Mons angels, p.4
Mon's Angels, page 4
In the distance, he heard police whistles. He decided to leave Biggin to them, and headed back inside.
When he reached the conference room, no one was sitting down. Everyone stood bunched together. But the crowd parted for him, silently.
On the floor, Sir Winston Brooke’s bullet-riddled body lay in a pool of blood, his head in Blair’s lap. She looked up at Rip, her eyes lined with tears, and slowly shook her head.
6
Rip remembered a college class he had taken at Texas A&M-Corpus Christi, online in the metaweb. The professor divided everyone up, then gave each group certain tasks.
Afterward, they were asked to think about the roles people naturally fell into. There were leaders, facilitators, gatekeepers, expeditors and record keepers.
The point of the exercise, as best as Rip could remember, was that people tend to gravitate toward certain roles in groups. Nature abhors a vacuum, and all that. He watched that take place in real time.
A man in the crowd stepped up and began ordering people around. Rip figured this guy fell naturally into the leader’s role.
He made sure Rip and Blair had room, turning people away from Sir Winston’s corpse. He sent others on errands, making sure the police were notified. He checked on everyone to see if they needed medical attention.
Rip did not even get the guy’s name until a phalanx of officers stormed into the room holding batons. An older man wearing a faded fedora and a drab gray overcoat led them in. He stopped with the blue-uniformed men lined up behind him.
“I’m Chief Inspector Sperry. Who’s in charge here?”
The man who had been ordering everybody around stepped up and shook the inspector’s hand.
“I am. Thurmond Threadgill, secondary executor for Brooke & Company.”
He cleared his throat and glanced at Blair and the body lying on the floor.
“Our executor is recently deceased, thanks to those foul creatures.”
Sperry turned to the officers behind him and said, “Nobody leaves without a statement. Get to work.”
The men nodded and split up, approaching all the businessmen in the room at once.
“If there is anything I can do, Chief Inspector, please know that I will personally see to it that all the resources of our fine organization will be at your disposal. Please don’t hesitate—”
“Give your statement to an officer, Mr. Threadgill.”
“I . . . it appears they are all busy, at the moment.”
Sperry glanced over his shoulder and watched as a rare woman cop walked into the room, looking around.
“There you are, Officer Paulson. Please take Mr. Threadgill’s statement.”
The woman nodded and pulled out a notepad and pencil as she approached.
Threadgill’s face dropped.
“A female peeler? How droll.”
“Not a laughing matter at all, I assure you. Ms. Paulson is a sworn officer of the law, and highly competent. Now, if you will excuse me.”
He cut away from the protesting Threadgill and made his way over to where Blair sat, silently crying. Rip stood watching her, feeing helpless.
“Lady Brooke, if you please. We must move forward.”
Sperry gently took her hand and helped her up. She sat her father’s head down gently on the floor.
When she stepped aside, Sperry took off his overcoat and laid it over the top half of the body, covering Sir Winston’s face.
Blair buried herself in Rip’s side, and he held her, one arm wrapped tight around her waist. Her grief-wracked sobs made him feel even worse.
Sperry glanced down at Rip’s bullet-pocked front, his shirt stained with blood and the swelling bruise on Rip’s jaw.
He sighed and pulled out his own notebook and pencil.
“What happened?”
Sperry listened as Rip quickly recounted recent events from his perspective. He frowned when Rip told him about the woman in the carriage and underlined something in his notes. His eyes narrowed to a thoughtful squint when Rip finished.
“You say you left a man unconscious out on the street?”
“That’s right. I heard the police whistles and figured they would detain him. I wanted to get back here to Blair as quickly as possible.”
“There was no one out there when we came in.”
Rip raised an eyebrow.
“Dang it. I knew he was enhanced, but I thought he’d stay down for a few minutes. I ruined a gun, I hit him so hard. Repeatedly.”
“I am familiar with the name, Wallace Biggin. I would very much like to interrogate him, since he is our primary suspect in more than a few murders.”
“What’s his story?”
“Former military, Royal Army. Served in South Africa.”
“So, he was enhanced for his service?”
“No. He was not an officer. He was a fusileer. If he was enhanced, our boffins certainly didn’t do it.”
“But you haven’t been able to catch him since he came back to Ethinium and started causing trouble.”
“We are aware of his affiliation with the Luddites, Mr. Coulter. Uh, Sir Coulter. And witnesses have placed him at the scene of various crimes attributed to that group. And, yes, that includes some murders. Particularly of industrialists. They attacked you two and Sir Brooke not long ago, if my memory serves.”
Rip nodded.
“Yes, they attacked the carriage we were in. But in that instance, they used older guns.”
“Yes, the Beaumont-Adams 442. Black powder revolver, five-round cylinder. I remember.”
Rip was impressed, especially since Sperry was not enhanced. He would have to rely on his own memory, not a skill.
Sperry saw the look Rip gave him and added, “I own a handful of older firearms myself. I’m quite familiar with all the guns of Europe down through the centuries. It’s an odd hobby, I admit, but I do find it helpful when dealing with various cases.”
“Everybody’s got to have a hobby. One of my foster dads collected old electronics. I knew some people who collected antique firearms, too.”
“Ah. A fellow aficionado, then.”
“Not quite. I prefer modern guns. Speaking of which, I think you’ll find the two rifles from those guys we shot are going to be Mauser semi-autos.”
Sperry glanced over to where his officers were examining the bodies of the dead Luddites. One of them gingerly picked up a fallen rifle, removing the magazine and ejecting a round in the chamber.
“Yes, that is rather out of character. There is another odd element to this whole nasty business, isn’t there?”
Rip rubbed at his chin and winced when he brushed against the tender spot.
“And what is that, Chief Inspector?”
“How is it, in this tightly packed room, with all these people in here, two men with semi-automatic, state-of-the-art rifles . . . manage to only shoot one man?
Rip’s eyes narrowed in thought.
“Well, I did get shot, too. Not that it counts.”
“Yes, let me consult my notes. The first one came in and shot you specifically. You rolled out of the way, came up and returned fire. The second man, I believe, proceeded to target Sir Winston at the same time Lady Brooke fired at him. Does that sound correct?”
Rip nodded. It was not the way he remembered telling the story, but Sperry had connected the dots.
Rip looked down at Blair, still holding his side. She had stopped crying by now and was following the conversation. She nodded too, when the chief inspector glanced at her with raised eyebrows.
Sperry said, “If this is so, then what we have here is a targeted hit. An assassination.”
Rip watched as Blair’s face hardened into a grim mask.
“I’ll be proceeding with the investigation using that hypothesis. Thank you for your statements. If you will excuse me, I must go supervise my squad.”
Sperry filed the notepad in a pocket and stowed his pencil away. Then he left them, moving toward the officers inspecting the bodies and the Mausers.
Rip looked down at Blair again, who stared stony eyed at all the people in the room. He tried to remember the stages of grief and failed to recall their order.
But he could tell that Blair had shifted firmly into the anger stage.
7
Funerals happened quickly in this world, Rip noticed. He suspected it may have something to do with embalming, or rather the lack of it.
Preserving bodies, of course, was an ancient practice. The Egyptians were particularly good at it. But the use of embalming fluid did not reach widespread practice in his world until the 20th century or so, even though the techniques were perfected before then.
Rip recalled the story of a hurricane hitting America’s Gulf Coast and destroying a cemetery. When a fresh body was found in the cleanup afterward, rescuers at first thought they found a victim of the storm. In fact, the man was a Civil War veteran who had been buried in an expensive lead coffin, hermetically sealed. The storm waters pulled up the coffin and broke it open, exposing the preserved body to the elements for the first time in decades.
All these thoughts raced through his mind as he sat on a train heading north with Blair.
She had not spoken much since the attack. The police took copious notes from multiple interviews, a photographer took pictures, and then they were finally allowed to move Sir Winston’s body.
Blair and Rip returned home late that evening, exhausted. Nancy knew what happened, as did everyone else. The attack made the front page of all the papers.
This morning they set out for the family estate, placing Sir Winston’s coffin in a luggage car on the train.
One oddity Rip felt compelled to ask Blair about included a tiny bell on top of the coffin. It dangled from a small belfry built near the front, with a string going inside a tiny hole.
Apparently there had been some instances of people declared dead suddenly reviving during their wakes while in open coffins. Struck by horror at the thought of burying someone alive, the current mortuary trend was to include a bell string so that should such a thing happen, the victim could signal the living and be released before interment.
The bell never rang as Rip and Blair watched arbiters load the coffin onto the luggage car.
They would bury Sir Winston in a cemetery near the family estate, Blair informed Rip, in a plot next to her mother’s. The funeral would be a small one, attended only by friends and family. Nancy would take another train later in the day. She, along with all the family’s servants, would attend.
Blair did not say much as the train headed north, and Rip remained silent.
At last they disembarked at a village called Ravenwick. A tall, thin older man dressed in a very nice suit waited for them at the station. He gave Blair a brief, one-armed hug. She responded by leaning into him. Her head came up to his chest.
“I’ll see to his remains, Lady Blair. You go on to the house.”
“Thank you, Jonesie.”
The man turned to Rip and extended his hand.
“Sir Coulter, I am Jerod Jones, the Brooke family butler. How do you do? The manor has been following all of your exploits in the paper.”
Rip shook his hand.
“One of the good papers, I hope.”
“The Standard Trumpet. It is ‘The News for Truth,’ after all. The morning editions reach us on the evening train from Leeds.”
Rip smiled, already liking the man. He also felt impressed that an Ethinium paper could be delivered hundreds of miles away to this small village, another positive indicator of the Umbrian postal service’s efficiency. As near as he could tell, they were about 300 miles north of Ethinium, which seemed much farther than it would back home.
Jonesie directed them to a carriage he had waiting for the couple. They climbed in and the horse clip-clopped away from the train station, heading out into the countryside.
A light mist fell, making the sky overcast. Rip thought the weather matched Blair’s mood. She spoke little on the short ride to the manor.
Several minutes later, the carriage driver came to a driveway of crushed gravel circling a large marble fountain. A huge three-story mansion faced them, with steps leading up to a solid wooden double door.
“This place looks more like a palace than a manor,” Rip murmured.
Blair said, “It’s all rather expensive. I don’t know what it cost Father, but I know practically every dime he earned from the company went toward this house and the villagers.”
A stream of servants poured out the doors as the driver set the brake. Most were women, dressed in maid uniforms, but a few men peppered the crowd. Rip thought most of the fellows were outside workers, based on their clothing.
When the driver opened the door, the maids hurried to hug and make a fuss over Blair, while those too far away turned their attention to Rip. He shook hands and spoke to the men, greeting the women with nods. Each person told him what they did at the house, which he found interesting since he did not ask.
“I’m Lily Dobbs, one of the downstairs maids.”
“Jess Walker. I’m the gardener.”
“Hello, I’m Frank Bradston. I take care of Sir Brooke’s horses and dogs, and anything that needs fixing inside or out.”
Rip politely greeted them all, and before long he and Blair had cycled through everyone.
Blair asked for everyone’s attention, lifting her voice.
“I know you’re all concerned about the future. But I want to assure you that I have no plans to sell Brooke Manor, nor change any of our current employment arrangements.”
A sigh rippled through the crowd. Rip realized that with the death of Sir Winston, worries about the future would be natural, especially among those whose livelihood depended on the man. Blair assured them that everyone’s jobs were safe, at least for now.
“And for those no longer working with us, the elderly Mrs. Dobbs, for instance, our arrangements for their retirement will continue.”
Lily Dobbs smiled and curtsied. If Rip had to guess, he would bet “the elderly Mrs. Dobbs” was Lily’s mother.
He realized that working for a house like this essentially meant lifetime employment. Once someone grew old, or disabled, the Brookes would continue providing for them in gratitude for their loyal service.
It was not government welfare, but a security pact between families. One family would serve the other in return for lifetime employment and retirement benefits.
It was very foreign from the way Rip understood employment, but he supposed it worked well. Evidently, it had been working well here for centuries.
Blair continued speaking for a while, thanking everyone for their support during this difficult time, and wrapped things up by indicating the funeral would begin soon.
“We have a bit of time to prepare before heading over there. I will see you all at the cemetery in half an hour.”
The crowd dispersed, most heading back inside. A few stayed to share a few more words with Blair. There were many hugs and arms grasped, with a few tears shed, too. The women comforted Blair as much as she comforted them.
Finally, she led Rip inside. In the main hall, another portrait of father and daughter stood on the far wall.
Unlike the one in her townhouse, painted when she was much younger, here Blair posed as a nearly grown woman in her late teens. She stood beside her father, who looked splendid in hunting clothes, with a shotgun over one shoulder.
He appeared proud of the daughter beside him, her arm in the crook of his elbow. Both looked happy. Blair had a winsome smile, as if hiding secrets, a woman on the cusp of adulthood learning how the world works.
“This, needless to say, was his favorite portrait of us.”
“You prefer the one where you were younger, painted soon after he bought this place.”
“I like this one, too. But there was no way he would ever let me have it. And I couldn’t steal it without him noticing, like the other one. It’s in far too prominent a location.”
Rip examined the portrait. It stood life-sized, the frame stretching eight feet tall.
“You can take it now.”
It was not a suggestion, just a simple statement of fact. Sir Winston was no longer here to protest.
Blair smiled, sadly.
“No, I shan’t. This one will stay right here. That’s how he wanted it, and that’s how it shall remain.”
Rip stared up at the pair on the wall and had to agree. So long as the place was called “Brooke Manor,” the portrait belonged here.
8
The funeral was a solemn affair held at the graveside. A Church of Umbria priest led everyone in a hymn, said a few words, then invited anyone who wanted to say something to come forward and do so.
Jess Walker, the gardener, stepped up first.
“I had been in the brig of the Manitau. Most of you know that. Dishonorably discharged, for striking an officer. I got the lash, I did, and they let me go at Liverpool. I had no idea what to do. And there was a gentleman standing on the docks with four or five travel trunks, looking around for a biter. He saw me and offered a coin if I’d help.”
Jess looked at the crowd and smiled, sadly.
“Well, you all know the rest. He insisted I come help load them onto the train, too. Got to talking to me along the way, and wouldn’t let me ride up top with the driver. Before I knew what was happening, I told him my life story. And then he found out I had a thing for plants . . . ”
A single tear trickled down the man’s face. Jess wiped it away.
“I told him I liked flowers. Couldn’t work with them much at sea. But maybe I could find something now that I was back on dry land. He didn’t bat an eye, the governor. He just said, ‘I’m in need of a gardener, Jessie. Get on the train with me.’ And so I did.”
A few more tears streamed down his cheeks.
“He was the best man I ever knew. I been his gardener ever since then. And so long as Lady Brooke will have me, I’ll be hers too.”
Everyone seemed to have a kind word about Sir Winston. They all shared similar stories. It seemed to Rip that many of the servants had been rescued by Blair’s father at some point.
When he reached the conference room, no one was sitting down. Everyone stood bunched together. But the crowd parted for him, silently.
On the floor, Sir Winston Brooke’s bullet-riddled body lay in a pool of blood, his head in Blair’s lap. She looked up at Rip, her eyes lined with tears, and slowly shook her head.
6
Rip remembered a college class he had taken at Texas A&M-Corpus Christi, online in the metaweb. The professor divided everyone up, then gave each group certain tasks.
Afterward, they were asked to think about the roles people naturally fell into. There were leaders, facilitators, gatekeepers, expeditors and record keepers.
The point of the exercise, as best as Rip could remember, was that people tend to gravitate toward certain roles in groups. Nature abhors a vacuum, and all that. He watched that take place in real time.
A man in the crowd stepped up and began ordering people around. Rip figured this guy fell naturally into the leader’s role.
He made sure Rip and Blair had room, turning people away from Sir Winston’s corpse. He sent others on errands, making sure the police were notified. He checked on everyone to see if they needed medical attention.
Rip did not even get the guy’s name until a phalanx of officers stormed into the room holding batons. An older man wearing a faded fedora and a drab gray overcoat led them in. He stopped with the blue-uniformed men lined up behind him.
“I’m Chief Inspector Sperry. Who’s in charge here?”
The man who had been ordering everybody around stepped up and shook the inspector’s hand.
“I am. Thurmond Threadgill, secondary executor for Brooke & Company.”
He cleared his throat and glanced at Blair and the body lying on the floor.
“Our executor is recently deceased, thanks to those foul creatures.”
Sperry turned to the officers behind him and said, “Nobody leaves without a statement. Get to work.”
The men nodded and split up, approaching all the businessmen in the room at once.
“If there is anything I can do, Chief Inspector, please know that I will personally see to it that all the resources of our fine organization will be at your disposal. Please don’t hesitate—”
“Give your statement to an officer, Mr. Threadgill.”
“I . . . it appears they are all busy, at the moment.”
Sperry glanced over his shoulder and watched as a rare woman cop walked into the room, looking around.
“There you are, Officer Paulson. Please take Mr. Threadgill’s statement.”
The woman nodded and pulled out a notepad and pencil as she approached.
Threadgill’s face dropped.
“A female peeler? How droll.”
“Not a laughing matter at all, I assure you. Ms. Paulson is a sworn officer of the law, and highly competent. Now, if you will excuse me.”
He cut away from the protesting Threadgill and made his way over to where Blair sat, silently crying. Rip stood watching her, feeing helpless.
“Lady Brooke, if you please. We must move forward.”
Sperry gently took her hand and helped her up. She sat her father’s head down gently on the floor.
When she stepped aside, Sperry took off his overcoat and laid it over the top half of the body, covering Sir Winston’s face.
Blair buried herself in Rip’s side, and he held her, one arm wrapped tight around her waist. Her grief-wracked sobs made him feel even worse.
Sperry glanced down at Rip’s bullet-pocked front, his shirt stained with blood and the swelling bruise on Rip’s jaw.
He sighed and pulled out his own notebook and pencil.
“What happened?”
Sperry listened as Rip quickly recounted recent events from his perspective. He frowned when Rip told him about the woman in the carriage and underlined something in his notes. His eyes narrowed to a thoughtful squint when Rip finished.
“You say you left a man unconscious out on the street?”
“That’s right. I heard the police whistles and figured they would detain him. I wanted to get back here to Blair as quickly as possible.”
“There was no one out there when we came in.”
Rip raised an eyebrow.
“Dang it. I knew he was enhanced, but I thought he’d stay down for a few minutes. I ruined a gun, I hit him so hard. Repeatedly.”
“I am familiar with the name, Wallace Biggin. I would very much like to interrogate him, since he is our primary suspect in more than a few murders.”
“What’s his story?”
“Former military, Royal Army. Served in South Africa.”
“So, he was enhanced for his service?”
“No. He was not an officer. He was a fusileer. If he was enhanced, our boffins certainly didn’t do it.”
“But you haven’t been able to catch him since he came back to Ethinium and started causing trouble.”
“We are aware of his affiliation with the Luddites, Mr. Coulter. Uh, Sir Coulter. And witnesses have placed him at the scene of various crimes attributed to that group. And, yes, that includes some murders. Particularly of industrialists. They attacked you two and Sir Brooke not long ago, if my memory serves.”
Rip nodded.
“Yes, they attacked the carriage we were in. But in that instance, they used older guns.”
“Yes, the Beaumont-Adams 442. Black powder revolver, five-round cylinder. I remember.”
Rip was impressed, especially since Sperry was not enhanced. He would have to rely on his own memory, not a skill.
Sperry saw the look Rip gave him and added, “I own a handful of older firearms myself. I’m quite familiar with all the guns of Europe down through the centuries. It’s an odd hobby, I admit, but I do find it helpful when dealing with various cases.”
“Everybody’s got to have a hobby. One of my foster dads collected old electronics. I knew some people who collected antique firearms, too.”
“Ah. A fellow aficionado, then.”
“Not quite. I prefer modern guns. Speaking of which, I think you’ll find the two rifles from those guys we shot are going to be Mauser semi-autos.”
Sperry glanced over to where his officers were examining the bodies of the dead Luddites. One of them gingerly picked up a fallen rifle, removing the magazine and ejecting a round in the chamber.
“Yes, that is rather out of character. There is another odd element to this whole nasty business, isn’t there?”
Rip rubbed at his chin and winced when he brushed against the tender spot.
“And what is that, Chief Inspector?”
“How is it, in this tightly packed room, with all these people in here, two men with semi-automatic, state-of-the-art rifles . . . manage to only shoot one man?
Rip’s eyes narrowed in thought.
“Well, I did get shot, too. Not that it counts.”
“Yes, let me consult my notes. The first one came in and shot you specifically. You rolled out of the way, came up and returned fire. The second man, I believe, proceeded to target Sir Winston at the same time Lady Brooke fired at him. Does that sound correct?”
Rip nodded. It was not the way he remembered telling the story, but Sperry had connected the dots.
Rip looked down at Blair, still holding his side. She had stopped crying by now and was following the conversation. She nodded too, when the chief inspector glanced at her with raised eyebrows.
Sperry said, “If this is so, then what we have here is a targeted hit. An assassination.”
Rip watched as Blair’s face hardened into a grim mask.
“I’ll be proceeding with the investigation using that hypothesis. Thank you for your statements. If you will excuse me, I must go supervise my squad.”
Sperry filed the notepad in a pocket and stowed his pencil away. Then he left them, moving toward the officers inspecting the bodies and the Mausers.
Rip looked down at Blair again, who stared stony eyed at all the people in the room. He tried to remember the stages of grief and failed to recall their order.
But he could tell that Blair had shifted firmly into the anger stage.
7
Funerals happened quickly in this world, Rip noticed. He suspected it may have something to do with embalming, or rather the lack of it.
Preserving bodies, of course, was an ancient practice. The Egyptians were particularly good at it. But the use of embalming fluid did not reach widespread practice in his world until the 20th century or so, even though the techniques were perfected before then.
Rip recalled the story of a hurricane hitting America’s Gulf Coast and destroying a cemetery. When a fresh body was found in the cleanup afterward, rescuers at first thought they found a victim of the storm. In fact, the man was a Civil War veteran who had been buried in an expensive lead coffin, hermetically sealed. The storm waters pulled up the coffin and broke it open, exposing the preserved body to the elements for the first time in decades.
All these thoughts raced through his mind as he sat on a train heading north with Blair.
She had not spoken much since the attack. The police took copious notes from multiple interviews, a photographer took pictures, and then they were finally allowed to move Sir Winston’s body.
Blair and Rip returned home late that evening, exhausted. Nancy knew what happened, as did everyone else. The attack made the front page of all the papers.
This morning they set out for the family estate, placing Sir Winston’s coffin in a luggage car on the train.
One oddity Rip felt compelled to ask Blair about included a tiny bell on top of the coffin. It dangled from a small belfry built near the front, with a string going inside a tiny hole.
Apparently there had been some instances of people declared dead suddenly reviving during their wakes while in open coffins. Struck by horror at the thought of burying someone alive, the current mortuary trend was to include a bell string so that should such a thing happen, the victim could signal the living and be released before interment.
The bell never rang as Rip and Blair watched arbiters load the coffin onto the luggage car.
They would bury Sir Winston in a cemetery near the family estate, Blair informed Rip, in a plot next to her mother’s. The funeral would be a small one, attended only by friends and family. Nancy would take another train later in the day. She, along with all the family’s servants, would attend.
Blair did not say much as the train headed north, and Rip remained silent.
At last they disembarked at a village called Ravenwick. A tall, thin older man dressed in a very nice suit waited for them at the station. He gave Blair a brief, one-armed hug. She responded by leaning into him. Her head came up to his chest.
“I’ll see to his remains, Lady Blair. You go on to the house.”
“Thank you, Jonesie.”
The man turned to Rip and extended his hand.
“Sir Coulter, I am Jerod Jones, the Brooke family butler. How do you do? The manor has been following all of your exploits in the paper.”
Rip shook his hand.
“One of the good papers, I hope.”
“The Standard Trumpet. It is ‘The News for Truth,’ after all. The morning editions reach us on the evening train from Leeds.”
Rip smiled, already liking the man. He also felt impressed that an Ethinium paper could be delivered hundreds of miles away to this small village, another positive indicator of the Umbrian postal service’s efficiency. As near as he could tell, they were about 300 miles north of Ethinium, which seemed much farther than it would back home.
Jonesie directed them to a carriage he had waiting for the couple. They climbed in and the horse clip-clopped away from the train station, heading out into the countryside.
A light mist fell, making the sky overcast. Rip thought the weather matched Blair’s mood. She spoke little on the short ride to the manor.
Several minutes later, the carriage driver came to a driveway of crushed gravel circling a large marble fountain. A huge three-story mansion faced them, with steps leading up to a solid wooden double door.
“This place looks more like a palace than a manor,” Rip murmured.
Blair said, “It’s all rather expensive. I don’t know what it cost Father, but I know practically every dime he earned from the company went toward this house and the villagers.”
A stream of servants poured out the doors as the driver set the brake. Most were women, dressed in maid uniforms, but a few men peppered the crowd. Rip thought most of the fellows were outside workers, based on their clothing.
When the driver opened the door, the maids hurried to hug and make a fuss over Blair, while those too far away turned their attention to Rip. He shook hands and spoke to the men, greeting the women with nods. Each person told him what they did at the house, which he found interesting since he did not ask.
“I’m Lily Dobbs, one of the downstairs maids.”
“Jess Walker. I’m the gardener.”
“Hello, I’m Frank Bradston. I take care of Sir Brooke’s horses and dogs, and anything that needs fixing inside or out.”
Rip politely greeted them all, and before long he and Blair had cycled through everyone.
Blair asked for everyone’s attention, lifting her voice.
“I know you’re all concerned about the future. But I want to assure you that I have no plans to sell Brooke Manor, nor change any of our current employment arrangements.”
A sigh rippled through the crowd. Rip realized that with the death of Sir Winston, worries about the future would be natural, especially among those whose livelihood depended on the man. Blair assured them that everyone’s jobs were safe, at least for now.
“And for those no longer working with us, the elderly Mrs. Dobbs, for instance, our arrangements for their retirement will continue.”
Lily Dobbs smiled and curtsied. If Rip had to guess, he would bet “the elderly Mrs. Dobbs” was Lily’s mother.
He realized that working for a house like this essentially meant lifetime employment. Once someone grew old, or disabled, the Brookes would continue providing for them in gratitude for their loyal service.
It was not government welfare, but a security pact between families. One family would serve the other in return for lifetime employment and retirement benefits.
It was very foreign from the way Rip understood employment, but he supposed it worked well. Evidently, it had been working well here for centuries.
Blair continued speaking for a while, thanking everyone for their support during this difficult time, and wrapped things up by indicating the funeral would begin soon.
“We have a bit of time to prepare before heading over there. I will see you all at the cemetery in half an hour.”
The crowd dispersed, most heading back inside. A few stayed to share a few more words with Blair. There were many hugs and arms grasped, with a few tears shed, too. The women comforted Blair as much as she comforted them.
Finally, she led Rip inside. In the main hall, another portrait of father and daughter stood on the far wall.
Unlike the one in her townhouse, painted when she was much younger, here Blair posed as a nearly grown woman in her late teens. She stood beside her father, who looked splendid in hunting clothes, with a shotgun over one shoulder.
He appeared proud of the daughter beside him, her arm in the crook of his elbow. Both looked happy. Blair had a winsome smile, as if hiding secrets, a woman on the cusp of adulthood learning how the world works.
“This, needless to say, was his favorite portrait of us.”
“You prefer the one where you were younger, painted soon after he bought this place.”
“I like this one, too. But there was no way he would ever let me have it. And I couldn’t steal it without him noticing, like the other one. It’s in far too prominent a location.”
Rip examined the portrait. It stood life-sized, the frame stretching eight feet tall.
“You can take it now.”
It was not a suggestion, just a simple statement of fact. Sir Winston was no longer here to protest.
Blair smiled, sadly.
“No, I shan’t. This one will stay right here. That’s how he wanted it, and that’s how it shall remain.”
Rip stared up at the pair on the wall and had to agree. So long as the place was called “Brooke Manor,” the portrait belonged here.
8
The funeral was a solemn affair held at the graveside. A Church of Umbria priest led everyone in a hymn, said a few words, then invited anyone who wanted to say something to come forward and do so.
Jess Walker, the gardener, stepped up first.
“I had been in the brig of the Manitau. Most of you know that. Dishonorably discharged, for striking an officer. I got the lash, I did, and they let me go at Liverpool. I had no idea what to do. And there was a gentleman standing on the docks with four or five travel trunks, looking around for a biter. He saw me and offered a coin if I’d help.”
Jess looked at the crowd and smiled, sadly.
“Well, you all know the rest. He insisted I come help load them onto the train, too. Got to talking to me along the way, and wouldn’t let me ride up top with the driver. Before I knew what was happening, I told him my life story. And then he found out I had a thing for plants . . . ”
A single tear trickled down the man’s face. Jess wiped it away.
“I told him I liked flowers. Couldn’t work with them much at sea. But maybe I could find something now that I was back on dry land. He didn’t bat an eye, the governor. He just said, ‘I’m in need of a gardener, Jessie. Get on the train with me.’ And so I did.”
A few more tears streamed down his cheeks.
“He was the best man I ever knew. I been his gardener ever since then. And so long as Lady Brooke will have me, I’ll be hers too.”
Everyone seemed to have a kind word about Sir Winston. They all shared similar stories. It seemed to Rip that many of the servants had been rescued by Blair’s father at some point.
