Head in the Clouds

  The only worry came when Chalmers incorrectly concluded that his wife was imitating a whale when in fact she was a delicate little trout. After hurling a decorative pillow at his head, she pouted for several minutes, muttering about his insulting speculation. Adelaide considered halting the game for fear that the housekeeper’s feelings had been truly injured, but Mrs. Chalmers avenged herself when her husband took his turn. The minute he lowered himself to his hands and knees to imitate an animal of some sort, his wife gleefully called him every foul name she could think of under the guise of playing the game. Toad. Skunk. Rat. Even louse made her list until Gideon correctly surmised that Chalmers was nothing more threatening than a barn cat. Fortunately, the butler took it all in stride and laughed along with everyone else, restoring the group’s good humor.

  For the final entertainment of the night, the ladies folded up the picnic blankets and stacked the dishes while the gentlemen pushed the remaining chairs against the wall, thereby clearing the floor in preparation for blindman’s bluff. Amid squeals, shrieks, and shuffling feet, the blindfolded guest had to catch someone and then guess the captive’s identity. Adelaide assigned everyone a number so that Isabella could name her hostage by a show of fingers when it was her turn.

  Thanks to the small group, everyone had multiple opportunities to wear the blindfold. Chalmers always managed to snag his wife, and after the third time of doing so, she accused him of peeking. He readily admitted to it and whispered something in her ear that set her to blushing. She stopped complaining after that.

  Isabella was the easiest to identify, due to her size, but the hardest to catch. Miguel finally wrangled her near the end of the game. She, in turn, latched on to her father. Gideon must have spied her yawn as she removed the handkerchief from her face, however, for he quickly proclaimed that he would be the last blindman.

  He groped about for several minutes, growling like a bear and stamping his feet at anyone who ventured too close. Isabella rushed at him and retreated several times, giggling each time he missed. Then before Adelaide quite knew what had happened, the little mischief-maker shoved her from behind and launched her directly into Gideon’s path.

  Adelaide trod on his foot and banged into his chest, but Gideon wrapped his arms about her and somehow kept them upright.

  “Well, who do I have here?”

  His voice remained jovial, but she could feel his heartbeat accelerate under her palm. Did he know?

  Gideon’s hand moved up her back and lingered at the base of her neck. “Definitely feels like a member of the female persuasion.” His fingers toyed with the loose tendrils at her nape. Adelaide closed her eyes against the sensations assaulting her.

  His touch traveled to her shoulder, and she forced her eyes open. If he knew it was her, why was he taking so long to claim his victory?

  “Let me see …” He traced one of the rosettes on the edge of her sleeve. “I don’t recall Mrs. Chalmers wearing a flower like this.” Warmth from his hand shocked her momentarily as he quickly passed over the small section of her arm covered by neither gown nor glove. Calluses grazed her skin, leaving tingles in their wake. “Too tall to be Bella.” He explored her elbow, her wrist, and finally clasped her hand where it lay pressed against his shirtfront. “Mrs. Garrett’s dress had long sleeves, I believe, so this gloved arm must belong to …” His thumb drew a small circle against her palm. “Miss Proctor.”

  He’d known all along, the scoundrel.

  She pushed away from him, afraid they’d made a terrible scene. Gideon let her go. She stumbled back and looked around. No scowls of disapproval or eyebrows raised in offense. She noted a few suspiciously bright smiles but decided it would be better for her peace of mind not to analyze those too closely.

  Adelaide checked the clock on the mantel, surprised to see how late the hour had grown. No wonder Isabella couldn’t hide her yawns. Adelaide had to stifle one of her own just thinking about it. Once again, her hero came to the rescue.

  “Thank you, ladies, for a wonderful evening. I can’t remember the last time I had such fun.” Gideon bowed to Isabella, who curtsied in return. “I’m afraid I must take my leave, Miss Petchey, but know that the memory of your smile will brighten my days.”

  Petchey. So that was Isabella’s family name. Since learning Gideon was Isabella’s guardian and not her natural father, a host of questions had arisen in Adelaide’s mind regarding Izzy’s parents and how she had come to be in Gideon’s care. Now she’d received her first clue.

  “And Miss Proctor.” Gideon turned to face her, his eyes sparkling with deviltry. “I will always carry with me the memory of your … arm.”

  Isabella snickered. Adelaide snuffed out her sparking curiosity and gave Gideon a playful push. “Get out of here, you rogue.”

  He backed away, and the others guests moved forward to bid their hostesses farewell, each claiming the party to be a smashing success.

  Isabella danced all the way up to her room and pirouetted right into bed. Her sleepy smile never wavered. Adelaide helped her into a nightdress and brushed out her hair, carefully removing the pink and white ribbons as she went. She whispered a prayer over the child, whose eyelids had grown heavy, kissed her forehead, and left her to dream of indoor picnics, boisterous games, and the people who loved her.

  Adelaide slipped down the hall to her own room and changed out of the lacy gown. Romantic reveries had their place, but she had responsibilities to attend to now. The party dishes wouldn’t wash themselves, and the food would attract ants if left out. She could push most of the parlor furniture back into place, as well, although the sideboard would have to wait until she could enlist some masculine muscle in the morning.

  Doing up the final buttons on her calico, Adelaide moved toward the door. The faster she cleaned up the mess downstairs, the sooner she could crawl into bed herself. And like Isabella, she planned to dream of love, laughter, and a handsome man with dark hair and warm chocolate eyes.

  With that thought spurring her on, she made her way down to the parlor, rolling up her sleeves as she went. However, when she stepped into the party room, she froze, her thumb still tucked into the folds of fabric at her elbow. The dishes had washed themselves after all. And the food fairies had cleared away every last crumb. The chairs and settees had walked on their own legs back to their proper locations, and even the sideboard had sprouted wings and flown to its home in the dining room. All her work was done.

  Adelaide smiled and let her arms fall to her sides. She roamed the room, shaking her head at the evidence before her. Those warmhearted rebels. The servants had offered to help clean up as they made their good-byes, but Adelaide had insisted they not interfere. It was their night off. She would take care of it. But in the short time she’d been upstairs putting Isabella to bed and changing out of her gown, those disobedient dears had put everything to rights.

  Including the master of the house, it would seem. Adelaide bent to pick up a white necktie that had fallen along the wall where the sideboard had stood. She held it against her cheek and inhaled the faint scent of Gideon that lingered on the cloth. This place, these people were becoming home to her. Family.

  She tucked the necktie into her pocket and climbed the stairs to her room. There might not be any work left for her to do in the parlor, but there was at least one chore she could complete before retiring for the night. Adelaide turned up the lamp on her bedside table and carried her sewing box over to the borrowed gown. With meticulous care, she snipped and removed the basting threads from the lacy hem and used her hand to flatten the hidden flounce back down to its original position. That done, she folded the dress and carried it up to the schoolroom.

  Feeling her way in the dark, Adelaide followed the path of the wall until her toe struck the first of the trunks. She laid the dress upon the lid and turned toward the center of the room. Enough moonlight filtered through the windows to outline the furniture. She reached her desk and fumbled in the top drawer for the matchbox. Once she mana
ged to grab hold of one of the tiny wooden sticks that lay inside, she struck the phosphorus tip and lit the lamp. Soon the room glowed with mellow light.

  Adelaide returned to the trunks and opened the second one. She sat back on her heels and grimaced. The contents were a mess. Apparently yesterday’s hunt for pretty treasures had been a mite too vigorous. She would probably have to unpack the entire thing to reestablish order. Pushing back up to her knees, Adelaide got to work.

  As she refolded the gowns and accessories, she discovered a stationery set and a leather-bound journal. Adelaide set those aside, thinking Isabella might wish to see them. Later, when she closed the lid on the straight-as-a-pin trunk, she carried the paper items back to her desk. Settling into her chair, she contemplated the journal. Perhaps she should place it back in the trunk. If Isabella’s mother had recorded confidential thoughts in the book, Adelaide had no right to pry. Yet the words might bring Isabella comfort and give her a way to reconnect with the parent she’d lost. Did privacy really matter when the author was dead?

  Adelaide toyed with the ribbon that protruded from the bottom of the book, marking a page near the end. When her father had died, she would have given anything to hear his voice one more time, even through an old letter. Sheba had filled that need for her in many ways, a physical reminder of her father’s love. What did Isabella have? If Adelaide could find a kind thought penned in the deceased woman’s hand, it could ease Izzy’s grief. Wouldn’t her mother want that for her?

  Nibbling on her bottom lip, Adelaide pulled on the ribbon and opened the book. Only two lines had been scrawled across the top of the marked page, the handwriting so scratchy and weak Adelaide struggled to decipher it. She squinted as she focused on the nearly illegible script. As it began to make sense, her throat tightened in an effort to keep her racing heart from escaping her chest.

  If Reginald ever finds Isabella, he will destroy her. Protect her, Lord God, for I know he will come after us.

  Chapter 18

  Adelaide didn’t climb into bed until well past midnight. Even then sleep eluded her. She was too disturbed by what she’d read in Lucinda Petchey’s journal. After stumbling upon that final entry, she knew she had to read it all. Forewarned was forearmed, and she was determined to learn every scrap of information she could in order to defend Isabella from whatever danger her mother believed threatened her. Adelaide had read straight through from the first page to the last, not moving from her desk until she had reached the end.

  Now she huddled in her bed, trying to recover from the shock of her discovery. Such vile treachery was difficult to take in. Yet once it penetrated, a devastating ache crept through her body. She hugged her pillow to her chest and rolled to her side, drawing her knees toward her stomach. But comfort eluded her. She wept for Lucinda and the evil she’d been forced to endure and whispered prayers on behalf of her soul and that of her beloved Stuart. But most of all, she prayed for Isabella, for protection from the danger that stalked her.

  How could God allow such tragedy to befall his people? It was wrong! Oh, she knew he didn’t cause the death of Isabella’s parents. A heart hardened by envy and greed accomplished that feat. Still, God held the power to intervene, to prevent this kind of suffering. So why didn’t he?

  Adelaide shivered beneath the coverlet, unable to get warm. Every time her eyes drifted closed, she saw the journal pages fan before her and watched Lucinda’s elegant, flowing script deteriorate into an illegible scrawl. She hadn’t deserved such an end.

  Lucinda had started off so happy—a blushing bride with an adoring husband she had affectionately dubbed her reformed rake. Stuart had apparently been quite a rogue in his youth. When he first proposed, she turned him down, telling him she could never marry a man who didn’t share her Christian convictions. She expected him to vanish from her life. Instead, he showed up at the chapel she attended every Sunday morning.

  At first, she suspected that he only came in order to woo her into accepting his proposal, so she waited for him to tire of the effort. He never did. Weeks later, she discovered that he was meeting privately with the minister. That’s when she knew his faith was more than pretense. They married the following summer.

  The journal had been full of happy anecdotes and loving sentimentality for dozens of pages. The only dark spot was Lucinda’s concern over Stuart’s relationship with his brother. Reginald resented the changes in Stuart and blamed Lucinda. Her husband had tried on numerous occasions to explain to his brother about how coming to know Christ had been the true catalyst for his transformation. Yet Reginald refused to listen. He flaunted his wild way of living and began accruing substantial gaming debts. Stuart excused his behavior in the beginning, telling Lucinda that Reginald felt betrayed and was just lashing out. However, when Isabella was born, Stuart stopped paying off his brother’s debts. The money wasn’t just his anymore. It represented his daughter’s future.

  For several years, things were better. Reginald seemed to learn restraint, and an awkward peace fell over the family. Then he started gambling again—heavily—and his losses greatly outnumbered his wins. He used guilt, family obligation, and even the argument of Christian charity to wheedle money out of Stuart. His brother had no choice but to cut him off before he ran the family into the ground. He rewrote his will. Reginald would remain the heir and inherit the family title and entailed estates, but all the money would go to Lucinda and Isabella. Stuart bequeathed his brother a generous monthly stipend, but Reginald refused to be mollified. He raged when he learned what Stuart had done. The hunting accident occurred less than a month later.

  Adelaide opened her eyes and stared at the darkness. She didn’t want to think about such a dreadful thing, but images spawned from Lucinda’s terse description played over and over in her mind.

  Stuart staggered out of the forest into the clearing where the women were playing croquet. Blood stained the left side of his shirt. I screamed. He reached for me, then fell to the ground. I ran to him. Reginald got there first.

  The entry had not been recorded until two months after the event, once the fog of grief had begun to clear, and it marked a decided shift in tone for the rest of the journal. From this point on, the writings consisted of facts and questions and deductive reasoning. Lucinda was no longer keeping a diary of precious memories. She was documenting evidence. Evidence condemning her brother-in-law of murder.

  He raced out of the woods, leapt off his horse, and cradled Stuart’s limp body in his arms. I remember that when I finally came upon them, the first thing I did was press my hand over Stuart’s wound. Which means Reginald had done nothing to staunch the flow of blood before my arrival. Then, every time Stuart tried to rasp out a word, Reginald told him not to talk, to save his strength. It seemed like a caring gesture at the time, but now I wonder if he was afraid of what Stuart might reveal.

  There was so much blood, and his chest rattled like the chains of death each time he took a breath. I knew my beloved Stuart wouldn’t survive, so I whispered words of heaven in his ear as tears coursed down my face. He closed his eyes and seemed to find a measure of peace amid his pain. Then Reginald gained his attention with a loud promise to take care of me and Isabella. Stuart’s eyes shot open, the terror in them unmistakable. My only concern was calming him again, so I didn’t dwell on his reaction. However, I have thought of little else lately. Stuart feared for me and our daughter. Even with the rift between the two brothers, my husband would have no reason to fear for our safety unless something had convinced him that Reginald posed a dire threat.

  What would be more convincing than a bullet fired into his chest from the barrel of his brother’s rifle?

  Adelaide moaned and curled into a tighter ball. Cain and Abel. That’s what this was. Cain and Abel. She’d known the Bible story since she was a child and understood that jealousy could twist love into hate, even between brothers, but she’d never personally been exposed to such venom. It made her ill. She didn’t want to believe it.

&nbs
p; If only the journal had been full of emotional rants and wild accusations. Then she could have rationalized that Lucinda’s grief had led her to misinterpret the situation. However, the woman’s cool logic seemed irrefutable. Even so, Lucinda had no proof, only speculation, and Adelaide considered dismissing the woman’s theories for her own peace of mind if nothing else. But she couldn’t. Because what the journal revealed next only solidified Lady Petchey’s hypotheses.

  Lucinda remained at their country home after the funeral, knowing Reginald wouldn’t forfeit the excitements of London for long. After he left she and Isabella slowly began to recover from their loss.

  Then Reginald returned, claiming his brother’s death had changed him. He charmed the servants, the neighbors, and even the local vicar with his solicitous attitude toward her. They all remarked on how fortunate she was to have such a caring relative to see to her needs. What truly surprised her, though, was that he kept up the pretense in private. So much so that she began to doubt her own conviction that it was all a ploy. Then he started offering to take over her financial responsibilities in an effort to relieve her of the tiresome duty. That’s when she knew her first instinct had been correct. He was after the money.

  She refused his offer of assistance three times before he finally stopped asking. However, his kindness did not abate, further confounding her. And when she became violently ill a week later, he stayed by her side. Reluctant though she was to accept any favors from him, she found herself relying on his strength more and more as her body turned traitor on her. She vomited off and on for weeks, the cramping fierce and debilitating. Unable to keep any food down, she grew steadily weaker. Her physician diagnosed an inflammation of the stomach and intestines and left her several packets of medicinal powders. The medicine left a bitter taste in her mouth but alleviated her symptoms to the point that she was able to eat again. Yet when the packets were gone, her illness returned.