Page 37 of Angelika Frankenstein Makes Her Match
Victor nudged her. “Don’t pretend you don’t want to hear his secret thoughts about you. I’ll ask him. Do you know my sister, Angelika?”
“I know her,” Will replied.
“We’ve found his favorite topic,” Victor said, and continued: “And what do you make of her? Do you think she is beautiful?”
Will nodded, a serious crease on his brow.
“Is she smart, and funny, and talented?”
“She is all of those things,” Will said.
(Angelika huffed modestly, and also hoped this line of questioning would never end.)
Victor grinned wickedly at his sister. “And would you like to make her your wife?”
“I cannot,” Will said.
“Why not?” Angelika asked, hurt. The certainty of her feelings could no longer be sidestepped, and she could confess it safely, knowing he might not remember in the morning. “I love you, Will. I’d marry you if you asked me.” When he said nothing, she pressed: “Do you already have a wife?”
Will replied, “I cannot, and will not, ever marry you.”
“I understand,” Angelika said. It was all laid bare tonight; she was a vapid, wastrel heiress, inured to her own privilege,up to her ankles in rotting apples while the village starved. She was not good enough. Tears welled in her eyes.
He saw them and moved closer, perhaps seeking to apologize or comfort, but fell over the debris on the floor. When he got onto his hands and knees, they could see he was now awake and completely disoriented. “Where—where am I?”
“Calm yourself. You were sleepwalking,” Victor told him. “And we are going to use this development to find out who you are. Here, take my hand, I’ll help you up. Wait, Jelly, where are you going?”
Angelika managed to hold back her tears until she was upstairs. Below, she could hear a bewildered Will asking, “What did I do to her?” She couldn’t bear the look on his face if she explained, so she ignored Will’s knocking on her bedroom door until he gave up.
Angelika thought that perhaps she should give up, too.
Chapter Eleven
Clara Hoggett, the widow of the deceased military officer, was crippled by grief. She had been shocked to find Angelika and Commander Keatings on her doorstep, then burst into tears. Twice she had gone to fill a teakettle, and both times left it abandoned.
Commander Keatings—Christopher, as he insisted on being called—took one look at the fireplace and went outside to cut some wood.
In her cramped sitting room, Clara moved from each pile of clutter, apologizing profusely. “I received the commander’s calling card, of course, but I cannot remember the days anymore.” She bundled some children’s clothing into her arms but could not figure out where to place them. “I do not know if it is day or night.”
Angelika was alarmed at the woman’s increasingly frantic motions. “Please, rest yourself. You do not have to tidy up. I don’t care if your home is pristine.” She retrieved the armful of laundry from the woman.
Angelika was grateful to have left Blackthorne Manor. The sleepwalking incident had driven a splinter into her heart, and it pricked every time Will looked at her.
What did I say to you last night?
You said enough.
Christopher reappeared, interrupting the bad memory, with cut logs stacked on his forearms. Once the fire was crackling bright, Angelika could not see a single crease on his coat. He understood her perusal and grinned. His nature was thankfully not starchy. He’d be unbearable otherwise.
Together, they coaxed Clara to sit in the chair by the fire and made tea for her.
“You’re the first visitors in... well...” Clara didn’t need to finish her sentence. It was very obvious she was without any support. “I’m just glad my boy is sleeping. Thank you so much,” she repeated again as she leaned down to creak open the lid of the wicker basket they had earlier presented her with. “I have not had meat in an age.” Judging by the kitchen larder, she had not had much of anything.
“Our hogs are kept in our apple orchard, and they eat the fallen apples. It gives the meat a marvelous flavor, and they live so happily.” Angelika sat down onto a low stool. She began attempting to fold the laundry, something she did not have much experience with. These were such small, oddly shaped clothes. Christopher would be better suited to this task. She held up a tunic. “How old is your baby?”
“He is just turned one. Do you have children, Miss Frankenstein? Oh, goodness.” Clara went red. It was the first color they’d seen in her face. “Of course you do not, an unmarried lady. I apologize. I’m so muddled.”
Angelika grinned. “It’s quite all right. I’m overdue for one, I do admit.”
