A Most Peculiar Circumstance
© 2013 by Jennifer L. Turano
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
Ebook edition created 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-6151-9
This is a work of historical reconstruction; the appearances of certain historical figures are therefore inevitable. All other characters, however, are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Cov
er design by John Hamilton Design
Author is represented by The Seymour Agency
In Memory of
W. Calvin Turner
This certainly would have given you something to chat about with the gents at the mall, Dad, instead of old football stats. Wish you were still around to share this adventure with me.
Miss you more than I can say.
All my love,
Jennifer
1 
N
OVEMBER
1880
G
ILMAN
, I
LLINOIS
M
iss Arabella Beckett had always been proud of the fact she’d never ended up in jail.
She could no longer make that claim.
Her gaze traveled over the roughhewn walls of the cell and then dropped to the floor, lingering on rusty stains that appeared to be splatters of blood. She frowned as she noticed a trail of muddy water flowing toward and then over the stains. She looked down and realized the mud was coming from the soaking and filthy hem of her gown.
Hitching up her skirt, she stepped over the water and hobbled over to a stone bench. She plopped down and released a huff when a glob of something undoubtedly vile dribbled down her back. She ignored the dribble as irritation began to simmer.
Once again, her propensity for involving herself in matters that were none of her concern had managed to land her in a slight bit of trouble.
She should have stuck to her original plan of traveling
directly from Chicago to her home in New York instead of agreeing to help one Mrs. James—a woman she had just happened upon at the train station—track down her errant daughter.
She shot a glance to the young lady sleeping soundly on the only cot the cell offered and blew out a breath. There was no sense dwelling on what might have been. The reality was she
had
gotten off the train in Gilman, and she was simply going to have to live with that decision. At least she could take solace in the knowledge that Miss James was now somewhat safe rather than enduring what would have certainly been a fate worse than death.
She leaned her head back against the cold wall, ignored the sodden fabric of the skirt that was now sticking to her legs, and forced her weary mind to think.
She was being charged with four counts of assault, which was completely ludicrous considering she hadn’t assaulted anyone, let alone four officers of the law.
If those officers would have given her the courtesy of an explanation before trying to apprehend her, she would not have felt compelled to make a run for it. She also wouldn’t have chosen an escape route that led through a remarkably foul pigpen.
There was no possible way she could have known a deranged pig lurked on the other side of that completely innocent-looking fence. She’d only taken a few steps after she’d bolted over the top before the beast had charged directly toward her. That disturbing circumstance had caused her to spin around as best she could through the muck and make a beeline for the fence, pushing past the dumbfounded officers who’d followed her. In hindsight, it might have been prudent to have given them fair warning as to what was coming their way, but she’d been distracted by a troublesome piece of splintered fence that had snagged her hair.
As she’d struggled to get free, the pig had set its attention on the officers.
It had not been a pretty sight.
Bodies had scrambled around in a blur, squeals were emitted—and not just from the pig—and the foul substance that littered the pen had drenched everyone.
That unfortunate result had not endeared Arabella to the officers in the least, especially Sheriff Dawson, who’d made short shrift of getting her released from the fence with one deliberate slice of a wicked-looking knife.
She lifted her hand and patted the left side of her head, encountering a mess of ragged, blond curls that had been a good eight inches longer when she’d started the day but now appeared to be no longer than the bottom of her chin. She gave her hair one last pat, dropped her hand to her lap, and noticed the grime clinging to her fingers. She rubbed them against the fabric of her gown and, realizing she was only making them muddier, decided that contemplating her current lack of hygiene and missing hair would have to wait. There were more important matters to ponder.
She turned her head and studied Miss James, wondering what had possessed the young lady to attempt to procure a husband through the mail. Had the young lady resorted to such drastic measures because of pressure from family members, or had the advertisement Miss James answered been written in such an enticing fashion that the lady simply couldn’t help herself?
It truly was unfortunate, whatever the lady’s reasoning, that Miss James apparently felt one was not complete unless one had the attention of a gentleman, even if said gentleman was one she’d never met.
Deciding her time would be better spent figuring a way out of jail instead of contemplating the workings of a young lady’s mind, Arabella closed her eyes and turned to God.
Dear Lord, thank you for lending me your guidance and support in the matter of rescuing Miss James. Please continue to keep her safe, and if you could, would it be possible to send me some assistance?
She opened her eyes and nodded. That should do the trick. God would show her a way out, but until that time, she needed to keep a clear head and mull through her options.
She had rights. Granted, they were slim to none since she was a woman, but she could not be held indefinitely, could she?
Knowing far too well that the rights of women were cast aside on the whims of gentlemen on a daily basis, Arabella felt her jaw clench. The reality was that, yes, she might be held behind bars for a very long time.
She should have been more diligent in her attempts at getting the laws changed.
It certainly lent a different perspective to the inequalities facing women when she was the one behind bars, yet now was hardly the time to think about that.
As she smoothed down the wrinkled mess of her skirt, her attention settled on the good six inches of mud attached to her hem, and she suddenly remembered the money she’d stashed in that hem. She could offer the sheriff the money and secure her release.
No, that would never do. She blew out a breath. The sheriff would surely look at that as a bribe, and then she would never escape the confines of the small cell.
The sound of footsteps caused her to blink out of her thoughts and lean forward on the bench, her attention focused on the narrow hallway in the dank and dreary basement jail that led to her cell.
The footsteps stopped and a gentleman came into view. It was rather odd, but she got the distinct impression he was annoyed, probably because he was glaring at her through the bars.
She swallowed a sigh. As a woman who was known for having strong opinions, dealing with annoyed gentlemen seemed to be a common occurrence in her life. She leaned farther forward on the bench, intent on addressing the gentleman, but suddenly found she was at a complete loss for words when she got a good look at his face.
The gentleman was possessed of features that could have been sculpted by a master.
Sharp cheekbones complemented a straight blade of a nose, and his eyes were as dark as his brows, which were currently drawn together as if the man were contemplating a weighty matter. Her gaze drifted to his hair, which was liberally streaked with gold and looked quite untidy at the moment, as though the gentleman had been running his hands through it out of sheer aggravation.
She had the sneaking suspicion she might be the cause of that aggravation.
Her gaze drifted downward, lingering on shoulders encased in an overcoat of exceptionally fine wool.
An attorney would wear such a coat.
Perhaps God was already answering her prayer regarding assistance, and perhaps the man was only annoyed with her because he’d been roused from his house in the middle of the night to bail her out of jail.
Feeling a bit more charitable toward the gentleman, she allowed herself a moment to finish her perusal. He was very brawny, but no, that wasn’t quite right. She tilted her head. He was tall, certainly, well over six feet from what she could tell, but his overcoat was tailored at the waist, lending the impression of trimness, while his shoulders . . . a frisson of something unexpected raced down her spine.
That was peculiar. She’d never felt a frisson of anything quite like that before, but maybe it had only been another one of those pesky globs of mud that was still attached to her
person. She nodded in relief over that particular reasoning, and regarded his shoulders once again, unable to help being somewhat impressed. They were so broad, and they gave testimony to the fact that here was a gentleman who could handle himself well in disturbing situations.
Her eyes widened as she realized he was a gentleman who commanded attention, and he was also one who would have no trouble getting her and Miss James released from jail.
She shifted her gaze back to his face, frowning when she realized the gentleman’s mouth was moving.
Funny, in her consideration of the man, she’d neglected to realize he was speaking to her.
She’d apparently been struck deaf as well as mute.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” she began, finally finding her voice. “Were you speaking to me?”
The gentleman’s mouth stopped moving as he sent her a look of what could only be described as disbelief before he nodded.
“Would you be so kind as to repeat what you said?”
“I was inquiring whether or not you are Miss Arabella Beckett.”
His voice was deep and slightly raspy, and it held a distinct note of exasperation. She summoned up a smile even as she ignored the irritation that had begun to hum through her. “I readily admit that I am, indeed, Miss Beckett. May I dare hope you’ve come to secure my release?”
“I don’t see that I have any other option.”
Temper began to bubble up inside of her, but before she could formulate a suitable retort to his surly response, he ran a hand through his untidy hair and took a step forward, shaking his finger at her through the bars.
She felt as if she were suddenly back in primary school, being taken to task for some silly prank.
Her temper boiled hotter.
“You have led me on a merry chase, Miss Beckett,” the gentleman growled. “You were supposed to be in Chicago, and before that, Kansas. Imagine my surprise when I tracked you to Gilman, only to discover you’d somehow managed to get arrested.”
She slowly rose from the bench. “You’ve been searching for me?”
The gentleman stopped wagging his finger, withdrew it from between the bars, and then gave a short jerk of his head. “For well over a month. Your family sent me after you when they became aware of the fact you’d gone missing.”
Arabella plucked the wet material of her dress away from her legs and took a step forward, pausing when she realized she seemed to be missing a shoe. She lifted her skirt, glanced down, and felt a grin tug her lips as bare toes peeking through tattered and torn stockings came into focus.
That certainly explained all the hobbling she’d been doing. With the chaos surrounding her arrest and subsequent transport to jail, she’d neglected to realize she’d lost her shoe somewhere along the way.
A loud clearing of a throat had her lifting her head, even as the grin slid off her face. The gentleman was staring at her with clear annoyance stamped on his all-too-handsome face, and that had her gritting her teeth even as she took a teetering step forward.
“Who are you?” she asked as she reached the front of the cell, grabbing onto the cold bars separating them and wobbling on her one heel.
The gentleman’s lips thinned. “I already told you, I’m Mr. Theodore Wilder. Were you not listening to a word I said?”
Even though she was in desperate need of assistance, she was tempted to demand that the gentleman take his leave. She tightened her grip on the bars, took a deep breath, released it in one huff, and then sucked in another. “You’re the famous private investigator.”
“I see my reputation precedes me.”
“Why would my family go to the bother of hiring you? I assure you, I was not missing. I was perfectly aware of where I was at all times, and, truth be told, I was actually on my way home before I took this detour.”
Mr. Wilder cocked a brow. “You might not have gone ‘missing,’ Miss Beckett, but any fool can see you need assistance. I would think you would find it a fortuitous circumstance that I came after you, unless of course you would prefer I pretend I
didn’t
find you and leave you here to rot.”
