Gun powder?
“What in the world?” She made to drop it back into the wagon but Theo was beside her in the blink of an eye.
“Do not drop it.
The moment you do, it will explode.” What?
Explode?
But… she was so young.
She had barely even lived to the ripe age of twenty-five!
“Then what do I do?” A hint of desperation crept into her voice.
He seized her hand none-too-gently and held it firmly.
“On the count of three, I want you to let it go.” He said, wrapping his own hand around it.
Her heart started beating furiously.
The sun and its menace was instantly forgotten.
Everetta was sweating for another reason entirely.
“Why?
What would happen to you if I do that?” He met her wide eyes with his usual calm and cold one.
“Do you trust me?” Eve began to nod her head but immediately stopped.
“No.
I do not.” She wasn’t certain if she was imagining it, but his eyes went a shade darker, from smoky to dark ash colour.
“Or do you want to lose your precious arm?” The beseeching tone was gone from his voice.
“Of course not!” She turned to Bartwick.
“Don’t just stand there!
Do something to help me.” Bartwick glanced between her and the man that held her hand so securely.
“If I may say so, I believe Sir Theodore is handling the matter better than anyone else could.
She gulped and turned back to him.
His eyes seemed to have even grown darker in colour.
“I would not repeat myself, Lady Whitmore.
On the count of three, release it and walk away.” She searched his eyes for any hint, anything.
But there was nothing there.
Only a growing sense of annoyance.
His grip on her hand was tightening.
“One.” She gradually loosened her fingers.
“Two.” He rested his free hand on her shoulder and gently began pushing her away.
“Three.” The object slid from her hand and into his seamlessly before she was pushed backwards forcefully.
But the push was the least of her worries.
What if the object would explode if he dropped It, what was he going to do with it?
How would he escape the explosion?
But since he had been a general in the army, he must know his way about explosives, wouldn’t he?
“Bartwick, fetch me a bucket of sand and as many towels as you can find.” Without wasting a single second, Bartwick dashed into the house to attend to his errand.
Eve’s gaze remained glued to his veinuous hands.
He was gripping the object very carefully with his thumb and forefinger holding the tip tightly.
“What is that?” She finally found her voice.
“Nothing that concerns a Lady like you.” She placed her hands on her hips.
“This attitude of yours is getting harder to ignore, Sir Theodore.
I only asked what it is called, not how to use it or how it was made.” He spared her a glance.
“There is no exact name for it.
Most people call it a bomb.” Her eyes widened.
A bomb?
“What is such doing in a wagon here?
Did you order it?” He shook his head.
“By accident?” He shot her a scalding look.
“Why would I order such a thing?” She bit her lower lip and retreated a step backward.
Did that mean someone was trying to attack him?
Or her?
Or his entire household?
At the realization, she covered her mouth with her hands.
Just then, Bartwick emerged with three servants.
One carried a bucket of sand while the other held bundles of towels under each of their arms.
“Put them there.” Theodore indicated a spot on the ground as far away from the wagon as he could deign to move.
They set the towels down and he directed them to form a sort of some with it.
Then, the sand was poured into the make-shift structure.
Everetta watched as he crouched down in front of the structure and carefully dipped his hand into it, burying the object in the sand.
“Pour the rest of the sand.” He instructed the red faced boy that held the bucket of sand behind him.
The boy kept pouring the sand over it until the bucket was empty.
Then, Everetta glanced at his face.
His skin looked deathly pale.
He slowly pulled his hand out of the sand.
The moment he did, he pressed the towels together and waited for it to explode.
All she heard was a subdued popping sound and then smoke erupted from it.
Her palpitating heart began to calm somewhat.
Nothing happened to him, thank the heavens, she thought.
“Clean this up as soon as it cools.” He said, rising up and dusting his hands.
She watched his movements, waiting for him to give her the ‘I told you I could handle it’ gaze.
But instead, he snatched a clean towel from the boy behind him, wiped his hands and went into the manor.
Everetta blinked.
She was wondering for the umpteenth time that day if she had upset him.
But she had to admit, her aim had been to provoke him into doing something… she did not exactly know what she expected him to do, only that she wanted him to do something.
But he always seemed to do the opposite of what she expected.
Just like she expected him to absolve her betrothal to his brother after catching her peeping on him, but he chose to turn a blind eye.
Would she ever understand him?
Was there any book titled Theodore Von Virchow that could read and gain insight as to his unpredictable behaviour?
She turned to Bartwick.
The old man refused to meet her gaze.
“How well do you know, Sir Theodore?” The man tilted his head in thought.
“I have known him since he was an infant.
He was everyone’s favourite… he always knew how to steal attention.” Then he shook his head and his eyes lost their distant look.
“I should see to the young Sir.” Then he entered the house.
She rushed after him before he could politely turn down her company.
They found Theodore sitting on a cushioned seat in the drawing room and pouring brandy over his hands.
Why was he- Her eyes caught on his hands.
They were so red.
Had he been scalded by the heat?
Eve rushed forward and reached for his hand.
He snatched his hand away before she could touch it and gave her a cold stare.
“Are your hands hurt?” He shook his head.
“This is not the first time I am doing something like this, I have had to put out more explosives with much less towels than I had today.” “But don’t you feel any pain.
Your hands look…” Eve trailed off.
Her voice shook with an emotion that she would rather keep hidden.
He glanced up at her, quietly searching her eyes.
“To ease your conscience, Lady Whitmore.
I will allow you to treat my hands.” Her eyes widened.