Installment I
in which our Hero enlists the help of a brave and kind Neighbor and encounters a most dire Prediction!
The grand estate of Summerworth sat nestled between a raging river and the windswept moors. Its turrets and towers loomed large, declaring to all who drew near that this was the home of a noble and exalted family. Yet, within its palatial walls, a mournful sadness wrapped ice around the heart of the only person who lived therein.
After great tragedy and heartrending loss, only Mr. Wellington Quincey remained of those who had once made their home in the splendor of Summerworth. His family had dwindled to only one; the Summerworth staff had dwindled to only two.
Wellington’s despondency had rendered the house an almost unbearably sad place to live. His sorrows were many. His companions were few.
For all his anguish, he was not an unkind gentleman. Those who knew him liked him. Many a heart ached at his suffering and isolation. His family was gone. His home was remote.
He had all but given up on finding companionship and love and a new beginning by the time he reached his twenty-fifth year. Loneliness was his lot in life, and he would endure it. But there was one thing he could not sort out. How was it that an estate as far from neighbors as his, so devoid of staff and visitors, was the victim of an unending string of thefts?
Jewelry had disappeared. Silver. Paintings. Priceless heirlooms. His trusted servants hadn’t the least idea what precisely had befallen Summerworth. The missing items could not be located. No clues had been left behind. He was utterly and completely baffled.
It was with this mystery hanging heavy on his weary mind that he mounted his trusty steed and dedicated a morning to riding a circuit of the estate. He was not at risk of being beggared by the thefts, but neither could he ignore the growing list of pilfered items. Who could possibly be taking them? What ill-intentioned thief was bringing such misery to his already painful life?
He rounded a turn in the path as it passed the cottage of the estate steward. Elmore Combs had remained in his post after the death of Wellington’s grandfather some fifteen years earlier, Wellington’s father ten years after that, and Wellington’s older brother a mere two years ago.
Combs’s daughter, Tillie, stood outside, pulling laundry off the clothesline. Wellington had known Tillie since they had been children running and skipping and laughing through the meadows and lawns and streams of Summerworth. They had been dear friends during those long-ago days. He hadn’t seen as much of her the past few years as he would have liked. Life had demanded too much of him.
“Good morning, Tillie.” He pulled his horse to a halt beside the house. “How are you faring this fine day?”
She folded a sheet against herself and smiled at him. “I’m well, sir.”
“You needn’t call me ‘sir,’” he said as he dismounted. “We have been friends all our lives.”
Tillie laid the sheet in her large basket. “But you’re grown now, and the master of the estate. Things ain’t quite what they used to be.”
He pulled another sheet from the line and began folding it himself. “Are we not still friends, Tillie?”
“You’re hardly here anymore. I’ve a closer friendship with the hedgehog who lives in back of the cottage.”
Her words struck deep. Heaven forgive him, he had been neglectful. He’d lost his grandparents, his parents, and his brother. He seldom saw his friends from Cambridge. He had no true friends amongst Society in London, merely a list of vague acquaintances. He kept to himself, a shield against the grief of losing people he felt close to. But it meant he remained painfully lonely.
“I could come help you fold laundry,” he offered. “Then we could talk as we work.”
Amusement danced in her eyes. “Folding laundry ain’t for the master of the estate.”
“I’m doing it now.” He dropped the sheet into the basket. “Besides, who will even see me working other than you and your father? This needn’t be a source of teasing, unless you mean to engage in jests at my expense.”
“’Course not.”
He took down a serviceable-looking apron and folded it as well. “If laundry is off-limits to me, what will you permit me to do? Sweep the front stoop? Weed the kitchen garden? Are either of those acceptable for a ‘master of the estate’?”
She folded a shirt, no doubt her father’s. “I suspect you’ve spent time weeding and sweeping at your own house, it being short-staffed like it is.”
“Lately, I’ve invested most of my time attempting to locate a virtual treasure trove of missing things.”
Nothing remained on the clothesline. She took up the basket and held it against her hip. “Things’ve been swiped?”
“Quite a number of things,” he said. “Jewelry. Silver. Paintings.”
“And you’ve not located any of it?”
He shook his head. “I fear this mystery will prove utterly unsolvable.”
He walked beside her back to the quaint and inviting cottage. The door stood open, allowing them to enter without a pause.
Her father was inside and greeted Wellington. “Welcome, Mr. Quincey. Have you come on estate business?”
“I stopped to offer a good morning to my lifelong friend but have been rightly informed by your daughter that I have not been an attentive companion to her these years.”
Mr. Combs turned wide eyes on his child. “Tillie. You’d speak so critically to a gentleman of his standing? ’Ave you taken leave of your manners, girl?”
“Pray, do not scold her,” Wellington insisted. “I was rightly chastised, and I mean to make amends.”
“How?” Tillie never had lacked for boldness.
“We spend little time together, as you rightly observed, and I have a maddening riddle at the estate. Perhaps you might help me sort it.”
She looked intrigued. If she agreed to join the hunt for the elusive thief, he would have her company again. The house would not be so empty. The joys of their childhood friendship would bring light back into his darkened world.
“Would you help?” he pressed. “I would be greatly obliged.”
“I do have a knack for sorting mysteries.” She carried her basket to the table. “We could solve this’n together.”
“I would be deeply indebted to you.” He turned to Mr. Combs. “A great many things have gone missing up at the manor house, odd bits and large pieces. I cannot for the life of me guess where they’ve gone or who might have taken them. You would not begrudge Tillie some time spent helping me discover what’s happened to them, would you? I would not, for all the world, wish to add to your burdens here.”
“We’ll manage,” Mr. Combs said. “Besides, I’m curious to know who—or what—has been making off with your things.”
“‘Or what’?” Wellington repeated.
Tillie nodded. “My father is quite well versed in all the old tales and creatures: pixies, fairies, changelings, redcaps.”
“You suspect my thief is a mythical monster?” The moors were filled with mystery and magic, but Wellington hadn’t thought such had bled onto his own estate. “Is that your theory as well, Tillie?”
“I think we’d best assume anythin’ is possible.”
“Mark me, children, there’s more in this ol’ world than can be seen or understood.” Mr. Combs eyed them in turn. “Unless you proceed with a healthy dose of respect for what you can’t explain, you’ll forever be chasing what you can’t foresee.”
Installment II
in which our Hero begins an Investigation
and accepts a most unusual Challenge!
Wellington had all but forgotten what a mischievous delight Tillie was. She arrived at Summerworth for their investigation with a jest-filled list of suspects, including everything from “a dog with a poor upbringing” to “a flock of magpies with remarkable coordination.”
Her laughter had ever been a source of utter delight to him—to all, in fact. Had ever the heavens blessed a soul with so happy a disposition as she?
“I believe we would do well to begin where the items have gone missing,” he said. “Most have disappeared from my sitting area.”
“Your private rooms?” She clasped a hand to her heart. “How very scandalous!” Amusement twinkled in her eyes.
“It is a fortunate thing this house is empty,” Wellington said. “You would have all the countryside whispering about me.”
“Is that why you never invite me up to the house any longer?” Though her humor remained, a touch of earnestness had entered her tone.
“I ought to have come by your cottage any number of times these past years,” he said. “The weight of grief can crush one’s judgment.”
She took his hand, as she’d so often done in their younger years. “Don’t you fret it, Welly. We’ve a mystery to solve, you and I. That’ll lift your spirits.”
Was ever a man so undeservedly blessed with so forgiving a friend? They walked hand in hand up the stairs and down the corridor. She turned toward what had been his rooms when they were children.
“No, Tillie. I am in the master’s rooms now.”
She laughed lightly. “I forget sometimes how very much has changed since we were children.”
“You haven’t changed,” he said.
She pulled away, preceding him across the threshold of the master’s chambers, but tossed back over her shoulder, “You might be surprised.”
Wellington had spent his share of time amongst the ladies of Society and their practiced primness. Tillie was a breath of utterly and joyfully fresh air.
“Now.” She stopped in the middle of the room. “What has gone missing?”
He joined her. “A painting off that wall.” He pointed. “My father’s pocket watch. Two necklaces that once belonged to my mother that I have kept in my bureau as a reminder of her. A pair of pearl cuff links.”
“Blimey,” she muttered. “You’re being pillaged.”
“I know it. And this isn’t the only room from which items are missing.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Smith would not have taken them.” Tillie had known his two remaining servants her whole life and knew well their goodness and utter trustworthiness. No, there was no question of the Smiths being anything other than loyal and good and true.
“I’ve not had visitors in months,” he said. “And no tradesmen have come to the door. I cannot sort it. Indeed, it is a question that sits heavy upon my mind.”
“How large was the painting?” Tillie asked.
“One grown person could carry it,” he said, “but not without effort.”
Her face twisted in an expression of contemplation. Wellington smiled from his very heart at the once-familiar sight. While she had always been of a playful disposition, no one who had known her could doubt her intelligence.
“Were any other large items taken?” she asked.
“Yes. Some that would be difficult to sneak away with.”
She turned to him, excitement sparkling in her deep-brown eyes. “Any too large to remove far without a cart?”
He thought over his list. “A heavy gilded mirror disappeared from my mother’s room. That could not be carried far, even by several people.”
“Do you realize what this means?” She took hold of his arm, bouncing in place. “No one has come or gone. The mirror, at least, must still be in this house. Your blighter likely tucked it away somewhere to nip off with later.”
What a stroke of genius! What a needed bit of luck! “If we discover where the things are hidden, we can reclaim them.”
She nodded. “You’ll have your treasures back and might even catch yourself a thief.”
Oh, rapturous discovery! This time he seized her hand. “I know precisely where we ought to look first.”
“We should do this more often, Wellington.”
He laughed. How long had it been since he had well and truly laughed? Tillie had always been his sunshine on rainy days. He’d been a fool not to reach out to her during the storms of the past years.
They moved swiftly down the servants’ stairs into the dim silence below.
“I thought we agreed Mr. and Mrs. Smith weren’t our thieves,” she said.
“They aren’t. But most of the rooms on this level are shut up and never used. There is an exit on this floor of the house with no stairs to navigate.”
“Ah.” She nodded her understanding. “A perfect arrangement for slipping ill-gotten goods out unseen.”
The belowstairs was quiet. Only the ever-blowing wind off the moors rattling the windows broke the silence. This had once been the bustling center of a lively household. Now it was little more than a cavern. Life too often demanded exacting tolls.
With an eager bounce to her step, Tillie began searching the rooms. “No pilfered goods in here, guv’nuh,” she called out.
“I object to ‘guv’nuh’ as much as I did to ‘sir,’” he said. “And, for the record, I’m no longer overly fond of ‘Welly.’”
She plopped her fists on her hips and, standing outside the next room she meant to search, said, “You’ve become quite the pompous bore, Wellington Quincey.”
“I have not.”
Her head tipped to the side in a pose of theatrical disbelief. “Then prove it.”
“And how would you propose I ‘prove it’?”
A slow, sly grin spread over her face. “A race. I will check the rooms on this side of the corridor; you check the other side. The first one to the other end wins.”
“A footrace?” He shook his head. “We are not eight years old any longer.”
“Precisely what a pompous bore would say.” Though she still smiled, unmistakable disappointment flickered across her face.
He could not bear to disappoint his oldest friend, not when she had just that day brought the first flicker of light back into his gloomy existence.
With an air of determination, he pulled off his jacket and hung it on the handle of the nearest door. “Prepare yourself for defeat, Tillie Combs.”
“You did not best me when we were children, and you won’t now.”
She rushed to her first room. He did as well.
Nothing was amiss. The next room proved the same. As he stepped out into the corridor, Tillie was just slipping into her third room.
“You are falling behind,” she called back.
Twice in one morning she had made him laugh. How he had needed her in his life!
He pulled open the door of the next room he was meant to check. Before he could so much as glance inside, a scream pierced the air.
Tillie!
Installment III
in which our Hero finds himself in a most uncomfortable Situation!
Wellington rushed in the direction of Tillie’s terrified scream. The room was dim but not dark to the point of blackness. Thank the heavens he could see her. He ran directly to her, putting his arms around her and tucking her behind him. His eyes scanned the room, searching for the threat.
“It was over there.” Her voice shook.
“What was?” The room was empty—not even a stick of furniture.
“A flame. A bl—blue flame.”
“The room was on fire?”
She clutched his arm, trembling. “No. It was floating in the air. Away from the walls. Away from the floor. No candle. No torch. Just a flame.”
His gaze turned from the room to her. “Floating?”
“Don’t look at me like I’m mad.” She pointed near the window. “A floating flame. It was there, and then, poof, it blew out. But there was no one who’d been holdin’ it. There was just . . . nothing.”
She still held his arm, like it was a lifeline in a raging sea. Wellington didn’t know what she’d seen, perhaps something outside that, when glimpsed through the high, dingy window, had seemed to be inside.
He stepped toward the window, meaning to see if he couldn’t solve the mystery. She didn’t release her white-knuckle grip on his arm. “You are well and truly frightened.”
“You’d be as well if you’d seen what I did.”
“A flame? The flicker of a candle?”
“It was too large for a candle.” Her voice still shook. “It moved about all on its own. Nothin’ to explain how it could possibly be there.”
He unwrapped her fingers from his forearm and took her hand in his instead. He saw no singe marks on the walls, no indication that anything had been aflame. He spied nothing outside the high window that might have been mistaken for a flame. Would the mysteries never cease?
“I cannot explain it, Tillie.” He looked to her. “Are you certain you didn’t—”
“It weren’t my imagination.” Her eyes filled with growing panic.
Wellington tugged her toward the door. “Let us go back to the cottage. We can save our search efforts for another day.”
She nodded, still shaken. “I think that’d be best.”
Hardly another word was spoken as they crossed the estate grounds. She was pale, bless her, and very quiet, a rarity for Tillie Combs.
Her father took note of her condition immediately. “What’s happened?”
Tillie dropped onto a spindle-back chair, apparently not able or ready to answer. Wellington did so instead.
“During our search for the missing things, she saw something she cannot explain.”
“What?” Mr. Combs looked from one of them to the other.
“A blue flame,” Wellington said. “It floated with no explanation.”
“A blue flame?” He repeated the description in a tone of awe, his wide eyes falling fully on his daughter. “Moved about, did it?”
Tillie took a shaking breath. “It was unnerving, Papa. Cold and . . .” She shook her head. “I didn’t like it.”
Mr. Combs rubbed at his unshaven chin as he paced away. “Odd, bein’ where we are. Odd, indeed.”
“You know what it was?” Wellington asked. What a boon it would be if he could, indeed, explain it.
“I’ve a notion.” Mr. Combs motioned him out of the house. “I’ll give it some thought, sir. If m’ Tillie saw what I think she saw, you’ve a bigger mystery on your hands than you realize.”
He was offered no further explanation than that. In a moment’s time, Wellington was outside the cottage, alone, confused, and already longing for the return of Tillie’s smiles and spirit-lifting company.
Two days after the blue-flame encounter, Mrs. Smith rushed into Wellington’s library, a mixture of excitement and panic on her face. “You’ve visitors, sir!”
“Visitors?” He very seldom had anyone call on him at Summerworth. It was an isolated estate, and his period of mourning for his parents had necessitated the estate be quiet and lifeless. Even with that period past, nothing much had changed.
“Two carriages, sir,” she said. “And the young people spilling out look fine indeed.”
He rose from his desk and crossed to the window. Two carriages sat in the drive, but both appeared to be empty.
“The visitors are in the drawing room, Mr. Quincey,” Mrs. Smith said.
The house was so out of practice with visitors, Mrs. Smith had managed the thing in quite the wrong order. “I will be there directly,” he said.
She nodded and rushed from the room.
Visitors. He didn’t know whether to feel pleased or concerned. What if his as-yet-unidentified thief had made off with the tea set or the chairs in the drawing room? What if these new arrivals were hoping for a place to stop their journey for the night and they, too, found themselves victims of this thief?
Wellington made himself presentable and joined his guests in the drawing room. One mystery solved itself immediately. Two of the gentlemen—Alsop and Henson—were known to him, they having been acquaintances at school. Perhaps not truly close friends, but near enough to make a call, even an unexpected one, completely acceptable.
Bows and curtsies preceded formal introductions. His one-time chums had brought with them a Mr. Fairbanks, his sister, Miss Fairbanks, and Miss Porter, an acquaintance of the Fairbanks family. Their manner of speaking and dress marked them all as residing firmly in the upper class. There would be no footraces among this lot.
“You’ve not been to London in ages, Quincey,” Alsop said.
“I have been in mourning,” he reminded them.
“Not for the last six months.”
The truth of that could not be argued. “The estate has occupied much of my time of late. Leaving it unattended has not been an option.”
Henson was walking the length of the drawing room. “The place seems nearly abandoned. Has some tragedy befallen the area?”
“Many of the servants left after my parents’ passing.” That was all the more detail he meant to furnish them with on that score. “As for tragedies, would a string of thefts suffice?”
The ladies pressed shocked hands to their hearts—not the theatrical jest Tillie had employed, but a gesture made in earnest. The gentlemen looked to him with alarm.
“Thefts?” Mr. Fairbanks clicked his tongue and shook his head. “What is this world coming to?”
“I believe I will catch out the culprit soon enough,” Wellington said. “But at the moment I am baffled.”
Mrs. Smith appeared quite suddenly in the doorway, a frantic expression on her aging face. “Another visitor, sir. Miss Combs.”
Tillie slipped inside with her usual adventurous spirit firmly in place. “I’ve a notion to search again if you’re—” Her gaze fell on the others. “Oh. You’ve callers.”
Wellington waved her closer. “Miss Combs, this is Miss Fairbanks and Miss Porter. Mr. Alsop, Mr. Henson, and Mr. Fairbanks.”
They offered half-hearted bows and curtsies. Tillie’s effort was a touch less refined than was generally seen in more exalted circles, but there was no malice in it, no disrespect. She was a good soul.
“How do you two know one another?” Miss Fairbanks asked.
“Miss Combs”—it felt odd referring to Tillie so formally; they’d been friends so long, he struggled to think of her as anything but his one-time playmate—“grew up on the estate. Her father is the Summerworth steward.”
“Ah.” More than one of the visitors made the exact same noise of dawning understanding.
“Do you still live on the estate?” Miss Fairbanks asked Tillie. “Few people do, as I understand it.”
“The butler and housekeeper and m’father and I are the only ones left,” Tillie said. “We see to it the grand ol’ place keeps standing.”
“Mr. Quincey is fortunate to have all of you,” Miss Porter’s words were kind, but something in her tone was not.
Tillie seemed to notice it as well. Her brow drew down, and she watched the gathering with more wariness than before.
Alsop returned his attention to Wellington. “We’re bound for a house party at George Berkley’s estate. You remember him from Cambridge. He said he’d be most pleased to have you there.”
An invitation to a house party. This was the first he’d had since leaving behind his mourning period. When first he’d finished school and entered Society, he would have jumped at the opportunity, but now he found himself hesitant.
“Do come, Mr. Quincy,” Miss Fairbanks said. “It promises to be a very enjoyable week in the country.”
“While I am grateful for the invitation, I do need to sort out the matter of these thefts. Else, I might return home to find the house entirely empty.”
Tillie still hadn’t moved from her spot. Her eyes darted from one person to the next, her concern and confusion clearly growing. What had her so frozen? Tillie was not usually one to be rendered so withdrawn.
Mrs. Smith arrived with a heavily laden tray. She set it on a nearby table, then tossed him a look of apology. “I’ll be back with the actual tea, sir. I’m a bit at loose ends, being out of practice and such.”
Before he could reassure her, Tillie spoke. “I’ll help you.”
“Oh, bless you, Tillie.”
The two women slipped out, but Tillie looked back, meeting his eye before dropping her gaze and hurrying from the room. Where had her unflagging spirit gone?
“Does Miss Combs often make herself so at home here?” Henson asked. “Seems a bit forward for a servant.”
“She’s not a servant,” Wellington insisted. “She’s the daughter of the estate steward.”
“A minor difference,” Miss Fairbanks said. “She is most decidedly bold.”
“She is helping me search for the thief.”
“Helping you find the thief?” Alsop shook his head. “Has it occurred to you, my friend, that she might be the thief?”
“Tillie?” He guffawed. “She would not steal so much as a dandelion from a meadow much less items belonging to another person.”
Alsop shrugged. Henson gave Wellington a look of pity.
“I do hope we are wrong, Mr. Quincey,” Miss Fairbanks said, “but you would be well-advised to keep a close eye on her.”
“I will take your advice into consideration,” he said through tight teeth.
“I see we have offended you.” Miss Fairbanks fluttered over to him, all solicitousness. “That was not our intention. Do come to the house party with us. Allow us to show you we hold no ill will.”
“Again, I thank you.” He addressed them all. “But I will have to decline. Estate matters require my attention.”
Conversation grew more general, ranging from topics of Society to the weather. The visitors were not unpleasant, neither had they been outright rude, yet Wellington felt dissatisfied with their company. He missed Tillie. He had missed her the past two days. Heavens, he had missed her the past two years. If only she hadn’t run off to the kitchens. If only this group hadn’t sent her fleeing there. If only, if only, if only!
Tea was brought up, but by Mrs. Smith alone. Tillie, it seemed, did not mean to make another appearance.
The callers prepared to depart, insisting they needed to be on their way if they were to reach their stop for the night, the last before arriving at their final destination. Farewells were exchanged as were hopes that they would meet again, perhaps in Town.
“Do think on what we said,” Alsop offered, one step from the front portico. “You may be chasing a thief who knows where you are looking. When one hands an arsonist matches, one is playing with fire.”
Wellington motioned him on. “I will bear that in mind.”
A moment later, they were gone, yet Wellington did not rest easy. He hadn’t even a moment in which to do so before Tillie spoke from behind him.
“They think I am your thief, don’t they?”
He spun about. There she stood, looking somehow both hurt and defiant. “They don’t know you.”
“But you do, and you gave some thought to their warning.”
“Tillie—”
She pushed past him. “You didn’t believe me ’bout that flame, and you don’t full believe me that I’m not thieving from you.” She pointed a finger at him. “We’re friends, Wellington Quincy. Perhaps it’s time you treated me like we were.”
Installment IV
in which our Hero makes a most gentlemanly Apology and a shocking Discovery!
The house was far too quiet. For two days, not a sound had been heard. Mrs. Smith, Wellington suspected, was upset with him. Mr. Smith, who was seldom seen as it was, made not a single appearance. The most glaring absence of all, though, was Tillie’s.
Wellington had gone by her house repeatedly, but she hadn’t answered his knock, neither had she come by the manor house. How was he to apologize, to convince her that he did not, in fact, believe her capable of anything so underhanded as thievery if she would not allow him a moment in which to do so? His visitors had cast that aspersion, yes, but he had not. He would not. He could not.
Oh, was ever a man so vexed with the impossible task of apologizing to a woman?
Some three days after he’d last had a conversation with anyone inside the walls of his house, Wellington walked the corridors with his hands tucked in his pockets. His shoulders drooped under the burden of his loneliness. Even the elusive thief had abandoned him. Not a single item had gone missing in the past few days.
“I haven’t a single soul with whom to share my change of fortune.” It was his own fault, truly. He ought to have immediately risen to Tillie’s defense. He ought to have said more to discount the hints of accusation his visitors had lobbed in her direction. The weight of regret only added to the stooped nature of his posture.
On and on he walked, making one lonely circuit after another. Minutes passed. His mind did not clear. If only Tillie would return and be his friend once more.
Into the cavernous quiet came the sound of footfalls, not rushed or threatening, but at ease and at home. Wellington kept perfectly still, listening and pondering. The steps drew closer. He stood his ground, unwilling to cede more of his peace of mind than the thief had already taken from him.
But it was no thief who appeared from around a bend in the corridor; it was Tillie.
So surprised was he that Wellington could not even manage a greeting. Fortunately for him, she did not appear to need one.
“Things are being stolen from our cottage,” she said without preamble. “Unless you think I am thieving my own things, I’d say your mystery thief has changed locations.”
“I don’t think you are stealing from yourself.”
She folded her arms across her chest and tipped her head to the side. “Only from you.”
“I don’t think you’re stealing from anyone,” he insisted. “Those visitors said that; I didn’t.”
“You didn’t disagree with ’em,” she said. “You said you would think on it. That ain’t a vote of confidence, is it?”
“I was trying to get them to leave faster,” he said. “Arguing the point would have prolonged their visit.”
She lost a bit of bluster. “I know I ain’t fine and proper like they are.”
“And I far prefer your company to theirs.” He reached out to take her hand, but she stepped back. The rejection was warranted, yet still it stung. He took a breath and regained his footing. The business at hand would be his best step forward. “What has been taken from your home?”
“A few coins,” she said. “My little amber cross that I wear on the chain your mother gave me. A spade.”
“A spade?” That was a decidedly odd thing for a thief to make off with.
She shrugged. “That one didn’t make sense to us either.”
“You helped me search my house for clues,” he said. “Might I be permitted to offer the same assistance?”
“I’d not object.” She jerked her head toward the front of the house. “Shall we?”
He walked at her side all the way to the front drive, then along the path that would take them to her cottage. A fair stretch of moorland separated their two homes. They would have time and plenty for either talking and repairing things between them or sinking ever further into the awkward silence between them.
“I am sorry for what happened with my guests,” he said.
She shook her head. “I forget sometimes how much things have changed over the past years. You’re a distinguished gentleman; I’m still the steward’s daughter.”
“You are my favorite steward’s daughter.”
“My father is your favorite steward?” A hint of her usual mischief returned to her tone.
Wellington bumped her lightly with his shoulder. “I believe you know perfectly well what I meant.”
She smiled fleetingly. “We have always been good friends, have we not?”
“The very best.”
She looked up at him. “Then why is it you didn’t believe me about the blue flame? You didn’t ridicule me for it, but I could tell you thought I had cobwebs in m’ attic.”
“I thought no such thing,” he said with a laugh. “I don’t doubt what you saw. It was simply unexpected, and I hadn’t an explanation for it.”
Tillie stopped in her tracks, eyes trained up ahead. She pointed a slightly shaky finger. “Perhaps that will shed a bit of light on the matter.”
Up ahead, floating above the ground, moving back and forth, not diminishing, not growing, was a light. Not any light. A blue one.
A blue flame.
Tillie’s shoulders set. “After it!”
And she ran.
Installment V
in which our intrepid Couple give chase and discover more than Expected!
Tillie was going to land herself in deep trouble chasing after a mystery on the moors. Many a soul had grown hopelessly lost in the vast nothingness of the wild hills.
Wellington called her name, but the wind carried it away. He ran after her, reaching her just as she reached the blue flame. But it had disappeared without a trace. No one stood where the flame had been, carrying a candle or torch or lantern.
“You saw it this time, di’n’t you?” She looked up at him.
“I did.” He stared at the spot where the flame had vanished.
She nodded again and again. “And you can see for yourself there ain’t nothing it could’ve been a reflection of or anything we might’ve simply mis-seen.”
“We didn’t mis-see. But what did we see?” He turned his head, slowly, searching.
Tillie looked around as well. “There.” She pointed into the distance. “It’s there.”
And so it was. A blue flame, just far enough to be barely visible. If he wasn’t mistaken, it was moving.
“We’ll catch it this time, Tillie.” He snatched up her hand and ran with her out onto the moors.
On and on they went. Whenever they drew closer, the flame disappeared, only to reappear elsewhere a moment later. The mystic blue flame led them on a chase over hills, down rounded valleys. Over and over and over. Still, it eluded them.
Exhaustion was setting in, mingled with a heavy dose of frustration. What if their quarry proved uncatchable? How could they endure endless years of pilfering and thievery?
They stood breathless on the gaping moors, waiting for their prey to reappear. How long had they been chasing it? How far afield would it lead them?
“Why hasn’t it come back?” Tillie whispered, spinning about, eyeing the landscape. “It’s been gone longer this time.”
The flame was nowhere to be seen. But something could be heard.
“What was that?” He turned in the direction of the sound.
“It sounded like a child cryin’.”
“Out here?” Merciful heavens, a child lost on the moors was in danger indeed. “Hulloo?” he called out. “Where are you, child?”
A whimper answered, one hardly loud enough to be heard. But hear it, they did. Tillie, her hand still in his, pulled him around more bends and over a hill as they followed the heartrending cries.
“We have to find the poor child, Wellington.”
“We will,” he vowed.
And they did. A tiny, shivering boy, likely no more than six or seven years old, cowered behind a large rock, eyes wide with fear.
Tillie approached first. She could be mischievous and adventurous. Her temper could flare hot, or she could be tender as a newborn lamb. In that moment, she was soft and quiet and still.
She knelt beside the boy and gently, slowly, set her hand on his arm. “Are you lost, dearie?”
“I were running away.” Tears clogged the child’s voice.
Wellington knelt next to Tillie. “Why were you running?”
“I’d’ve been in a heap o’ trouble.”
Tillie sat beside the child. “You’ll be in a mountain of it if you’re out here when it grows dark. Come with us, dearie. We’ll see to it you have food in your belly and a warm fire.”
“I’ll be in trouble.”
“You won’t be, I swear to it.” Tillie looked to Wellington. “Will he?”
“Not a bit of trouble,” Wellington said. “We’ll take good care of you.”
The boy shook his head. “You’ll be angry at me.”
“Why would we be angry with you?” Wellington could not ignore the real worry in the child’s expression.
The boy took a shaky breath. “Because I stole it.”
Wellington met Tillie’s eye. Could this little slip of a child be their elusive thief?
“It’s not him,” Tillie whispered, apparently understanding his unspoken question.
“He’s just said he stole something.”
She shook her head firmly. “It’s not him.”
The little boy whimpered. His safety needed to come first.
“Come along,” Wellington said. “We’ll see to it you’re fed and warm, then we’ll settle whatever needs settling.”
He agreed, but clearly wasn’t at all convinced he was safe. Tillie took the boy’s hand and smiled reassuringly. The child walked alongside them but didn’t speak. Wellington kept a weather eye out, watching for the elusive blue flame, but it made no return appearance. He suspected Tillie was keeping close watch as well.
They arrived at the Combses’ cottage just as the sky was turning pink with the first blush of the coming sunset.
Mr. Combs was home and eyed them with curiosity. “You’ve found a child.”
“On the moors,” Tillie said, leading their new addition to the low-burning fire. “We were chasing the same phantom I saw at Summerworth.”
“You were?” Mr. Combs looked to Wellington. “Did you see it as well?”
“I did. We attempted to catch it, but it proved too fast and agile.”
“Of course it did.” Mr. Combs actually snorted with disdain, though there was no unkindness in the sound. “No one can catch a bluecap.”
A bluecap? Wellington had heard of redcaps, murderous little goblins, but he was not familiar with this variety of spirit. “I don’t know what that is.”
“A little creature that appears as a blue flame, wandering about on its own, popping from place to place.”
Precisely what they’d seen.
“Is it known to steal things?” Wellington asked.
Mr. Combs shook his head. “Not generally, but it expects to be paid. If no one is paying it, the sprite might be . . . collecting payment on its own.”
“What would I be paying this creature for?” Wellington could not make sense of it at all.
“The bluecap is found in mines,” Mr. Combs said. “The miners pay it for warning them about cave-ins.”
“My house is not a mine, and there is no danger of a cave-in.”
“It may be doing something else,” Tillie said. “Something it thinks it ought to be paid to do.”
Could this truly be the cause of his difficulties? A little creature that ought not to be anywhere near his house?
He motioned subtly to the little boy, huddled under a blanket near the fire. “The little one confessed to stealing.”
Tillie shook her head. “It isn’t him. He couldn’t have moved the mirror or the painting.”
“But the other things, maybe?” Heavens, did he have more than one thief?
“I didn’t steal anything from you, sir.” The little boy’s voice was filled with misery.
“Then what did you steal?” Wellington asked.
The child took a quavering breath. “The blue flame.”
Installment VI
in which our Hero has a startling Revelation!
The little boy, whose name they had discovered was Pip, had made his declaration about stealing the blue flame, then had cried so ceaselessly he’d not managed another word. Not knowing exactly what harm the bluecap might bring, Wellington had thought it best that Pip, Mr. Combs, and Tillie all remove to the manor house. Of all things, he wished for them to be safe.
In return, he found greater joy in his house now than he’d known in years. He and Tillie, sometimes accompanied by Pip, made another search of the house, looking for the items the bluecap had nipped off with. Mr. Combs was of the opinion that the creature was inclined to stash his “payments” rather than spirit them off, but where that pile of treasures might be, they didn’t know.
Pip was cheerful enough on their searches so long as neither of them brought up the topic of the bluecap. The reminder of the sprite he claimed to have stolen would turn him once more into a trembling heap. It made getting information from the child difficult, and they had no other help in finding the creature or the things it had taken.
Four days after they’d rescued the boy from the moors, Wellington walked alongside Tillie through the back corridors of the house, having come no closer to rooting out their mischievous visitor. Pip had fallen asleep, so they’d left him in his room and undertaken this search without him.
“I wish we could do somethin’ for the little imp,” Tillie said. “He’s terrified of the creature he stole, and I suspect he’s drowning in a sea of guilt as well.”
“If only we could sort out how he caught it in the first place, we could rid ourselves of it.”
“And of him?” she asked quietly, cautiously.
“He must be from somewhere,” Wellington said. “And his family must be worried.”
Tillie shook her head. “I don’t think he has one.”
Wellington motioned her out through the door of the music room; they hadn’t found any missing items hidden there. “Why do you suspect that?”
She shrugged as she passed. “Because that’s what Pip said when Papa asked him.”
Tillie was a delight. He never laughed as much as he did when he was with her.
“Your father took the less-interesting approach.” Wellington caught up to her. “Did he also happen to ask Pip where he came here from?”
“Ipsley, on the other side of Ipsley Moor,” she said. “Slipped out of the workhouse, he did.”
The workhouse. Mercy. “We can’t send him back there.”
Without warning, Tillie threw her arms around him. “Oh, Wellington! I had so hoped you would say that. I can’t bear thinking of him in so miserable a place.”
Something odd happened to Wellington Quincey in that moment. Something entirely unexpected. His heart, which had always been whole and entirely in his possession, gave itself over to his lifelong friend. Her arms around him felt like the warm embrace of home. He set his arms around her as well and held her, feeling his heart undertake its change of ownership.
“Papa and I can keep Pip at our cottage if need be,” she said. “But he’d be happy as a cat in the cream here. He’d have long corridors to run through, and an entire nursery to make his own.” She looked up at him. “Oh, Wellington! Say he can stay. Please.”
“Of course, he can. This house has been far too empty for far too long.”
In the instant after that declaration, the house suddenly filled with voices.
Tillie’s head turned toward the noise, but she didn’t drop her arms from around him. “Who’s doing all that bellowing?”
He locked his hands behind her back. “I couldn’t say. I never have visitors.”
“You did a week ago,” she said.
“I suppose I did.”
Tillie leaned her head against his chest. “Could they be back?”
“I think they might be. They had said the house party they were attending would last a week.”
She slipped back. “You should go greet ’em.”
“You should come as well,” he said. “Then they can meet you.”
“They already have. They didn’t like what they saw.” Quick as anything, she hurried down the corridor without looking back.
Sometimes it seemed she was forever running from him! His heart ached for her to remain at his side.
He entered the drawing room and discovered his group of acquaintances there, dripping wet. The weather had turned whilst he and Tillie had been searching the house.
“Forgive the intrusion,” Alsop said. “This deluge made the roads impassable. We find ourselves in need of your hospitality.”
“Of course.” Wellington would never turn anyone away in such circumstances. “We are short-staffed, so I cannot guarantee you the most comfortable of stays.”
“If you can guarantee us a roof and a warm fire,” Henson said, “we will be more than satisfied.”
Mrs. Smith saw them all to the guest wing. Mr. Smith made certain each room had a fire burning. Wellington went in search of Tillie but did not find her. Pip was still sleeping in the nursery. His home was the busiest it had been in ages, yet he felt lonely again.
He went through the motions of being a proper host. The guests were checked on by Mrs. Smith and provided with a tray in their rooms so they could rest and warm themselves. He consulted with his housekeeper and butler about the trickiness of looking after five unexpected visitors with only the two of them on staff.
“Tillie will help,” Mrs. Smith said. “She’s a good ’un, she is.”
“She is a guest here as well.”
“Not the same, though, is it?” Mrs. Smith sighed. “She’s your dear friend, yes, but the daughter of your steward. She’s not one of your fine and elegant friends. They know it. And so does she.”
“I could go the rest of my life without seeing any of today’s arrivals again, and I would not be the worse for it,” Wellington said. “But these past days, having Tillie’s company so often, I know I could not say the same about her.”
“She’s not your equal,” Mrs. Smith reminded him.
“No. She is a better person than I.”
Mrs. Smith handed her husband the stacked linens he would be delivering to the guest rooms. “You and I know her worth, but Society wouldn’t agree with us.”
“We aren’t in London. Those things don’t matter much in the wilds of Yorkshire.”
Mr. Smith watched Wellington with narrowed gaze. “You’ve lost your heart to the girl, haven’t you?”
“She’s been my friend all my life,” he said. “But she’s more than that to me now. She’s everything.”
“Not everyone’ll see things the way you do,” Mrs. Smith warned. “She’d not be welcomed with open arms in Town or at Society dos.”
“I’ve never put a great deal of store by such things.” A smile blossomed on his solemn face. “I would rather spend the rest of my life running around the moors with her than bowing and scraping my way through all the ballrooms in London.”
“Then might I offer you a word of advice?” Mr. Smith asked.
Wellington nodded. He hadn’t a father any longer to help point him in the right direction. He welcomed whatever wisdom was offered him.
“Make certain she knows that.”
Wellington awoke to the sound of shouting. He’d slept later than expected, having been up longer than he’d wished. Preparations for breakfast for so many additional people in the house had required all their efforts. Tillie had undertaken hers from a distance, volunteering for every chore that would take her away from the visitors at the manor house.
He hadn’t the opportunity to tell her of his feelings, and it seemed there would not be peace enough this morning for doing so any time soon.
All his guests were in an uproar, standing outside Miss Fairbanks’s assigned bedchamber. The lady, herself, was flailing her arms, her words frantic. Tillie appeared on the scene a moment later, watching the group with the same expression of confusion he must have been wearing.
Miss Porter suddenly pointed an accusing finger at Tillie. “She took it. I know she did!”
Though Tillie paled, she didn’t flinch. “I have a name, and you clearly have an accusation. See if you can’t spit out both.”
Wellington bit back a laugh. His light o’ love was no shrinking violet. Still, fisticuffs erupting in the corridor hardly seemed advisable. “Miss Porter, what has been taken? Whatever it might be, I doubt Miss Combs was involved in its disappearance.”
“We tried to warn you,” Alsop said. “You’re being robbed left and right, and you refuse to see the likely reason.”
“I know the reason,” he said firmly. “And Miss Combs is not part of it.”
“You do not—” Alsop managed no more words as Wellington interrupted him.
“I have offered you my hospitality. I should hope you won’t repay that by insulting my most honored guest, nor by casting aspersions on my judgment.”
That brought the chaos to a swift end. Wellington took advantage of the silence.
“Miss Fairbanks, what has gone missing?”
“My diamond-and-pearl brooch. I set it on the bureau last evening when I retired to bed. It was not there when I awoke.” She held up a hand to forestall any commentary. “I searched the room. It is gone.”
Wellington looked to Tillie. “The little monster is at it again.”
“So it would seem.” Tillie frowned. “It was bad enough when we was the only ones being robbed. We can’t let it go any longer now.”
She was completely correct. This group, however, was not likely to give her the benefit of their good opinion.
Wellington set his shoulders and assumed his most authoritative air. “We know the identity of our thief. Thus far, though, the culprit has managed to evade capture. Miss Combs and I will redouble our efforts to corner the criminal and reclaim all that has been taken.”
That seemed to appease them a little. Very little.
“Now, if you will all take your time breaking your fast and enjoying one another’s company, Miss Combs and I will recruit help from someone hereabout who can be trusted.” He eyed them all individually. “I hope there will be no more unfounded accusations.”
A few looked at least a little embarrassed to have been so unfeeling. The rest accepted the chastisement without showing the least remorse. So long as they stopped causing Tillie distress, he would let that be enough.
He offered her his arm. “Shall we, Miss Combs?”
“Yes, please.” As they walked arm in arm down the corridor, she whispered. “What precisely do you mean to do?”
“Exactly what I said: catch a thief.”
Installment VII
in which our brave Hero and intrepid Heroine face Danger and Mystery on the Moors!
Pip sat on Tillie’s lap, wrapped in her protective arms while they reassured him he wouldn’t be required to face down the sprite he’d stolen from its home.
“We simply need to know how you captured it,” Wellington said. “It cannot continue roaming about, causing mischief. Its antics are causing people a great deal of distress.”
Pip nodded. “It steals things.”
“I’d wager it don’t know it oughtn’t take those things,” Tillie said. “The little creature is away from the only place it knows, trying to make sense of somewhere so strange.”
The boy looked up at her. “Do you think it’s scared?”
“Might be. It’s a frightening thing being surrounded by people you”—her eyes met Wellington’s—“know you don’t belong with. That’s likely why it’s hiding.”
He fully understood the layer beneath her words. She too had been hiding, ever since his Society acquaintances arrived. Just as Mr. and Mrs. Smith had observed, she “knew” she didn’t belong among them. Oh, how his heart ached for her!
“If only our little thief realized we wouldn’t harm it for all the world,” Wellington said. “That we only want what is best for it.”
“But having it here is causing so much trouble.” She didn’t look away, didn’t drop her gaze. “What is ‘best’ is for it to return home.”
“Is that why it’s scared?” Pip asked. “It wants to go home?”
The thought of that idea applying to Tillie sat heavy on Wellington’s heart. “Is it scared, dear?” he asked her.
She held the little boy closer. In a voice quiet and less confident than he’d ever heard it, she said, “Terrified.”
Wellington sat near enough to reach out and gently brush his fingers along her cheek. “There is nothing to be afraid of.”
Pip broke into what would otherwise have been a very tender moment. “But it’s so far from home. All the way across the moors.”
Tillie looked at the little boy. “You know where its home is?”
He nodded. “A mine, over near Ipsley.”
A mine. Just as Mr. Combs had said.
“Do you suppose,” Wellington said, “if we could catch it and return it to the Ipsley mine, it might remain there and stop causing mischief here?”
“If I had a home,” Pip said, “I’d always want to be there.”
Tillie held him closer. “You can have your home with me, Pip.”
What would it take for her to offer him a home “with us”? How could Wellington show Tillie that such a future was not only possible but perfect?
“You’ll not make me go back to the workhouse?” Pip looked from one of them to the other, worry and hope warring in his expression.
“No, Pip. We’d not want you so far away as Ipsley,” Tillie said.
The boy sighed and leaned against her. He looked less burdened. “It likes things that are shiny. That’s how I got it to come out of the mine—with shiny things. And I had a shiny box that it went into. And I closed the lid so it couldn’t get out, and then I ran with it. But it wasn’t happy in the shiny box. It bumped around inside. I ran and ran, but then I dropped the box and the lid came off and the blue flame came out and darted into your house.” He looked to Wellington. “I should’ve told you, but I was afraid.”
“How long were you out on the moors by yourself?” The creature had, after all, been undertaking its thefts for weeks.
“I hid in the stables.” Pip curled into an ever-smaller ball on Tillie’s lap. “The blue flame was angry. I didn’t want it to find me.”
“We’ll lure it away,” Tillie promised. “And we’ll get it back home. Nothing will happen to you, dearie.”
Pip climbed down. He assumed the determined stance of one attempting to be brave. “You’ll need shiny things. And a box.”
Tillie nodded solemnly. “We’ll fetch ’em.” She stood and took Wellington’s hand in hers. “Let’s catch us a tiny blue monster.” Tillie waved Pip along. “You can stay here with my papa.”
“He likes me,” Pip declared.
“We all do,” Wellington said.
Tillie squeezed his hand and smiled up at him. A man could quickly grow accustomed to such a look from such a woman. Pip skipped off down the corridor, his joyfulness restored.
“What do your guests think of Pip?” Tillie asked. “They couldn’t have missed that he’s an urchin.”
“I don’t know that they’ve interacted with him yet.”
Her gaze returned to the corridor, though he suspected she wasn’t really looking at anything in particular. “Are you afraid they’ll disapprove of him as well? Or accuse him of being the thief?”
“They might,” he admitted. “Civility requires that I give them shelter from the rain, but there is no requirement that I allow them to be insulting.”
“Pip and I are beneath them,” she said. “Their behavior is expected.”
“But it won’t be endured. Should they cause you further pain, my dear, I will toss them out on their ears, rain or no rain.”
Her expression softened. “Not many gentlemen would make that choice.”
“They would if they knew you.”
She swung their linked hands between them as they walked. “I think you’ve grown fond of me these past weeks.”
“I’ve always been fond of you,” he said.
“Fond enough to undertake ridiculous and likely dangerous adventures?”
He let his amusement show. “Increasingly so.”
Tillie tugged him onward. “Let’s go fetch some shiny things.”
They’d been out on the moors for an hour without any sign of the elusive blue flame. Tillie was wearing every piece of shining, sparkling jewelry at Summerworth. Wellington kept near her with a wood-lined silver humidor at the ready. It was the shiniest box they could find.
And, yet, they’d had no success. To compound the difficulties, the skies above were turning leaden. Heaven help them if they were caught out in such a place under such circumstances!
“Perhaps we should come back another day,” Wellington said. “I’d not want you to catch cold.”
“Pip will not rest easy until the bluecap is home. And your guests aren’t likely to leave until we recover the missing brooch.”
He squared his shoulders. “That is all the motivation I need.”
Tillie snorted, something a well-bred lady would never do, but which he enjoyed immensely. She was sunshine and fresh air.
She held up two fists full of dangling bracelets and chains of precious metal, bouncing them about so they sparkled. “Mr. Thief,” she said in a singsong voice. “Come steal these fine things from us.”
“That hasn’t worked yet, it won’t—”
A blue flame appeared, no more than fifty yards ahead of them. Wellington pulled in a tight breath.
Tillie shook the jewels.
The flame darted forward then disappeared.
“No, come back,” Tillie whispered. She kept the jewels up high.
Wellington adjusted the silver box he held so the dim, cloud-infused sunlight glinted off it a little brighter as added incentive.
The blue flame reappeared, but for only a moment.
“We mean you no harm,” Tillie called out. “Truly we don’t.”
“We want to take you back home,” Wellington added.
Suddenly, the bluecap was visible again, closer this time. And it remained.
“We know you come from the mine by Ipsley,” Tillie said. “We can take you back there.”
Wellington opened the box. The flame disappeared.
“Perhaps it ain’t fond of traveling in a box,” Tillie said.
“I can’t say I blame it.” He tucked the silver humidor into the leather sack he’d borrowed from Mr. Combs. “Maybe we can convince the little sprite to follow us over the moors.”
Tillie flourished the enticements again. “Mr. Bluecap! We want to take you home.”
Nothing.
She looked at him. “Perhaps if we start walking in the direction of Ipsley, it’ll follow?”
Wellington shrugged. “It’s worth trying.”
“I’d imagine it’ll take an hour of walking,” she warned. “And we’ve been out here an hour already.”
He took the dangling jewels from her nearest hand, then slipped his fingers around hers. “I’m game for a long walk if you are.”
They walked hand in hand, waving the sparkling lures about. The occasional backward glance revealed the blue flame following. But in the moment after they looked, it always disappeared.
“It is following us,” Tillie whispered.
“I know.”
On and on they walked. The sky overhead grew heavier and darker. The wind blew fiercer with each passing moment. The moors were no place to be in a storm. They were too far from Summerworth to turn back and too far from Ipsley to be at ease. A bone-chilling gust nearly knocked Tillie over.
“Perhaps we should’ve made this trek in the pony cart,” she said.
“The flame would have spooked the pony. This could only be accomplished on foot.”
After nearly an hour of winding through the moors, Ipsley came into view. The mine would be nearby. But where, exactly?
Tillie looked around, uncertainty in her face. She, apparently, didn’t know either. “We cannot come this close only to fail. Where is it, Wellington?”
“The mine or the bluecap?”
“Either one,” she said. The wind pulled at her hair and dress, yet she stood stalwart and fixed. How could anyone not see and admire the strength of this remarkable woman? She spun and motioned with her handful of jewelry. “There’s the flame.”
Wellington rushed alongside her toward their flickering quarry.
“Please,” she called out. “We’ll help you find your home.”
“Truly.” Wellington added his voice to hers. “Your mine is nearby; we know it is.”
The blue flame flew further afield. They rushed after. They could not lose it. Not now. Not when they were so close to returning it to its home and ridding Summerfield of Alsop, Henson, and their lot!
The bluecap suddenly stopped. It hovered in place, flickering but not truly moving. In the instant before they reached it, the flame dropped straight down and vanished, not into thin air. Into a hole.
Wellington grabbed Tillie’s arm and pulled her to a stop, her toes mere inches from the edge of a mine shaft. He drew her back to safety. The hole beneath their feet glowed an otherworldly blue.
“I believe our mysterious visitor is home at last,” Wellington said.
Tillie leaned the tiniest bit forward and called down into the mine. “Could you return the things you stashed away? We’ve a shrew back at Summerworth who won’t leave us in peace without her brooch.”
The light grew brighter. Tillie stepped back. Wellington put his arm around her, unsure what was happening or what threat might arise next. The last weeks had taught him to expect what he could not possibly foresee.
A full dozen blue flames shot up out of the shaft and swirled around the two of them, whipping up even more wind than the storm brewing overhead. Tillie turned, burying her face against Wellington’s chest. He set both his arms firmly and protectively about her as they were enveloped by the flames.
No heat emanated. Indeed, the flames were cold, like a draft from the dark corners of a . . . a mine. Stronger and stronger it blew, the pull of it twisting and turning. The vortex tugged at Tillie, threatening to yank her out of his arms.
“Wellington!”
He tightened his grip. “Kneel down.” The wind carried his voice away. Had she even heard him? “If we’re lower, it’ll be harder to topple us.”
The whirlwind pulled her further, stretching his fingers painfully.
“The wind is too strong.” Tillie’s voice pleaded with him.
With every ounce of strength he had, Wellington pulled her against him as he lowered himself—and her with him—to the muddy ground below, kneeling in the midst of the onslaught.
They hunched there as the blue whirlwind continued. They’d returned the wandering bluecap. Did its “family” think they’d kidnapped it in the first place?
Tillie was still sliding away. Her slight frame was no match against the pull of azure wind. She would be torn from him, perhaps tossed into the mine shaft. He wrapped the open sides of his jacket around her, then crouched over her, trying to shield her and weigh her down.
“We brought it home,” he called out into the cold, blue cyclone. “We mean no harm. Let us go. Please.”
With a flash of white, the flames disappeared. Only the gusts of humid moorland wind remained, and the first raindrops of the breaking storm.
Wellington kept still, waiting, watching for the bluecaps to return. Nothing emerged from the mine shaft. No light. No sound. No movement.
Tillie peeked out from her protective cocoon. “Are they gone?”
“I believe so.”
She sat up straight, trembling and muddy. “I thought they’d blow me right off my feet and into the shaft.”
“So did I.” He kissed her temple. “You weren’t hurt were you, my dear?”
“No lasting damage.”
They scrambled to their feet, muddied but otherwise well.
“We make a fine team, Tillie Combs.”
She smiled up at him, rain pelting her face. It was coming down harder now. They likely had time enough to reach Ipsley before the sky fully broke open, but only if they moved quickly.
“We’d best hurry,” he said.
He kept her hand in his, and they moved swiftly toward the town. It wasn’t until they were nearly there that Tillie stopped abruptly.
“Our sparklies.”
He looked at her, unsure what she meant.
“All the jewels we were holding, to lure the bluecap onto the moors.” She held up her empty hands. “They’re gone.”
He hadn’t even noticed. His handful was missing as well. “Did we drop them?”
She shook her head. “I was clutching them tightly as I could manage.”
He had been as well.
Tillie looked back in the direction of the mine. “They took it. They took the treasures.” Her shoulders drooped. Rain dripped from her sodden hair. “I suppose this means Miss Fairbanks won’t be getting her brooch back.”
“Likely not.” The wind blew rain up his sleeves and down his collar. They’d be soaked in another minute or two. “She’ll rail and bluster, but I’ll settle with her. Then she’ll be on her way. They all will be.”
“Is that a promise?”
“A solemn vow.” He took her hand once more, the rain coming down in buckets. “But for now, my dear, it’s time to run for cover.”
Installment VIII
in which our brave Couple finds their Happiness!
Having procured a cart and pony at the coaching inn in Ipsley after waiting out the storm in a private dining room, Wellington made the drive back to Summerworth with an exhausted but joyful Tillie at his side.
“I am a bit disappointed.” Her amused smile contradicted her declaration.
“What has disappointed you?”
“Our thief proved to be none of the things on m’original list.” She shook her head and clicked her tongue.
He laughed. “You were hoping for ill-mannered dogs and well-coordinated magpies?”
“Oh, mercy, that would have been a lark to sort out.”
He grinned at her. “I believe we had quite a lark regardless.”
She sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Chasing mythical creatures out onto the moors. What greater lark could there be?”
He pondered that for the length of a breath. “Mere weeks ago, I would not have thought racing over the moor was a worthy pursuit. I fear I was every bit the pompous bore you accused me of being.”
“I really did call you that, didn’t I?”
“You did, indeed.” He led the cart around a bend in the path. “And you were utterly correct. I’ve spent too many years alone. The only company I’d kept with any degree of regularity was that of . . . well, people not unlike Mr. Alsop and Miss Fairbanks and their ilk. I’d lost sight of the Wellington I was when we were children.”
“I loved that Wellington,” she said. “He was my dearest friend.”
“What do you think of this Wellington?”
She wrapped her arm around his. “I think he’s wonderful.”
“And I think this Tillie is rather remarkable as well.”
They reached the front portico of Summerworth. His unwelcome guests would still be inside, likely moaning and groaning over Miss Fairbanks’s missing jewelry. Wellington would do his best to settle the matter, offering to replace what was stolen and subtly pushing them out the door.
Mrs. Smith met them in the front entryway, her expression frantic. “What a scene!” She fanned herself with a dishrag. “You’d not believe what’s happening.”
Oh, mercy. Wellington met Tillie’s eye. She clearly expected as much theatrics as he was anticipating.
“We’d best go face it,” he said.
“And if they lob accusations at me again?”
Wellington set his shoulders. “Then I will toss them out with none of the civility I’ve been silently rehearsing.”
She lifted an eyebrow and popped a fist on one hip. “I’m not afraid of a horde of creatures. We’ve faced down a number of them today already.”
He took her hand in his, the lightness in his heart entirely at odds with the discomfort of the coming confrontation. On the first-floor landing, Pip found them. He bounced and jumped, grabbing for their hands.
“Come see. Come see.”
“Come see what?” Tillie asked.
“All of it!” Pip dragged them up another flight of stairs and through the door to Wellington’s rooms. “See. All of it!”
There, piled as high as Pip’s knees, was a small mountain of jewelry, shiny metal boxes, silver brushes, and even the missing mirror and painting. Heavens, the Combses’ spade was there as well, as was a hand plow and a milking bucket. The items Wellington and Tillie had taken out onto the moors, the ones that had disappeared from their hands during the blue whirlwind, were there also.
“All of it,” Tillie said.
“One of these will be Miss Fairbanks’s brooch.” Wellington began digging for it.
Tillie dropped to her knees and joined the search. Mr. Combs, upon entering and hearing of their task, joined in the effort. As did Pip. And Mr. and Mrs. Smith.
Within the hour, Miss Fairbanks was in possession of her brooch, the rained-in houseguests were on their way, and Summerworth was peaceful and joyful again.
“They won’t be the last visitors to disapprove of my being here,” Tillie warned as the traveling coach disappeared from view.
“I will remove anyone and anything that makes you less than happy, my Tillie. And soon enough, visitors, whether human or not, will learn that you matter to me more than they do.”
“And Pip?” Tillie asked.
“He will learn that he matters to us too.”
“Us.” She sighed. “I do like the sound of that.”
“Then you are going to love this.”
He kissed his beloved Tillie, holding her close as the wind whipped over the moors, cold and wild and tinted blue.