Death Comes to the Village (13 page)

Robert caught his butler’s attention. “May I suggest you escort the ladies downstairs until you have prepared the bedchambers for them? And may I also suggest you make this a priority?”

“Naturally, sir.” Foley bowed. “If you would like to accompany me down to the small parlor, Miss Chingford, Mrs. Armitage? I’ll send for some tea, and have those rooms ready for you as quickly as possible.”

Miss Chingford retreated immediately, but his aunt stayed to smooth his hair from his brow and kiss him again. “Don’t you worry, love. We’ll have you all right and tight soon enough.”

The familiar burr of her northern accent reminded him of his mother and made him want to press his face to her bosom and howl like a child. He managed to keep his smile firmly in place until his aunt went out, and then he covered his face in his hands and groaned. When he opened his eyes, Bookman was studying him quizzically.

“Is everything all right, sir? Foley said we have guests.”

“We do.”

“That’s nice, sir. You could do with a bit of company.”

“Not this company.”

Bookman paused as he replenished the glass of water by Robert’s bed. “I thought I saw Mrs. Armitage.”

“You did. It’s not her I’m worried about.”

“Who else did she bring? Not your cousin, Paul?”

“Oh no, far worse than that.” Bookman looked politely puzzled, and Robert continued. “She brought Miss Chingford with her.”

“Miss Chingford?”

“The woman I foolishly asked to marry me.”

“
M
ay I assist you, Miss Harrington?”

Lucy gathered the skirts of her serviceable riding habit in one hand and turned toward Edward.

“That would be very kind of you.” She placed her foot in the stirrup as he boosted her upward, and grabbed for the pommel, arranging her skirts decorously around her. “Thank you.” She gathered the reins in her gloved hand and stuck one of the pins more firmly into her hat.

Despite her father’s love of horses, the mounts he provided for his curate and his eldest daughter could hardly be described as dashing. To be fair, Bluebell was old, placid, and never likely to cause Lucy a moment’s anxiety. Unfortunately, the curate’s mount was a young horse the rector wanted exercised and seemed far too skittish for Edward to handle.

He mounted only after a groom stood at the horse’s head to hold his tempestuous steed still.

“Shall we be off, Miss Harrington?” He glanced up at the cloudy sky. “Let’s hope the weather holds.”

It wasn’t that far to Lower Kurland and Kurland St. Anne, which nestled together at the far end of the valley against a series of gentle hills. Lucy enjoyed the opportunity to get out of the house. As a child, she and her brothers had often ridden out to the other villages, but she rarely got the opportunity now.

She glanced sideways as Edward came into view and then had to skitter away like a crab as he tried to control his horse. She fought a smile. If he had intended to converse with her on the journey, she reckoned he was destined to be disappointed. After following the road for about ten minutes, they cut across a field of winter cabbage to approach Lower Kurland from the rear.

Out here amongst the barren fields there were very few signs of the approach of spring. Like a miser spending a coin, winter seemed reluctant to release its icy grip. Lucy inhaled the hint of frost in the air and slowly breathed out. If she went to London with Sophia and found a husband, she might never come back here at this time of year again. . . .

“Miss Harrington?”

She looked across at Edward and wondered how long it had taken him to get her attention. “What is it?”

“Do you wish to accompany me on my visits, or do you have other business to conduct in the village?”

“I’ll come with you, but perhaps as we go around you can help me find Isaiah Bridges. Do you know him?”

“Bridges? I don’t think he is part of our flock. I believe he might be a Methodist.”

“One of those fire-breathing, Bible-thumping heretics my father speaks about so disparagingly?”

“It isn’t a cause for levity, Miss Harrington. These men are
subversives
who deny authority.”

Lucy stared straight ahead so that he wouldn’t see her smile. “Then I’ll be very careful how I approach Mr. Bridges. God forbid he try to convert me.”

Edward dismounted to open the gate that led back onto the road, and Lucy guided her horse through the gap. As she passed, he caught hold of her horse’s bridle in a tenacious grip.

“Miss Harrington, sometimes your tendency to make light of everything, to
mock
that which is sacred to my profession, is a character flaw I cannot admire. I try to persuade myself that it is just your sense of fun, but perhaps you might aspire to behave in a more Christian manner?”

Lucy lowered her gaze to meet his. “If I ever put you in a position to
give
me advice, Mr. Calthrope, I would gladly listen to your concerns.” She waited until he took his hand away from her horse’s bridle. “But as that is
extremely
unlikely, I don’t believe you have the right to either correct or chastise me. Your horse is about to bolt. Shall we move on?”

Edward flushed an unbecoming shade of red and hurried back to catch his horse, who insisted on dancing away every time he tried to mount. Lucy made no offer to help him and simply set off again down the trail, her teeth clenched together as she rode. His anger surprised and unsettled her. But she wasn’t in the mood to be cowed by another man. Whether it was the effect of associating with Major Kurland, or that several people had tried her patience recently, Lucy was more willing than usual to express her own opinions.

In front of her was a short run of parallel thatched cottages that made up the bulk of Lower Kurland’s high street. She didn’t recall there being a carpenter’s shop in the rows of dwellings and businesses, but she might have missed it. The first substantial building was the Cock Inn, and Lucy turned her horse’s head in that direction. Lower Kurland was so small that she could usually walk up and down the high street and conduct all her business in less than an hour.

“Morning, Miss Harrington! Leaving the old nag here for a while?”

She smiled down at the ostler who emerged from the stable yard of the Cock and ambled toward her.

“If that is all right, Bob. I won’t be long.”

“I’ll keep an eye on her for you, miss, don’t you worry.” Bob led the horse to a mounting block and helped Lucy dismount. “Is Mr. Calthrope stopping here, too? I see him just coming over the hill.”

“I assume so.” Lucy untied her basket from the back of the saddle. “Do you know where Mr. Isaiah Bridges resides?”

“You going to try your hand at converting him, miss?” He winked at her. “I wouldn’t bother. He’s with his lord, and he’s very happy about that.”

“I just wondered where he lives. I have a bill to settle with him for his carpentry services.”

Bob shaded his eyes and pointed up the street. “You won’t find him in the village proper, like. His family owns Beech Cottage. It’s just past the common to the left of the duck pond.”

“Thank you.” Edward rode up, his face red and perspiring as he wrestled with the recalcitrant horse. “Will you inform Mr. Calthrope that I will meet him after I’ve conducted my business with Mr. Bridges?”

“Yes, miss.”

Lucy set off down the high street, ignoring Edward’s attempts to call out to her. How dare he presume to tell her how to behave? She was no more answerable to him for her conduct than she was to Major Kurland! Indignation made her walk faster and she was soon breathing rather deeply. The heavy wool of her riding skirts weighed far more than her usual light muslins. She passed the duck pond, which still bore patches of ice on the surface, and studied the cottages ahead of her.

It was relatively easy to decide which one belonged to the Bridges family, both because of the barn adjacent to the property and the large wooden cross that graced the front garden. Hearing the sound of activity, Lucy walked around the side of the cottage toward the barn, where the pleasing smell of freshly cut wood permeated the air. When she saw the man splitting wood with his ax, she immediately remembered him being at the rectory overseeing the building of the new stable yard.

“Mr. Bridges?”

“Aye?” He looked up and stepped away from the stack of wood, wiping his brow on his shirtsleeve. “It’s Miss Harrington, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She curtsied to him. “I wonder if you might help me with a particular matter?”

“Is it about the work I did on the house?” He put the ax down and came toward her. He was tall and broad and much younger than she had anticipated. “If it’s money you’re after, you’ll have to talk to my father. He still does the books.”

“This is a more personal matter, Mr. Bridges. It concerns one of your workmen.”

His smile disappeared. “Which one?”

“I’m not quite sure. One of my kitchen maids has gone missing.”

“And you think this man of mine has something to do with it?”

“From what I’ve been told, Mr. Bridges, Mary Smith was quite close to one of your workers.”

“Aye. I remember Mary. She was a pleasant girl and very willing to bring a man a cold drink on a hot day. Mind you, if she was sweet on one of my men, that might explain her willingness.” Isaiah Bridges rubbed the back of his neck, ruffling his dark red hair. “I employ several men, but not many of them are young. Can you be more specific?”

“According to my other maid, this particular man was fair-haired and very tall.”

“It sounds like young William Bowden. He’s the only fair one I can think of. Do you think they’ve run off together? I haven’t heard any gossip. I suppose he might have taken her back to his family at the farm and not mentioned it to anyone. I haven’t heard of no bans being read in the church for them, either.” He cleared his throat. “Not that I hold with such heathen practices, seeing as I’ve been personally saved by the Lord and do His holy work in chapel.”

He eyed her speculatively, and Lucy prayed he wouldn’t feel moved to try to save her. “Do you think I might speak to him?”

“Will doesn’t live in the village, Miss Harrington. He lives out on one of the farms in the valley with his parents. He comes and works for me when the fields lie fallow or before harvest.”

“Do you have his direction?”

He glanced up at the sky, which was clouding over in an ominous fashion. “It’s quite out of the way, Miss Harrington. I wouldn’t risk it today in this weather. You’d probably do better to write to him. He can read well enough. If he comes into the village, I’ll tell him you’ve been looking for him. Come into the house, and I’ll write down the address and some directions for you if you choose to go after him.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bridges. That is very kind of you.”

He smiled down at her and she noticed he had a dimple in each cheek. “It’s the least I can do. As I said, Mary was a nice little thing. I wouldn’t want any harm to come to her.”

“Neither would I. I must confess I’m very worried about her.” Lucy waited until he opened the back door and stepped past him into the kitchen of Beech Cottage. A woman with faded auburn hair was busy making pie at the kitchen table.

“Ma, I brought Miss Harrington to see you. Make her welcome while I fetch her Will’s address.”

Mrs. Bridges brushed her hands off on her apron. “Oh, Miss Harrington! How good to see you!” She glared at her son’s departing back. “I do apologize, miss, he should’ve taken you into the best parlor.”

“I’d much prefer to be here. Kitchens are always the warmest and best places in the house, aren’t they?” She dislodged a patchwork cat from one of the chairs and reestablished him on her lap as she sat down. “What kind of pie are you making?”

“Ham and leek, miss.”

Lucy inhaled. “They smell delicious. I don’t suppose you’d like a job at the rectory, would you?”

Mrs. Bridges laughed. “If I didn’t have to feed my own family, I’d be delighted to oblige you, miss. Imagine getting paid just to cook the dinner!” She went back to rolling out her pastry, and Lucy sat and watched as she petted the purring cat.

All too soon, Isaiah returned with a folded piece of paper. “Here you are, Miss Harrington. My father wishes to send his regards and apologizes for not coming to greet you properly, seeing as he’s laid up in bed with the gout. He wanted me to ask you if the rector was happy with the work we did on the stables.”

Lucy stood up and the cat jumped from her lap. “The carpentry was excellent. My father is recommending your services to all his acquaintances.”

“I’ll tell him. He’ll be pleased as punch to hear that.”

Mrs. Bridges held out one of the pies that had been cooling on the table. “Take this with you, Miss Harrington. It’s still a bit hot, but it will make a lovely dinner for you tonight. I’ll wrap it up for you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bridges, that would be delightful.”

Lucy carried her prize back toward the village and spied Edward leaving one of the thatched cottages. He stopped to wait for her.

She held up the pie. “Look what Mrs. Bridges gave me.”

He hastened to her side. “Let me take that for you, Miss Harrington.”

She relinquished the pie, which was remarkably heavy. “Where are you headed next?”

“Mrs. Ward, two doors along, has been sick for quite a while. I promised to visit her.”

“Then I’ll come with you.” He stood back to let her precede him. It seemed he had taken her rebuke to heart, and she certainly didn’t want to argue with him anymore. He had little
but
his faith in his life to defend, so she shouldn’t mock that. “When we’ve finished these visits, I must venture into the village shop and ask about Mary.”

“As you wish, Miss Harrington.”

His manner was again that of the obsequious curate and she was profoundly grateful. She hadn’t even realized he had a temper until he’d caught hold of her bridle like that. It reminded her that everyone had an unpleasant side, even Edward. Sometimes it was just more obvious, as with Ben Cobbins and, to a lesser extent, Major Kurland. But in some ways that was easier to deal with.

She knocked on the door of Mrs. Ward’s cottage and waited to be admitted. If Mrs. Fielding did decide to retire in a huff after Lucy spoke to her, then the pie would make an excellent dinner.

 

Several hours later, Lucy had changed out of her riding habit and sat in the back parlor darning one of her stockings. No one in Kurland St. Mary or Lower Kurland had seen Mary, but they had all promised to keep a lookout for her. The general opinion was that young girls were flighty and far too eager to forget their responsibilities and disobey their elders. But at least she now had the address of the young man who might know more than anyone else about Mary’s present whereabouts.

She put the darned stocking back in her basket and went to the small writing desk near the window. She opened the lid and discovered the letter from Major Kurland’s regiment sitting on the blotter. After she wrote to William Bowden, she’d craft a reply to the prince’s invitation in far more suitable language than she imagined the major would use. She strongly suspected he would simply scrawl the word “no” on the reverse of the invitation and send it back like that. Her father always said that a prudent man never burned all his boats. She didn’t intend to let Major Kurland offend his royal patron, either.