Not a thing.” Revelstoke clapped him on the shoulder. “You?”

George shook his head. He saw no need to bring up the handkerchief. “I don’t understand it. A child of six is small, but he doesn’t simply disappear. Not without a great deal of noise.”

“You going back for another look?”

“And to find Mrs. Mears,” George said with a nod.

Revelstoke cast a glance at the others and lowered his voice. “Is there anything between you two I ought to know about?”

“That you ought to know?” George lowered his brows. “Not a thing.”

“Seems to me you’re rather involved. You’ve only just met her.”

George glanced at the other men. Doubtless some of them would be interested in any hint Isabelle was open to receiving callers. Thank God Leach didn’t appear to be present. “Yes, well. You’ll agree she’s rather easy on the eyes.”

He could admit that much. He preferred to keep the latest gossip to himself for now. Revelstoke might well discover Isabelle’s connection to the Marshalls soon enough, but George would rather not be present when that happened.

“Oh yes, quite.” Revelstoke grinned. “And now you’ll be off to comfort her.”

George balled his hand into a fist. “Your wife and her sister had the same thought. And I hardly think it’s time to make light.”

Revelstoke, damn his eyes, simply broadened his grin. “Whatever you say.” Then he sobered. “Tell her we’ll try again tomorrow and for as long as it takes.”

“We’ve lost a day as it is. We’ll have to broaden the search.”

“If we must, we must. But assure her we’ll find the boy.”

George set off once more. As much as he’d like to, he couldn’t make her any promises. The child might be halfway to Yorkshire by now, God only knew why. How did a man appear from a hedgerow and snatch a boy away from his mother? Could Redditch be behind the child’s disappearance somehow? This sort of scheme was exactly the sort of machination Redditch would dream up.

But why, and after six years?

A bastard was nobody’s child. Jack’s grandfather shouldn’t want any claim. Unless Redditch had decided to punish Isabelle for her disgrace. But clearly Redditch
had already turned her out of the family. Why wait another six years to chastise her further?

George might want answers, but he’d have to tread carefully in probing for them. Isabelle was already upset over the loss of her son. No doubt the scene the ladies had made this morning only added to that agitation. If Mama’s reaction was any indication, Miss Marshall must have made quite a spectacle of herself. How humiliating for Isabelle. The last thing he wanted was to contribute to her distress by bringing up less savory aspects of her family. He preferred not to probe too deeply into the reasons why.

O
NE
last house. She would check one last house before giving in to despair. The vicarage rose before her, a larger and better kept dwelling than most of the others in the village. Manicured flower beds surrounded the path leading to the front steps. Isabelle let the knocker fall and awaited her fate.

Mrs. Weston responded on the third try. “Oh my goodness. Here it’s the maid’s half day, and I’ve done nothing but respond to inquiries.” Even though the day was not hot, her wren-brown hair hung in sweaty straggles about her glowing face.

“Your pardon.” Isabelle caught herself just before she dropped a curtsey, as if she were a servant. How ridiculous. “I’m looking for Jack. Have you seen him?”

“I’m sorry, no. As I told the gentlemen who asked earlier.” Of course. The story had been the same at every other house in the village, delivered in varying levels of coldness and speculation. Mrs. Weston’s version was fairly neutral and thus seemed nearly friendly.

A low groan sounded from somewhere in the house. Mrs. Weston glanced behind her, paling. “Please. My boy.”

“Is he still poorly?”

“He’s worse.”

Isabelle tucked her lower lip between her teeth. Had she made an error with her remedy or was the boy’s condition more serious than an upset stomach caused by an overindulgence of sweets? Nothing in the other woman’s tone indicated an accusation, but that could soon change. At least if Mrs. Weston wanted more medicine, she might get it from Biggles.

“How much worse?”

“See for yourself.” Mrs. Weston stepped aside and admitted Isabelle to the vicarage.

Stepping across the threshold was akin to entering another realm. Since her arrival in the village, Isabelle had never been admitted to another dwelling as if she was paying a social call. In the shops, she was tolerated so long as she was giving her custom or selling sachets, but not even the vicar’s wife had ever offered her so much as a cup of tea.

The parlor was a rather shabby room furnished in fading brocades and limp velvets whose pile had long ago worn thin. A sour odor tinged the air. A pasty-faced boy lay on a settee, clutching his distended belly. His cheeks were loose and flabby, his pudgy hands dimpled at the knuckles, more like a child of six months than a boy of six years.

“It hurts, Mama.”

Mrs. Weston brushed the boy’s blond fringe out of his face. “I know, dear.”

“Are you certain he doesn’t need the doctor?” Isabelle asked.

At the word “doctor,” Peter Weston let out a whimper. “Don’t let him stick me.”

Isabelle was at a loss for a reply. Clearly, the boy was beyond Biggles’s remedies. “What have you eaten today?”

“Oh, hardly anything,” said Mrs. Weston, “and normally
he has such a vigorous appetite.” An appetite for cakes and biscuits if Isabelle didn’t miss her guess.

“A good cleaning out is what he needs,” Biggles said every time Mrs. Weston asked for a stomach remedy for the child. “If she’d make him eat properly, he wouldn’t be so poorly all the time. And she might let him run and play like a regular boy. He wouldn’t be so soft.”

But Isabelle couldn’t point that out. “Have you tried feeding him stewed fruits?”

Peter pulled a face. “Nasty.”

“Yes, well, it might help you feel better to try a little.” Jack would have gobbled such as a treat, since she couldn’t afford to buy him sweets. He also never suffered regular stomach ailments. “Shall I send Biggles with more of her remedy?” she asked Mrs. Weston.

“Oh, would you?”

Free of that stuffy house, Isabelle crossed the road and stumbled up the street toward her door. After a sleepless night and trying morning, so many hours enduring false murmurs of sympathy, shaken heads, obdurate doors that never opened had finished her.

Thank goodness for Biggles who could mix her a soothing concoction along with an infusion for Peter. She’d ask for something bracing added to her mixture. She’d need her strength, for she refused to rest until Jack was found.

Her boy, safe once more. She wouldn’t let him out of her sight again.

“There you are.”

At Upperton’s pronouncement, she turned, jaw firmed. His expression betrayed nothing.

“I thought it best not to wait at the manor.” She waved her hand. “Not after …”

“I know.” He stepped toward her, arms outstretched as if to take her by the shoulders or pull her into an embrace. But then he dropped his hands to his sides. No, it
was best he not make a show of affection or comfort in the middle of the street. “My mother told me of the scandal. It does not matter to me.”

She brushed the statement aside. Naturally it wouldn’t matter when he’d known from the outset. “Have you found anything? Any clue?”

He jerked his head to the side, lips pressed together. “No one’s come up with anything. You?”

She released a breath, and her shoulders sagged under the weight of his statement. “Nothing. I don’t understand it. Why—”

A line sketched itself between his brows, and he nodded in the direction of her house. “Not here.”

“No, of course not.” She stepped up the path, but stopped short of opening the door when she nearly tripped over a large wicker basket. An apologetic note pinned to the checked cloth covering the contents indicated the gift came from Julia Revelstoke and Sophia Highgate. “What on earth?”

“It looks like a peace offering.”

“Yes, but why did they leave it out here and not with Biggles?”

She took the basket and let him into the kitchen, fully expecting Biggles to set upon them for news. But the room lay silent. No welcoming scent of freshly baked bread greeted her. No stew bubbling on the hearth. Even the fire had burned down to embers. Something leaden settled into her stomach.

“Biggles?”

No reply. The silence expanded toward the ceiling beams, where bunches of drying herbs perfumed the air. The absence of sound suppressed the delicate odor.

“Do you think she’s taken it upon herself to search?” Upperton asked.

“No.” Isabelle touched trembling fingers to her lips. “Not without telling us.”

“She couldn’t well tell us if we’ve been gone all day.”

True enough, but the thought was no comfort. “No, she’d have stayed here. In case Jack came home on his own.”

Upperton moved about the room, scanning. “Would she have left a message?”

“She can’t read or write.” Isabelle’s voice wavered on the final vowel.

The situation looked ominous, but she had to make sure. Ignoring Upperton’s grunt of protest, she gathered her skirts and scrambled up the ladder to the loft. The area under the slope of the roof lay shadowed in the late afternoon. A straw tick sat beneath the eaves, its coverlet neat and precise as always, but the nails in the wall where Biggles hung her spare wardrobe stuck out forlornly, denuded of their usual practical cotton and linsey garments.

Gone then.

The thought struck Isabelle like a fist to the gut. She rested her brow against her forearm and drew several breaths. First Jack and now Biggles. Lord only knew Biggles had looked after herself for far longer than Isabelle had been alive. She had to be all right. She had to.

“What is it?” Upperton’s voice drifted from the base of the ladder.

“She’s taken her things.” Isabelle could manage no better than a whisper.

She inhaled once more, but the air refused to expand in her lungs. She still felt as if some invisible hand had wrapped itself about her throat to squeeze the life out of her. The rungs beneath her toes seemed to sway, and she tightened her grip on the ladder until her nails bit into the wood.

Her knees wobbled. She’d never make her way down to the floor. A single shuffling sound reached her ears. Upperton. His fingers curled about her ankle.

“Come on, now,” he murmured.

Under any other circumstances, she’d tell him off for his cheek, only his action wasn’t forward. He meant to guide her off the ladder. Somehow her toes managed to find the rungs below them, one after the next, until solid planks of wood supported her feet once more.

Too bad her knees refused to cooperate. She swayed, but Upperton caught her with one steady arm about her waist. She shouldn’t lean. She should stand on her own, but in this moment, with both Biggles and Jack gone, she lacked the strength. She settled against his chest and let him hold her while her throat thickened.

Surely she was permitted to take comfort for a few moments at the end of a trying day. Surely that much came without a price. Surely Upperton would not exact payment in the form of favors. His arms tightened about her, and she let loose the sob that had been blocking her airway all this time.

She would take this moment because she needed it, but once it was over, once he relaxed his grip, she would slip away and see him off. She could not lead him to expect any more from her, even if she was ruined.

“We’ll find the boy,” he rumbled. “We will.”

“We have to find Biggles now, too.” She hated how small her voice sounded. Doubly so, for Mrs. Weston had requested more medicine.

At the thought, Isabelle pulled out of his arms and ran her forearm across her eyes. She strode to the shelves and rummaged among the jars that comprised Biggles’s store of dried herbs. Comfrey, sage, rue. Where was the peppermint? Her hands shook, badly enough to send one of the containers crashing to the floor, where it shattered. A pungent scent of anise filled the air.

“Blast it all.” She jammed the heel of her hand against her mouth, biting down on the fleshy pad to imprison another sob at the back of her throat.

“Here now.” Upperton set his hands on her shoulders. “Sit.”

“I can’t. I have to do this. I promised.”

“Do what?” He kept his voice low and steady and soothing.

“The vicar’s son is ill, and Mrs. Weston needs an infusion.” She twisted her hands together. “Biggles … Biggles normally makes this sort of thing, only …”

“Sit.” He exerted a gentle pressure on her shoulders until he’d coaxed her into a place at the table. Numbly, she sank to the bench. Her fingers still trembled, and she folded them in her lap to hide the reaction. Upperton located a broom and began to sweep up the shards of glass and dried anise. Upperton, with a broom, like a servant.

“Oh, don’t.” She angled her knees, about to rise. “I can’t just sit here. I have to—”

“Stay where you are.” Steady as any downstairs maid, he stooped to gather the shards into the dustpan. “I’d make you tea, only I don’t know where you keep it.”

“I’m out of real tea.” She kept her eyes trained on her hands, folded once more in her lap. “It’s a luxury. Biggles makes all manner of substitutes. But—”

“What do you need for this medicine of yours?”

“Peppermint and, and …” Her mind went blank. Beyond an image of a jovial, gray-headed matron and a sprig of green, oblong leaves, nothing else would surface. Goodness, when was the last time Isabelle had ever felt so useless—besides when Jack had first come into the world and she had no idea how to care for him? And Biggles had helped her then, too. “I can’t remember.”