For the first time, Vivian awoke to the likelihood that Wilma might be sent up for murder. She went wide-eyed in panic. “You can’t send her away! Who will take care of Bets and Henry? Mr. Morgan isn’t their father. He won’t do it!”
“Mr. Morgan will be sent to assizes for kidnapping, at the very least,” Kate said gently. “Gravesyde does not have a workhouse or orphanage. The children are now your responsibility. We’ll all attempt to help, of course.”
Vivien stared at her blankly.
At the sound of silence, Rafe barged in. “Who let Hugh out of the stall that day you fell on the stairs?” he demanded, apparently still irate about that.
“Wilma,” the girl whispered, jarred back to the moment. “He’s my pa. I pretended to sprain my ankle so they wouldn’t be noticed.”
“You said you were pushed,” Rafe reminded her. “You accused some unknown person of pushing you.”
Vivien sighed and crossed her hands in her lap. “It sounded scarier than saying I tripped.”
Kate rolled her eyes. They wouldn’t have seriously considered that Ana Marie was murdered had it not been for Vivien’s lie about being pushed. Of course, she said that’s what Wilma did all the time, push. So it had probably come easily to her tongue.
Kate didn’t know what else to say to the stricken young woman. She turned away, taking Fletch’s arm, leaving Hunt and Rafe to question her more. They were the authorities, not her.
All she’d wanted to know was what happened to Ana Marie. Knowing it wasn’t about her wasn’t as satisfying as she’d hoped.
“There are no easy answers, are there?” She wiped an errant tear as Fletch led her down the long hall toward the main manor.
“Well, the chit could abandon the children and run off with the actors and sew costumes.” Fletch didn’t sound much concerned. “It’s what we make of difficult circumstances that reveal our characters, I suppose. When life threw manure at you, you married, and raised three beautiful children, without pushing anyone down stairs.”
“Manure?” His odd manner of looking at life and finding respectable words for expressing himself aroused her dormant humor.
He ignored her comment and insisted on strolling into the main house as though he lived there.
Kate didn’t know why he wanted to go to the library, but he obviously had a mission. They passed the dining room where a late luncheon buffet had been set out. The courtroom crowd was swarming the tables.
She was peckish, so she knew Fletch must be also, but apparently he was more interested in whatever goal he had in mind.
“I am trying very hard to be civilized,” Fletch said with discomfort. His big, brown hand covered hers on his arm as they reached the library doors. “It takes a man of character to deserve a woman of character.”
She bit back a smile. If this was his way of courting, she wouldn’t argue. “I think a man must already be of strong character to survive years of war and. . . manure. . . thrown at him.” Blushing at her forwardness, Kate let him lead her into the late earl’s grandiose library.
Where the librarian, Oliver, Davy, and their tutor, sat at a long table, perusing sheets of. . . hieroglyphics, Kate assumed, from what she could see.
The boys politely came to their feet and bowed at Kate’s entrance, as if she were a grand lady. Or perhaps it was in respect for the former major, who settled her into a chair across from them.
“Tell us what you’ve found. I don’t want to start any more foolish rumors of treasure.” Fletch took the seat beside her while the boys returned to their chairs.
“Clock design.” Davy pushed one sheet to Fletch. “Correct weight of pendulum. We must open it.”
That’s when Kate noticed the long brass pendulums on the table, wrapped in felt. She hadn’t paid attention to the clock all week, because it had been silent. These were what made it work?
Impatiently, Oliver shoved one of the pendulums across to Fletch.
The tutor spoke up. “Oliver, explain why you wish it opened.”
The boy grimaced. “It might have information to help with the map.” He pushed another drawing across the table.
Minerva Upton, the librarian, gestured at a box set to one side. “The boys have considerately packed all your tools.” Amusement danced in her eyes.
“We have permission to do this?” Fletch stroked the engraved brass piece as if it were a prized pet, apparently reluctant to damage the beautiful workmanship.
Both boys nodded. Mr. Birdwhistle answered for them. “We have spoken with the Huntleys. The captain said anything that keeps the. . .” He hesitated.
“Frigging nuisance quiet,” Davy supplied without expression.
