Bonfire Night

I slanted him a suspicious look. “I suppose. But I still don’t like it. Not after—” I broke off. We did not often speak of Brisbane’s ability, but his flashes of precognition were alarmingly accurate. He had wakened me in the middle of the night, thrashing in his sleep, murmuring of portents and danger, chasing after something that threatened his peace. I had touched his shoulder to waken him and the nightmare fled. It was the first nightmare I had known him to have during our marriage, and it left him pale and a little unwell, a migraine hovering on the edge of his consciousness. He wore his shaded spectacles, his only concession to the malady. He would not ask for his own sake, but I knew the trip to the country was important to him. For all his love of London and his insistence upon living in the city, he was still half a Gypsy; his blood cried out for open spaces and fresh air in a way that a city-born man’s would never do, I sometimes fancied.

I put a hand to his cheek. “You’re quite right, of course. I must see about engaging another maid before we leave. Morag would never be able to manage on her own.”

He smiled, a ghost of his usual grin, and I pressed a kiss to his cheek. As I pulled away, he touched my hand. “In light of...the dream last night,” he began, “I have asked Monk to look into the matter of Mr. Sanderson. Just a few general enquiries.”

I blinked. “Won’t he have quite enough to do since you’re leaving the enquiry business in his hands whilst you’re away?”

Brisbane stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Things are rather quiet just at the moment. Nothing Monk can’t handle. And something about this bequest disturbs me.”

“Well, it is unusual simply to hand a house over to a man,” I agreed. “What do you suspect?”

“I don’t know,” he replied simply. “And that’s what vexes me. It is too murky at present. It seems straightforward enough, and it well may prove to be so. But in the meanwhile, Monk will burrow around and see if there’s anything our Mr. Sanderson has kept from us.”

“An excellent notion. But if I’m to find a maid by tomorrow, I must make haste. Oh, and Cook said to tell you she has a special surprise for dinner tonight?”

One black brow winged up. “Oh?”

“Stewed bananas.”

* * *

In spite of everything, we managed to depart on schedule, trunks and cases and carpet-bags in tow, trailing the odd book and umbrella and lap robe behind.

“For God’s sake, we look like a travelling circus,” hissed Plum as we emerged from the carriage at the station. A pack of porters descended, scooping up our detritus and following Brisbane’s tall form as he strode down the platform.

“Hush,” I ordered through gritted teeth. “You’ll frighten the new maid.”

Plum glanced around, past Portia giving instructions to her nanny and Morag as they stood clutching their screaming charges. Portia’s stout maid, Clement, followed carrying Mr. Pugglesworth, my sister’s decaying pug, and in her wake trotted a slim, pleasant girl of perhaps twenty-two who was called Liddell.

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