“The troops might talk,” Christopher agreed. “I shouldn’t like to get a reputation as a bad husband.”
“You could never do that.”
Victor bit into an apple loudly as they kissed. “We’re all taking coaches up to Larkspur as soon as Lizzie pops. She has an absolute insistence about lying on a blanket with Jelly. It makes no sense. And Jelly wants to plant her own apple tree. At least Arlo can keep it alive for her; she’s got no green thumb. You all should come; there’s endless guest bedrooms.”
“That’s a kind offer,” Christopher said awkwardly, but Clara finished his sentence firmly:
“We should love to. We miss Angelika and Arlo very much.”
“When Father Porter shuffles off his mortal coil, they can come back for a visit,” Victor said. “There’s no one left in the village who knows who Arlo really is. Thimms and the magistrate have moved away, thanks to some mysterious meddling.” He jingled his pocket for effect. “He can come back then and walk about without looking over his shoulder. And if Belladonna could accept that she’s a pig, Lizzie can walk around without a broom.” Still, his face creased in amusement as his ever-present shadow put her head against his leg. Down to her adoring face, he said, “You must give up on me.”
Belladonna made an impassioned squeal that meant, Never.
“I don’t think Arlo has minded being holed up at Larkspur in the country,” Christopher said with amusement. “I’m sure he’s been well-occupied.”
“Reading poetry,” Clara said, and even Edwin laughed.
Mary wasn’t in on the joke. “My grandniece, Mary—”
“I have never heard so much about a stranger as this new Mary,” Victor complained.
“She writes and reads poetry. She wishes to write a book, but she cannot find a topic. That is why she is coming to stay. She will find inspiration here. She has torn her hair out with frustration, according to her letter.”
“She will find your home positively charming,” Clara encouraged with a smile. “You have decorated it to look so wonderful. I see Angelika has treated you to some fine furnishings.”
Through the window, Mary’s little cottage was a miniature palace, decorated in the finest French wallpapers. “She is a decadent young woman,” Mary said, and then added in a voice like she was practicing: “But that is a reason we love her. Or, I should say, I love her.”
Clara rubbed her arm. “Doesn’t it all look so pretty. We might go and say hello to Jacob and Adam. Is Sarah here, too?”
Mary replied, “Sarah will be at school, but Adam and Jacob are here.” The little family departed up the path. “Master Victor, I want to know something. Can I tell young Mary about the comings and goings of Blackthorne Manor? I think it might inspire her.”
Victor thought, shrugged, and gave his apple core to Belladonna. “Why not? I’ll send Schneider a copy. Won’t that just burn his biscuits? We would have to ask Jelly if she consents to being a character. After all, I’m nothing without her.”
Mary let out a bark of laughter. “I would strongly suggest changing every detail possible. If I know her, she’ll say that under no circumstances will she allow her name in print to be attached to this scandalous tale.”
“Shame. She was right there, next to me, achieving the same as me.”
Mary squinted up at him. “She was. It’s nice to hear you say it, too. But she’s less vain about it than you.”
Victor put a dramatic hand on his chest. “I submit to your grandniece that I am pure inspiration, through and through.” He straightened the huge green emerald pinned to the old woman’s cardigan. “Wouldn’t it be fun to give Jelly a copy of this future book at some Christmastime? Perhaps Lizzie can adapt it for the stage.”
“You are getting ahead of yourself. It’s not written yet. And I doubt Angelika will have time to read it, what with all their traveling,” Mary replied, and she watched Victor walk back to the house with her heart in her eyes.
Now free of the vines and cobwebs, and appreciated at last, Blackthorne Manor had regained the power of crystal-clear omniscience, and it had observed these exchanges. It knew that the apples would no longer fall, that visitors would be frequent, and that the stockpiled gold was now circulating in the villages. The hair-plaiting, bath-filling Angelika Frankenstein had moved away, but it wasn’t something to be sad about. There was very little sadness left at Blackthorne. The regular evening-time routine that followed was as familiar to it as a heartbeat.
Chimneys threaded pale blue smoke into the dimming twilight; Adam’s stomach rumbled at the smell of Mary’s stew.
Victor climbed the staircase inside to kiss Lizzie breathless, but not before pausing beneath his new picture frame, hanging directly above the staircase. It looked ridiculously small, just a framed page, centered on the brighter rectangle of wallpaper, in Caroline Frankenstein’s recently vacated space.
“I’m better than him,” Victor said gently, and smoothed his hand over the letter from Herr Jürgen Schneider, which affirmed the sentiment. “I’m so much better than him. Lizzie, my duchess, guess what?” This he shouted, utterly invigorated.
“What, Bear?” she called from her nest in their bed.
“I’m going to live on in history, forever!”
Lizzie cackled. “I have no doubt. Now get in here and give me my kiss.”
*
Miles away, at Larkspur Lodge, a similar evening routine was playing out, with a slight difference. “Are you sure?” Arlo was asking Angelika. He put another log into the fireplace, and then knelt down between her slippers. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Do you believe I am incapable of counting the passing days?” She held her arched eyebrow a fraction longer, and then laughed. “Yes, I am sure.”
“Then it’s a miracle.”
“I’ve always had faith in you,” she replied as he began to kiss her stomach. “And you have put your heart and soul into it. Every room in the house, you have made an attempt. Over and over, just when I thought your inspiration had run dry, you surprised me.”
“It’s true.” Arlo laughed, and when he put both hands into hers, she luxuriated in the warmth she felt in his fingers as she massaged his lingering aches away. She was the furnace that fueled and healed him. Her body was the giver of all life. She now had an extra reason to be smug about it.
Angelika sewed, night and day, creating exquisite garments for all she loved. Arlo had protested that a baby did not need a cloak and silver-beaded slippers, but his protests were cheerfully ignored. She occupied herself making hampers of baby clothes and food that were delivered to new mothers in the neighboring counties.
She funded a small army of midwives.
She was a benefactress to anyone she believed in.
Before the baby arrived, Arlo occupied himself in the evenings by rereading his beloved copy of Institutiones Rei Herbariae by Tournefort to make sense of the wild varieties of plants that grew across their estate. Blooms and weeds filled the intertwined courtyards and mazes that made up Larkspur Lodge’s jaw-dropping grounds. He had found a strange little thistle in a hedgerow that required some research. He opened the cover and smoothed his fingertips over the inscription, never again allowing a single one of his wife’s declarations to go unnoticed. It was perhaps a little sacrilegious to write in such a rare old book, but she had amended her annotation several times:
To my love: One day I will write your true name here.
Will, then Father Arlo, and then just Arlo, my husband,
and now a father!
With all that I am,
I am always,
your Angelika.
The seasons changed again, and the day came that Angelika Northcott gave her beloved Arlo what he had feared was impossible. She gave birth to the baby in her bathtub and cut the cord with her favorite sewing scissors. She wouldn’t need them for a little while; at least until her new arrival required a wardrobe refresh.
From her new home above the mantel, the portrait of Caroline Frankenstein observed the scene below. Her daughter had made her perfect match, and it was that forever, Frankenstein kind of love. Larkspur Lodge held a similar view.
The baby boy looked absolutely nothing like his father.
They loved him more than any little boy had ever been loved before.
That much was certain.
Acknowledgments
Before I thank some people, I want to acknowledge that this book surely contains historical inaccuracies. I know that men did not usually wear wedding rings in 1814, but I could not resist, for the sake of the story. Sometimes, when writing fiction, you take certain licenses and risks—and for me, this book was the best risk ever.