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

sadly took it, gazing into her eyes for a moment, catching, what hethought, was some distant glimmer of their old connection.

            Sheturned and bustled toward the door, the swishing of her skirts the death knellto Crockett’s hopes.

            Hadthis scene occurred a week ago, he would have let her go, said nothing, packedup the shards of his heart and begun the healing process, but since the eventsof the house, the madness, the life and death experiences, he had changed; he hadto speak.

            “Brontë,”he called out, “Is it…did I imagine it all? The kiss…”

            Thebustling of skirts ceased. She only half turned to address his question.

            “Crockett,it’s not worth dwelling on. Father says there’s a family with a son and a largesum of money. Ironically, it’s the cousin of the man Aunt May is currentlycourting. But he can offer security.” She paused here. Crockett was unable tosee her face as she turned fully toward the door and her skirt began bustling again.“Can you imagine you and me? We’d gallivant around London solving herringmurders. What kind of life would that be?”

            Shedid not wait for an answer. With little more than a wave good-bye, shedisappeared out the door and into the darkness of the hallway.

            Crockett’sheart broke fully then. Tears dripped down the side of his face. The scene wasa sad one, the young man, head wrapped in his white Oxford shirt, staringplaintively toward the window. Around him dust motes and muted light gave theair of a macabre painting, not even done by a great master artist, but,perhaps, credited to his alcoholic failure of an apprentice.

            Hewas just about to collapse back on the couch when there was another knock onthe door. For a brief moment, the hope that it was Brontë returning gave hisheart wings, but when he turned toward the open portal, he instead saw Kordelialooking past him to some distant object.

            “Myroom has become quite the place for visitors,” he said.

            “Isaw Brontë leaving.” Kordelia, despite all that had happened, retained thesound of someone softly speaking from the other side of a wall. “Did she breakyour heart then?”

            “Yes.”

            “Sheand father talked for a long while last night. I didn’t hear much, although Itried to listen through the air ducts. I assumed it wasn’t a pleasant chat,however.”

            “Notfor me.”

            Kordeliawalked toward Crockett and extended her porcelain hand. It rested on hisshoulder and then, awkwardly, in a syncopated rhythm, she patted himreassuringly. The girl was not well versed in the art of consolation. Crockettwas unsure the purpose of the exercise, but Kordelia’s dreamy eyes focused fora moment and attempted to look concerned. He took this to be a friendly gestureand warmly smiled.

            “AFishtescent Murder,” she said while patting him.

            “I’msorry?”

            “That’sPip Hawsfeffer’s new play. It’s based on all that’s happened.”

            “It’sabout your family? And,” Crockett’s eyebrows scrunched together “is…fishtescenta word?”

            “No,it’s not a word, but Pip takes great liberties with the English language.” Kordeliaceased patting and took a seat on the bed. “And yes, it is about the family. Hestayed up all night writing. I helped him. He needed assistance capturing thecharacters just right, you know.”

            “I’vealways wondered how artists receive inspiration.”

            “Hesaid last night it was like ‘The sound of a cry of the world’s lightning all atonce.’”

            Crockettnodded his head. “That sounds like something he would say.”

            “You’rein it, of course,” Kordelia said playing with the lace on the collar of herblouse. “We made you less horse-looking and wealthier, but it’s a very similarcharacter.”

            “I’mhonored.”

            Kordeliarefocused, again, on Crockett. Her blank expression turned warm for an instant.“Thank you,” she said quickly.

            “Well,I couldn’t let the murder go unsolved.”

            “No.”She turned toward the window and nervously itched her ear. “For listening. Thatday on the river—no one really listened to me, but you did that day, and UnclePip is listening now. That’s what I’m thanking you for. And,” she turned andslightly smiled, “for understanding that sometimes gloves simply get placed inconspicuous places and don’t mean anything more.”

            “I’mglad I could add something pleasant to your return home from Switzerland,”Crockett smiled. Everything irritating about the young girl, even herhalitosis, had turned to fondness in these last moments together.

            Kordelianodded, then, abruptly, leapt up from her seat on the bed and drifted towardthe door. While her hand rested on the knob, she turned around and gazed athim. “I like your turban, but if you’re going to be doing a séance, it shouldbe red and pushed back a bit; also, jewels give it more authority.”

            Crockettlaughed. He was surprised to hear it after just having his heart broken, but inthe moment, he only remembered the silly séance and, further back, the day Kordeliatold him she set the cat on fire.

            “Also,Crockett,” she continued, “it will be hard, but you’ll recover from my sister.At least someone isn’t grating all of your favorite cheese in front of you.”

            Thistime Crockett tried to restrain his laughter. He bit his lip and noddedemphatically. When he felt that he could speak without breaking, he said,“Thank you, Kordelia. That really means…well, more than you can know.”

            “Jiboodykirkegaard,” she said sweetly. “In fortune teller, that’s ‘I'll alwaysremember you.’”

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            Breakfastwas a joyful affair, despite the sad start to Crockett’s morning. Even Augustand June were pleasant, having successfully torn their daughter’s affectionsfrom the impecunious solicitor’s assistant. The most shocking conciliatoryevent, however, was May asking Crockett to pass the crème for her coffee. Hernormally stiff expression broke, slightly, to show a belabored smile.

            Corinthianawas the most effusive with her praise and mirth. Having gotten to the bottom ofthe events and been assured by August and June that, after the sale of HawsfefferManor, they would have the ability to care for her, she was in the highestspirits, as evidenced by the more prolonged vowels that now fueled her sentenceconstructions—this, of course, combined with the slight hangover from herobscene tankard of sherry she had drunk the night before.

            “Hellooo,”she bellowed as Crockett and Petrarch sat down to the meal. She was so happyshe didn’t even mention Crockett’s lack of formal coat, his mud-stained shirt,or the dried