Forever Phoebe by Chalon Linton

Chapter 8

Franklin dared not move. He dared not breathe. And he dared not look at the Jamison brothers.

Peter tried unsuccessfully to turn his laugh into a cough. “Looks like Phoebe is indebted to you,” he said to Franklin before coughing again.

“I think she is grateful he championed her cause.” Jamison grinned wide.

Franklin wanted to reach up and touch his cheek. Mustering great restraint, he kept his hand at his side. He tried to affect an easy smile. “I’m sure the gesture was meant in a sisterly sort of way.”

Geoffrey looked at Peter, and they both burst into laughter. Truthfully, Franklin did not know what to think. He was drawn to Miss Jamison. She had a way about her that brought a smile to his face. Her ability to barter and banter proved she had a quick mind. She expressed herself freely, and while her independence might be criticized by the haughty ton, her actions were genuine. The kiss itself testified of the freedom she displayed. She was unafraid to be herself. The exact opposite of how Franklin often felt.

“Well,” Jamison said. “I think I shall join Phoebe on her visit.”

“I had better inform Abraham that he has another brother,” Peter said. The brothers laughed as they walked away, leaving Franklin standing alone in the garden.

It was all so peculiar—a race, hiring staff, and a kidnapper on the loose—Franklin knew not what to do, but he would like to find out more on that last score. Perhaps the Gladstones could provide further insight. He decided to return home.

Before he’d left that morning, Franklin had briefed Gladstone on a list of tasks he’d hoped would be completed that day. When Gladstone did not meet him at the door upon his return, Franklin hoped the man had undertaken one of the plentiful chores. He had not seen Gladstone outside and thus headed to the drawing room to inspect the repair of the leak in the bay window. He had met with Gladstone two days ago, and together they’d determined that the old putty around the glass needed to be stripped away and new putty applied.

It became immediately obvious that the first half of the job had been completed. Bits of brittle putty lay scattered about the window ledge, and larger chunks were strewn across the wooden floor. Franklin frowned at the mess and could only assume Gladstone meant to tidy up after he had finished the job.

An airy snort filled the room, and Franklin turned to see Gladstone himself spread across the sofa, sleeping contentedly despite his trumpeting snore. Franklin’s temper lit. “Gladstone,” he said in what he considered a very commanding voice. Yet the man snored on. With a deep breath, Franklin filled his lungs and tried again. “Gladstone.” His tone was decidedly stern and forceful, but Gladstone merely mumbled some nonsense, moved his hand to rest on his belly, and continued to sleep. Gads! Franklin’s annoyance seethed. His angry breaths built one on another, and his hands fisted at his side. “Gladstone!” he shouted.

At this final call, the man’s eyes slowly blinked open. He rubbed a hand across his face but had not yet spied his employer standing only an arm’s length away. Mrs. Gladstone ran into the room and quickly assessed the scene. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my,” she said. She quickly moved to the couch, where her husband lay. She bent over and pulled on his arm. “Mr. Gladstone, get up. Get up, now.”

Gladstone swatted at her with his free hand. “What you are yammering about, woman?”

“Mr. Gladstone.” She looked back at Franklin with frightened eyes. “Mr. Everly is here. Get up, will you,” she whispered loudly.

Finally, the man responded. “Everly is here?”

“Yes,” his wife said, frantically pulling his arm.

Gladstone began to push himself up. “Well, how long ’ave I got before he gets to the house?”

“Not long at all,” Franklin said, planting his hands on his hips.

Gladstone sprang to his feet, knocking his wife to the side. His hair stuck in a variety of directions while dregs of sleep surrounded his eyes. “Mr. Everly, sir! How can I help you, sir?” Gladstone’s head swung back and forth between Franklin and his wife, who ducked her head and stared at her feet. He ran his hands down the front of his shirt and swallowed.

Franklin said nothing. He knew not what to say. The servants at Everly Manor certainly never behaved this way. Franklin could be stern, but sternness was not inherent in his nature. Rather, he preferred explaining and reasoning, but nothing of Gladstone’s behavior could be explained or reasoned away. If the man had fallen ill or had a sudden fainting spell, perhaps, but the evidence was quite plain—the man had taken a nap—on the sofa—in the drawing room.

“Can I get you some refreshment, Mr. Everly?” Mrs. Gladstone asked. Then she dipped into an awkward curtsy, and wrung her hands.

“No,” Franklin said. Food was the last thing on his mind. He dropped his hands from his waist and pointed to the dry putty speckling the floor and window ledge. “What happened here?”

Gladstone quickly walked to the window and fell to his knees. He began sweeping the crackled bits of putty into a pile. Mrs. Gladstone joined him. She pulled a rag from her pocket and brushed the scattered fragments from the window frame into her hand. When they finished, Gladstone pushed himself up from the floor with a grunt and stood beside his wife. He opened his mouth but closed it again and looked at his feet.

“Tell me, Gladstone, is this how you served my uncle?” Franklin asked.

“No, sir,” he answered softly.

“Do you find the tasks I’ve assigned you unreasonable?” Franklin motioned again to the window.

“No, sir,” Gladstone repeated.

Innumerable thoughts jumped in and out of Franklin’s head. Could he trust the man? Should he trust the man? Should he turn him out? Would Gladstone and his wife have somewhere to go? Were Franklin’s expectations unreasonable? However did Barton manage all of his servants so efficiently? Franklin had only five people on staff, and he was failing miserably. He took a deep breath. “When can I expect the repair to be complete?” he asked.

“Tomorrow, sir,” Gladstone answered quickly. “I’m just needin’ to get more putty.”

“I hold you to your word.” Franklin needed to think on what to do. He rubbed his temple where the beginnings of a headache had formed. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and turned to leave the room.

“Sir, there’s a letter come for you,” Gladstone said before Franklin crossed the threshold. “I put it in your study.”

Franklin paused and turned around. “Mrs. Gladstone, I will take that refreshment you offered. Chamomile tea, if you please. I will be in my study.” He left to read his letter.

Mr. Snow had finally written in response to Franklin’s request for steward recommendations. Franklin skimmed the list of seven neatly penned names. The first name, Isaac Sunter, had a check mark beside it. Mr. Snow offered his highest recommendation for Mr. Sunter. He’d known the man’s family for many years and claimed they were beyond trustworthy. Snow’s endorsement satisfied Franklin. There was no need to consider the other six names. He quickly penned a letter of gratitude to Mr. Snow and another to Isaac Sunter, offering him the position of steward immediately.

Mrs. Gladstone carried in a small tray of biscuits and tea, and Franklin was about to ask her to summon her husband but thought better of it. He would take the letters to the Blue Goose and post them himself. He quickly ate a handful of biscuits and nearly scalded his throat gulping down the hot tea, but he had been invited to supper at the Claytons’, and he wanted to post the letter today. The sooner his letter reached Mr. Sunter, the sooner he’d have some peace of mind.

In Franklin’s frustration, he had not asked the Gladstones for news of the kidnapper, but during dinner with the Claytons, he learned more. The first victim was initially believed to have run away with a forbidden love. But after three weeks of searching, her family received their one and only lead: their daughter had been seen being forced into a private carriage alongside a well-dressed man. The carriage had headed north, but nothing further had been discovered. The other two reports of missing women were eerily similar: a well-dressed man, an unmarked carriage, and a trail long gone cold. There was still no word on the most recent disappearance.

“So the kidnapper is assumed to be the same man involved in all four instances?” Franklin asked.

“That is the general belief, though there is very little to go on.” Mr. Clayton motioned for the footman to begin serving the second course.

“I do not wish to dwell on such things,” Mrs. Clayton said. “I find it all rather depressing and, if I may admit, frightening.”

“Not to worry, dear, the victims have all been no more than one and twenty. Your age serves you well in this instance,” Mr. Clayton said.

“Oh, I am not frightened for myself but for those of our acquaintance who may fall victim to this foul scheme.” Mrs. Clayton cut herself a bite of pheasant. “But let us speak of it no more this evening, I wish to become better acquainted with our new neighbor. Tell me, Mr. Everly, how do you like Halsham?”

The Claytons’ easy manners and warm hospitality reminded Franklin of his family before his father had passed, and he returned home that evening with a newfound hope. His spirits lifted further when he spied a note on the salver in the entryway:

Race tomorrow, 8 a.m. sharp.

—PJ

Franklin was certain Chipper would defend his previous win. The added bonus of Miss Jamison’s company ensured Franklin went to bed with a smile on his face. Unlike Ravencrest, a race was something he knew how to manage.