Stephen Lawhead - The Spirit Well

“We will make braided raisin bread tomorrow,” he was saying. “See that the baking trays are clean and ready before you leave tonight.” He half turned as Wilhelmina entered the room. “Ach, mein Schatz,” he said, breaking into a smile when he saw her. “There you are. Hilda was looking for you.”

“I will see her later.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, then turned to one of the assistants. “Hans, the wagon is outside. Take it to the stable, please, and see the mule’s water bucket is full. Give him an extra handful of grain.”

“ Jawohl, Fraulein Mina,” replied the young baker smartly.

“Barthelm,” she said to the other helper. “Go with him. I wish to speak to Herr Stiffelbeam alone.”

The two kitchen aides left the room. “Come, Etzel,” she said as soon as they were gone. She took his hand in hers and led him to the worktable. “I want you to sit down.”

“Mina, what is it? Is something wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” she assured him. “But I have to tell you something.”

She drew a stool from beneath the table and perched him on it, then paused, thinking how to begin. Concern and curiosity wheeled across his good-natured face. Wilhelmina smiled.

“Dear Etzel,” she sighed. “What will I do without you?”

“I hope you will not have to do without me, Herzerl,” he said.

“But that is what I have to say.” She took his hand again and, clasping it in both of hers, raised it to her lips. “I think I may have to go away for a while, and I want you to know the reason so you won’t worry about me.”

“Go away?” His expression grew puzzled. “Why? Where will you go?”

“I have a confession to make,” she said. “This will not be the first time I have gone away.”

“I know you go out into the country,” he said. “To talk to the farmers and the beekeepers.”

“That is true,” she allowed, “but there is more. I have been travelling to other places too. Many other places.”

He stared at her in baffled silence.

“Etzel,” she said softly, “it is time you knew the whole truth. Some of the places where I go are not of this world.”

He continued to gaze at her until at last the light of understanding shone in his eyes. Nodding slowly, he replied, “ Ach, mein Schatz, we are none of us belonging to this world.”

Archibald Burley walked, as he walked everywhere these days, with a sprightly spring in his step. Life, in all its unique and unqualified splendour, stretched before him in glittering vistas of happiness, success, and unstinting prosperity. As the-man-alsoknown-as Lord Archelaeus Burleigh, Earl of Sutherland, his acumen in finding and securing the best artefacts and passing them on to London’s elite collectors had established him on the upper rungs of London’s social ladder. His eye for authenticity was extraordinary and his judgement second to none. As the premiere purveyor of the finest antiquities and objets de desir for the aristos and would-be upper-crusties, Burleigh’s prices were as breathtaking as the artefacts were exquisite and beautiful and, with the current craze for all things classical, the young earl was squirreling away the dosh by the cartload.

If business was good, his personal life was even better. In fact, he could not recall a time when he had ever felt such joy: confident, optimistic, and so brimming over with good cheer he all but sloshed as he walked. Following the untimely demise of his guardian, mentor, and benefactor, Lord Gower, Archie had been at liberty to be, do, and go as he pleased, and he luxuriated in the freedom. He did not squander either his wealth or opportunity like so many of his ilk-the poor barrow boys, ragamuffins, and street urchins who, by one means or another, occasionally manage to rise above their station and gain a toehold on a higher rung of society’s ladder.

His rising fortunes notwithstanding, topping Archibald’s list of Reasons to Be Cheerful was the gladsome fact that he was in love. The object of his affection was the estimable beauty Phillipa Harvey-Jones, daughter of the notorious empire builder Reginald Harvey-Jones, whose roster of industrial conquests was precisely as long as his inventory of enemies. Truth be told, the Earl of Sutherland was not the man Harvey-Jones would have chosen for his beloved Pippa. Ever the shrewdly calculating businessman, Reg considered young Burleigh a jumped-up Northern bounder with a dubious title. Yet, for reasons he could not fathom, Phillipa loved the dark-haired lord, so there was nothing to be done about it but pour the champagne and announce the nuptials.

That this had not yet happened was not for lack of trying on Pippa’s part. She nudged and coaxed her paramour as sweetly as any maid ever coaxed a beau, but there always seemed to be some excuse why this or that close date could not be countenanced. The latest obstacle was an urgent business trip to Italy to collect certain promised objects for an influential client.

“We will be married as soon as I return,” Burleigh declared; he stroked her hand in the hope of making his words more palatable.

“You said that last time,” she pointed out, her lower lip protruding in a pout.

“The situation is quite different this time,” he insisted, not ungently. “If I win my way with Lord and Lady Coleridge, our future in society is secured. Clients will beat a path to my door. You’ll want for nothing.”

“All I want,” she replied petulantly, “is you.”

“And you shall have me, my sweet.” He raised her hand and brushed it with his lips. “One more trip and you shall have me all to yourself forever after.”

“How long will you be away?”

“Only as long as it takes the ship to sail there and back.”

“Must you really go yourself? Can you not send someone to collect these trinkets for you?”

“If only I could,” sighed the young lord. “But no, the thing must be done by me in person. There is less risk of anything going wrong, and I dare not hazard the loss of this sale.” He patted her hand. “When I return we shall be married with unseemly haste, I promise.”

“We had better,” she replied, accepting his assurances at last. “I shall content myself with picking out my trousseau in your absence.”

“And all the rest-china, linens, crystal, silverware, everything. Choose whatever you like, my love, for if you like it, then I am sure to like it too.”

They talked about where they would like to honeymoon and other pleasantries, and this carried them up to the day of Burleigh’s embarkation. He called on her a few hours before sailing time and made his final farewell. They shared a kiss or two, and then he departed. No one but the coach driver saw him walk onto the dock to board the waiting ship. And that was the last that anyone in London saw of him for a very long time.

As for Burleigh, the trip began as routine and uneventful as any traveller could wish. The ship-a fair-sized packet steamer christened Gipsy — called on ports along the French, Spanish, and Italian coasts; she was tight and seaworthy, the captain a capable and conscientious seaman who had served in the Royal Navy. The steamer made its appointed rounds, collecting and delivering mail and freight and passengers to their destinations, and picking up the same for return to England. When asked later, the captain did remember dining with the young earl during the voyage. The purser even recalled seeing Burleigh drive off in a hired coach at Livorno-this he remembered because the earl had made a point of booking the same cabin for his return journey when the ship was to call back in ten days’ time.

In any event, the young lord failed to appear, and Gipsy returned to England without him.