Beatrice: An Alarming Tale of British Murder and Woe by Tedd Hawks (the reading list book .TXT) 📕

her housecoat slipped into the mud. A few times they triedto gather themselves together, but it proved futile. In the end, both of themhad dry throats and wet cheeks. They panted as the rosy light of morning turnedgolden.

“Thank you,” Crockettfinally rasped, “for taking it well, not…making me feel like I wasincompetent.”

“Well, we all can actrashly and irresponsibly.” Brontë crossed her arms. “I often treat my poor sisterlike a leper. She’s just so frustrating, but I immediately regret it. She’ssweet and has so much imagination. Sometimes I think I may be jealous, youknow. Grandmother likes her better because of her creative tendencies. She saysshe has an opal spirit.”

“Is that good?”Crockett’s eyebrows raised.

“I assume so. She says it’sbetter than being amethyst.”[16]

“I’ll take your lady’sword on the matter,” Crockett said uncertainly.

Noises from the housealerted them others were waking. Crockett reached for something to say, butnothing came to his mind. Phrases started to form on his tongue, but the momenthe lifted his face and gazed upon Brontë, they vanished like dew in sunlight.

It was she who finallybroke the silence.

“I miss him.”

“Who?”

“Grandfather. He was anodd man.” She thought to herself for a moment then smiled broadly. “Forexample, he once told Kordelia and me that one should never be painted beforetheir hair turns white, because it makes portraits less regal.” She laughedquietly to herself. “He stayed true to his word—there’s not a single image ofhim as a young man.”

“I suppose it’s littleuse to remember youth.”

“I think I’d like to,”Brontë smiled warmly. “I can’t imagine not having a picture with my children orfrom my wedding.”

Crockett flushed at theword wedding. Brontë appeared not to notice, turning her glance to the house,where Robert Edward and Dexter (or who Crockett assumed to be Dexter; thatmorning he was wearing a coonskin hat and American Indian–styled leatherbreeches) came out the front door.

“You were lucky to havehim, even if it was a short time,” Crockett said, his voice sullen. “I neverhad anyone—a mother, father, or grandfather. Petrarch’s been like a father tome. His wife died shortly after we met; it caused a unique bond for us, afamily formed from the ashes. I suppose that’s why I try so desperately toimpress him,” Crockett sighed, “why I try so desperately to impress anyonewith some authority or who inspires a passion in me.”

Crockett’s gaze had fallento the ground, but when he looked up, he found Brontë’s eyes fixed on him. Herexpression was melancholy; she appeared to want to reach out and lay a hand on hisarm, but she refrained. A warmth, separate from the rays of the sun, radiatedfrom them both. Without fear, nervousness, or compunction, Crockett smiled.

Brontë turned to thehouse, her gaze settling briefly on Robert Edward and Dexter. “Family is alwaysinteresting, whether it’s something destined by birth or a found objectencountered later in life.”

“Your family has itsshare of unique found objects,” Crockett said. “Robert Edward is—well…”

“As I mentioned before,I try not to ask questions, as they tend not to clarify.”

“His face…” searchingfor the word, Crockett made a swirling motion around his own countenance toexpress the confusion of Robert Edward’s facial arrangement. “It’s…not aligned,I guess I would say.”

“Well, it could be anexpression of his amethyst spirit.” Brontë winked at Crockett. “I would like toask about its ugliness, but it would be indecorous, I believe.”

“Sorry,” Crockett spokequickly. “I didn’t mean—your family is lovely. Kordelia is very unique. We havespoken a few times…She is sometimes lightness and sometimes so very leaden withsorrow.”

Brontë pulled a strandof hair from her face. “That’s the general story of our family. It’s an oddtension.”

More voices eruptedfrom the house, what sounded like August making a comment about eggs.

“I suppose we should goin,” Brontë said.

“Yes, we’ll be missedif we wander about much longer.”

“Well,” Brontë saidbeginning to walk toward the house, “this chat was wonderful. It is a truedeblight getting to know you, Mr. Cook.”

Crockett concealed hisface. His smile spanned ear to ear. “The feeling,” he said quietly, “ismutubull.”

Chapter 7: A Voice in the Dark

            WhenCrockett returned to his room, the warm June sun flashed through the windows inbright white beams. He was in abnormally high spirits and couldn’t help butwhistle a tune from his childhood[17]as he put on a fresh shirt and combed his hair. His thoughts strayed to Brontëand the magnetic nature of her smile during their conversation. It felt as ifsomething changed in their little talk; he believed her thorny exterior hadbent or even broken.

“Hullo.”

Crockett leapt upward.He had been in the middle of an especially aggressive stroke through his hairand nearly pulled out a clump due to the surprise.[18]

“I’m terribly sorry. Ididn’t mean to startle you.” It was Kordelia, oddly clothed in a long silkhousecoat, her fine blonde hair wrapped in a turban. In the center of theheadwrap, a glittering, red jewel glinted in the morning light.

“Kordelia…” Crockettsaid slowly. “Are you practicing for the play?”

“Why would you saythat?”

“Your…clothing seemsout of place for a day in a country manor.”

“Your clothing seemsout of place for a séance,” she said, an edge to her bell-like voice.

“I’m sorry—a séance?”

But Kordelia had fled.Crockett, again, was left with nothing to say in response to the spritelyapparition that was the Hawsfeffers’ youngest granddaughter.

He finished combing hishair and went into the corridor. Petrarch was waiting outside his room, lookingout the hazy, cracked windows that faced the front courtyard.

“Kordelia was justhere. She mentioned a séance,” Crocket said.

Petrarch laughed. “Atleast she told you in plain English. She invited me to join her fortune teller’stongue. ‘Abbiminy jugtildamesztch’ were the words, I believe.”

“Petrarch, I don’tthink it’s out of place for me to mention that that girl confounds me.”

“It’s the Swissinfluence, Crockett. I think the cheeses and clocks are affecting her. I’mhoping her mother, June, pulls her back into a good, staunch English finishingschool, where there are no plays, just some good embroidery courses and lessdairy, of course.” As Petrarch said this, he spun with a flourish and marchedaway.

In the dining room, Marthahad put out a simple breakfast. Brontë sat at the head of the table tapping a soft-boiledegg with a spoon. When Crockett entered, she started. Her face flushed, and shenervously played with her