It was a valid concern. How many times had she employed jealousy as a villain’s motive? She sidled closer, hoping neither man noticed, and retrieved the horseshoe from where it sat between them. It wasn’t much, but if necessary, she’d protect Abraham and deliver some bad luck right to Billy Poe’s face.
CHAPTER22
IFMRS. HAWKING HADN’T AWAKENEDAbraham before dinner and demanded he go home to bathe because he smelled like a decomposing carcass, he’d still be asleep on that sofa, despite the day being well past noon. Two baths later, the only thing about him that had changed was now he felt like a resurrected carcass instead of a rotting one. With the way his feet dragged and how heavy his limbs hung, he’d probably soon be mistaken for Frankenstein’s monster and chased through the streets by a mob with pitchforks. His siblings had shown him no mercy. Why should strangers?
Clara had insisted he use her secret stash of face paint so that no one would mistake him for a raccoon, thanks to the punches from Sullivan and Xavier.
More bothered by Abraham’s stench, Jake had stood as far down the hall as he could and pinched his nose. “What’d you do? Die in a barrel of perfume?”
Maybe Abraham shouldn’t have doused himself so thoroughly with Cristiani’s Florida Water Cologne.
He raked a hand through damp hair as he slogged up the Plane Manor drive to resume his duties. The spicy aroma of dandified corpse still clung to his skin, though he’d gone back to the tub and scrubbed until bright red. If Mrs. Hawking turned him away, he’d resort to a tomato bath. If it worked on skunk spray, it’d work on him.
Mrs. Hawking opened the door before he reached it, and gave him a wide berth as he passed.
“Detective Lawson wasn’t pleased that you left Miss Pelton unprotected, but I convinced him you had no choice.”
At the slight grin to her sharp-featured face, Abraham knew Lawson had discovered what a reckoning the housekeeper could inflict. Abraham had no doubt that the reason not a crack of outside light made it into the foyer when she closed the door was because even the curtains didn’t dare neglect their duty under her command.
Mrs. Hawking continued. “Detective Lawson said he’ll return after his interview with Mr. Clemens.”
“Thank you. Where is everyone else?”
“Miss Lydia’s in the parlor, Miss Theresa is caring for Tipsy in the carriage house, Colonel Plane is at the printshop, and the rest of the family is resting.”
Abraham bristled. “They left her alone?”
After the attack through the window and the near abduction, shouldn’t Dr. Pelton have at least confined Lydia to the second floor?
Mrs. Hawking sniffed as if personally offended by the accusation in his voice. “She’s safe enough. Besides, you won’t want to stay in there either, I wager. The girl’s pacing and muttering up a storm. She must be arguing with her characters again.”
Keen disappointment weighed upon him. So she still planned to fulfill her contract?
The woman was as persistent as a bad case of lice. How could she even consider continuing writing after last night? The putrid odor still coated his throat and tainted everything he ate or drank. She might not have witnessed the scene, but her experience from the street should have been enough to make her see reason.
He massaged his forehead.God, give me the patience needed with this woman. You’ve called me to be her friend, but I don’t know that I can silently accept her choice.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hawking. I could use a full, bracing pot of coffee, if you have it.”
“You’ll need more than that with her. I’ll put some cotton on the tray for your ears.” She pivoted with a crisp about-face and marched down the hall.
God bless that woman, but it would take more than cotton to escape Lydia’s antics.
On a well-rested day, he didn’t know what to do with her. In his current state? She’d truss him up while spouting off some romantic delusion all before he could react.
But if Paul could live with a thorn in his side, then Abraham supposed he could live with Lydia as his.
At the parlor door, he rested his forehead against the cool wood. He just needed a moment to gather his wits before facing the chaos that was Lydia Pelton.
Agitated footsteps approached from the inside. He drew a fortifying breath. He wasn’t ready, but clearly God thought he was.
“I just don’t know what to do.” Lydia’s voice grew and faded as she passed the door and continued on. “I mean I know what to do, but I don’t want to do it, God.”
God? Was she using Him as a character in a book, or was she praying? If the latter, it would be indecent of him to continue listening, but if the former, he could linger outside a few minutes more.
“Writing has been everything to me. It’s not just what I do; it’s who I am. How am I to process this world, let alone impact it, without a pen in my hand?”
Her frustration and desperation kicked him in the gut. It was so easy to believe the worst of people, but Lydia was evidently wrestling with her desire to change. He’d intruded on a raw and unguarded conversation that she expected only God to witness. Abraham should walk away and allow her the solitude and space needed for such a deliberation. Lord knew how often he’d gone on solitary walks to achieve the same purpose.
