Page 58 of The Curious Story of the Missing Lady
There was a third choice, she decided at that moment: get up and find something to do.
In the gaming room was a deck of cards. If only she could remember that game she learned in Paris when she was a girl. It was a game that one could play all by oneself, and it was called ‘Patience’.
Yes, that’s what she needed now. Patience the gameandits corollary state of mind.
She remembered a box of love letters that Ambrose had written to her when they were courting. Oh, to be back in that time. To be young and full of vinegar. She ran a hand through her hair. It was still full, yes, but it had lost a great deal of its lustre and silkiness.
She found herself avoiding that box. It was as if reaching for it would awaken the ghosts within, and opening it release them.
They were older now and wiser. Much wiser. That fact cut at her. Of all the ridiculous things for a youth to quest after, wisdom was the most ridiculous. For along with the knowledge of life’s treasures came the knowledge of its sin and disaster as well.
She reached for the sherry bottle. A small amount should suffice—not more than a gill, her mother used to say, when dreams themselves do not contain a strong enough lure to sleep.
She sipped from it and thought of the box of letters. Ambrose was her stone in this world. He always had been. Did those letters do him justice? Why had she saved them? Did she need to be reminded of who he once was?
And here, the box was in her hands. And here was a letter, and another. All saying the same thing over and over again. Words, only. She was his one, true love. That was the message.
She had to make herself believe it. Why? What was it about him that she could only admit to herself now, on the third gill of sherry in the middle of a night pregnant with worry?
Yes, this is why she kept the box. She had to remind herself from time to time. Something in his manner back in those blind days...
Hark, a galloping of horses? Could it be ...?
#
Ambrose came bursting through the front door, and gallant Lord Peter behind him – carrying her dear Madeline’s limp form in his arms.
She thought she might swoon from the sight. She let out a pitiful scream that resounded through the great hall and back into her own ears.
Ambrose, her stone, caught her as she lost her balance, his mellow voice reassuring her.
“She’s OK, my heart. Rejoice. Our child is safe.”
Foster arrived, tying his robe. “M’Lord! Is everything alright?”
“Everything is more than alright, Foster, old boy. Lady Madeline is home again. But she will need some time to recover from her ordeal. You and Lisbelle assist Lord Peter in moving her to her bedroom.
At this time, Lisbelle arrived, and the shriek that came from her lips pierced the air like no avian call could have rivalled. After a laborious task of reassurance from Foster, Lisbelle controlled herself and set quickly to leading the way for Lord Peter.
Ambrose turned to his wife. “My heart, I hope I have not worried you.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “I trusted you from the start.”
Chapter 44
Lord Ambrose had not slept much, nor had he spoken to his wife about the adventure into the woods. There would be time enough for that. Over breakfast, he told her that he had a great many tasks to accomplish this day, and apologised in advance for his not being accessible to her.
He found he could only take in small bites that morning, for his stomach was a great knot, pulling ever tighter. There was only one way to untie it, and that was to confront what had tied it in the first place.
The afternoon was a dreary one, as clouds were lowering fast above him. The heaviness in the air pressed on his chest with such might that he felt like he wanted to climb out from under it.
He bid his driver to wait outside the prison. “I do not know how long I shall be. I’m sorry.”
Constable Herrick greeted him with a pleasant smile. “Well, the deed is done, eh, Lord Stamford? The law is just and comes out in the end on top every time.”
“I say it must. Well done, old chap.” He shook the constable’s hand warmly, but there was no intentional warmth in it. The heavy air outside persisted in this very room.
“It’s an odd hour for you to come ’round, M’Lord.”
