Page 77 of Angelika Frankenstein Makes Her Match
Angelika sat deep in her saddle, and pushed Percy into a canter.
The village of Salisbury was even more shabby and depressing than she remembered. Most of the shops were boarded up. A ruddy-faced maid had her skirts tucked into her underwear as she tossed a bucket of excrement into a ditch. Every eye catalogued her clothing, horse, and tack.
“Here, little sweetlings,” Angelika said, tossing coins down to the children. “The church is along this left street, and we will ride past Clara’s cottage. Let us call on her. I might even get to hold Winnie if he’s awake.”
Will nodded. “Of course.”
As if she had conjured them with her thoughts, Clara walked into view down the crossroad and turned in the opposite direction, lugging Edwin on her hip. Her friend looked like any one of these poor folk, with mud on her hem and an exhausted aura. In addition to her boy, she was struggling with heavy string bags of groceries.
“She needs help,” Will said.
“Where is she going? Down this horrid alley? But she lives this way.”
They had to halt to let a pony cart pass, and by the time they trotted to catch up, Clara was at a wooden door, and was struggling to open it.
“Clara!” Angelika halted Percy. “Do you require assistance?” She noticed a sign:WINCHESTER BOARDINGHOUSE. A bucket was emptied out a window. A cough and a spit followed. They could hear a man shouting, and a woman’s placating tones. A bang. A cat yowl. Everything stank.
Angelika was agog. “You’ve left your lovely cottage to live... here?”
Percy sneezed.
“Hello, Angelika, Will,” Clara said, turning around with great reluctance. “How do you do?”
“Surely I misunderstand?” Angelika prompted from her seat in the saddle. “You are visiting an acquaintance?”
“We have lived here almost a week,” Clara said, hoisting Edwin, who twinkled up at Angelika. “I am well aware that it is below your standards”—here she paused as a second bucket was emptied out—“but it will do for now.”
“You cannot find anything more suitable?” Angelika held down her crop for Edwin to grasp and they played a gentle tug-of-war. “This place looks horrible.”
“Better than the street.” She cowered as a scowling woman poked her head out of yet another window. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Winchester. We won’t linger.”
“No visitors.” Mrs. Winchester had a face like a smacked behind, and she narrowed her eyes at Edwin. “No crying, neither. Did I just hear you say my fine establishment looks horrible, missy?”
“I haven’t set foot inside, but I wouldn’t board my pigs here, you rude old wench,” Angelika told her with ringing honesty, and the window was slammed. Will scratched his jaw to hide his grin.
“Thanks ever so,” Clara exclaimed. “She already hates us. Last night Edwin wouldn’t settle, and she took the doorknob off my room. I had to beg to be let out this morning.”
Angelika’s indignation was rising. “Does Christopher know that you live here?”
Clara’s reply was carefully worded. “He knows that I have vacated.”
Will looked at Angelika. She nodded and said, “Come and stay with us until you work out your next move. We will not leave you here.”
Pride had rendered Clara speechless, and colored her red to the roots of her hair. Then, the audible argument in the boardinghouse reached a pinnacle. There was a sickening slap, the woman began crying, and Edwin clutched Clara’s dress, his chubby face twisted in distress.
Will assured Clara, “The whitewash in the cottage beside mine was dry when I checked it this morning. You will have your own privacy.” He dismounted and tied Solomon. Gently, he put a hand on Clara’s shoulder, bringing her back to the moment, and hung her groceries on the railing. “There is room for you.”
Faintly, Clara replied, “Are you sure?”
He nodded. “Give Edwin to Angelika for a moment.”
Angelika dismounted and bounced the smelly boy on her hip, singing him a song: “Disgusting place—not fit for pigs—is it, my darling Win-Win?”
It did not take long to pack Clara’s belongings. She reappeared with a bulging carpetbag and Edwin’s basket, and Will held a crate. His knuckles were bleeding. He had apparently found time to rescue the woman in distress, and she fled at speed with her hand to her cheek, mouthing a thank-you.
Angelika clicked her fingers, and a driver halted his cart. It was drawn by a one-eyed mule and was full of dirty vegetables, but beggars could not be choosers. “I’m hiring you for a private trip to my manor. I’ll take a pumpkin, too.” The driver nodded, and she put a coin in his palm.
“Angelika,” Clara began, but found no more words.
