Rexanne Becnel (2 page)

“Yes, ma’am. Right here, ma’am,” Mrs. Leake’s son, Martin, said, bobbing his head beneath the teetering load of flour sacks balanced upon his shoulder.

“And the molasses?”

“Already in the wagon, ma’am, beside the candles.”

“Good. Now there’s the matter of cake flour. I’ll need some extra fine milled flour for my cakes.”

Just then Mrs. Leake came out from the storeroom, her arms overflowing with bolts of linen. Spying Phoebe, she gave her a quick nod. “I hope you’re not in a hurry, Phoebe girl.”

“No. But will there be any flour and soap left for us?”

“I’ll see there is. Meanwhile, just set your goods over there.” She indicated one corner of the counter. “Mayhap you’ll prefer to come back in a half hour or so.”

“Perhaps I should. Is something going on at Farley Park?”

“Indeed. Himself has decided to take up residence. Not just a visit either, or so I hear. That’s his housekeeper come to oversee the purchases. ’Scuse me, but I can’t talk now.”

As they wove their way past the scowling housekeeper and her two assistants, Helen tugged at Phoebe’s sleeve. “Who’s Himself? I never heard of anyone named that.”

The wiry woman must have had ears like a cat, for she turned her sharp gaze on Helen, then Phoebe. “For your information, James Lindford, Viscount Farley, has taken up residence in his ancestral home after many years away. I’m certain he’ll introduce himself to the mayor, the vicar, and the magistrate once he’s settled in. Until then, I’ll thank you and the rest of the villagers not to speculate on the reason for his return, or the duration of his stay.”

Then with a pinching grip she halted poor Martin. “Let me see that salt. I’ll not pay good money for salt with grit or chalk mixed in.”

Outside Phoebe and Helen shared a look of consternation. “My goodness,” Phoebe said as they started toward Mr. Blackstock’s residence. “She certainly was cross, wasn’t she?”

“Just like Grandmother used to be,” Helen remarked. “That’s what happens when you get old.”

Phoebe shook her head. Out of the mouths of babes. But it was true. Phoebe’s mother had died less than a fortnight ago, but already the difference in their home life was apparent. Without Emilean Churchill to disapprove and scold, there was no longer a need to tiptoe about, burying any hint of ebullience or joy or just plain silliness. No more excessive adherence to the polite manners her mother had demanded of her and her sister, Louise, and more recently, of Helen.

Duty, obedience, moral exactitude. Those were the bulwarks that had formed her mother’s life. Their household had been a silent, unhappy place. But not any longer.

If only Phoebe could escape this nagging sense of guilt. She should be sadder that her mother had died. But her sadness was more for the way her mother had chosen to live.

She shook off those thoughts and said to Helen, “If Lord Farley’s housekeeper is cross, I suspect it’s because the viscount didn’t notify her that he was coming. Just like a man,” she added, under her breath.

Though she’d never met Lord Farley, Phoebe had heard talk of him all her life. For the most part he was considered a fine gentleman with quite the head for business, especially considering that he’d come into his title so young in life. His mother’s pride and joy. A good landlord, according to his tenants, albeit an absent one. Apparently he’d had to be the man of the family for his mother and his two half-sisters, and had managed all their estates until they’d married.

Left unsaid, however, were the facts that he was past thirty and not yet wed himself. The gossips held that he preferred the excitement of town life and traveling abroad to the pastoral quiet of the Yorkshire countryside. It was also whispered that he was quite the ladies’ man, and that he’d cut a considerable swath through society.

As the properly raised sister of a baron, Phoebe’s mother had been prone to forgive the titled almost any sin. But even she had cautioned her two daughters that, rich or poor, men were lustful creatures who could never be trusted. A marriage contract was a woman’s only insurance. Consequently, a man still not committed to marriage by the ripe age of thirty must be looked at with some mistrust.

But whether the viscount was an upright bachelor or a debauched rake was none of Phoebe’s affair, so long as she could still trade for what she needed from Mrs. Leake.

Phoebe and Helen made their way up the steep brick road to Mr. Blackstock’s grand two-story residence to find that even he was in a dither over Lord Farley’s return to the district. It seemed that in his youth he’d been the previous Lord Farley’s confidant. As a result, the return of the younger Lord Farley had stirred up a wealth of memories in him.

“’Tis a grand day for Swansford. A red-letter day. There’s nothing like having the lord in residence. It benefits the whole countryside,” he gushed, taking the books Phoebe returned to him.

“Mrs. Leake shall certainly benefit,” Phoebe remarked. “Farley’s housekeeper was purchasing everything in sight. How many people are in his party, anyhow?”

It was an innocent question, perfectly logical. Yet for some reason Mr. Blackstock averted his gaze and began restlessly to search the disorganized surface of his desk. “He, ah…I understand he has two, ah…guests. And of course, several additional servants to assist them.”

“Two guests? Are they from London also? We haven’t had any toffs in these parts in a very long time.”

Mr. Blackstock cleared his throat. “I’m not certain about that. Here, Phoebe.” He located what he was searching for on his desk and presented a neatly penned document to her. “This establishes you and your sister as your mother’s heir—just as she was your father’s heir. You and Louise are each half-owners of your family property on Plummy Head. You haven’t heard from Louise yet, have you?”

“I doubt she’s even received the letter I sent her in London.” It had been over two years since they’d had any word from Louise. Not a Christmas letter, nor a note to Helen for her birthday. And of course, not a penny to help support the fast-growing child. No matter how many letters Phoebe sent, pleading for Louise to write her daughter even if she couldn’t send money, the letters were never answered.

If Phoebe hadn’t become inured to her sister’s selfishness, she might have worried that something dreadful had befallen her. But Louise would always land on her feet, to the detriment of anyone standing too near. Louise was more likely too involved with her latest lover and her acting career to care about any of her family. Louise’s response to the news of their mother’s death would probably be little more than a shrug and an “Oh, well.”

So much for being Emilean’s favorite daughter, the beautiful one who, as a child, could do no wrong. The irony was that Louise had fled Plummy Head and Swansford just as soon as she possibly could, leaving Phoebe to deal with their aging parents.

Repressing a spurt of resentment, Phoebe scanned the document Mr. Blackstock had prepared, then signed as he indicated. Louise would write or show up when it was convenient for her to do so, and no sooner.

Meanwhile, Phoebe wanted to inquire further about the goings-on at Farley Park. But it was plain to her that Mr. Blackstock had no intention of gossiping about the exalted son of his exalted friend. Phoebe was no fool, though, and she drew her own conclusions. She might be a country bumpkin, well on her way to becoming a spinster. But she read widely, and she knew something of the world. Besides, her sister was an actress on the London stage and the most notorious woman to ever hail from Swansford. During her last visit four years previously, Louise hadn’t minced any words—at least when their mother wasn’t around—and the still impressionable Phoebe had soaked in every scandalous conversation.

So it seemed obvious to her now. If a bachelor lord had arrived unannounced at his country estate with two guests that a respectable gentleman like Mr. Blackstock could not acknowledge to an unmarried young woman like Phoebe, well, it must mean something improper. Most likely, women of questionable reputation.

Phoebe considered that a long moment as she stared blankly at the painstakingly penned document in her hand. How shocking if that were true. Certainly it would account for that housekeeper’s short temper.

But it was no concern of hers.

“Now, Phoebe,” Mr. Blackstock continued, clearing his throat. “Have you given any thought to what I said about selling the farm?”

She gave him an impatient look. “I’m sorry, but I’m still not ready to make that decision.”

“You may be forced to do so. I cannot much longer ignore the fact that the taxes on your farm are seriously in arrears, child. How are you to assemble such a sum unless you sell out—” He broke off, then his lined face brightened in a hopeful smile. “Or perhaps if you were to settle on a husband? That’s what you need, you know, a good hard-working husband to take care of matters like this for you—”

“Mr. Blackstock,” she interrupted, barely repressing her frustration. Her mother hadn’t been made particularly happy by marriage to a hard-working man. “I appreciate your concern for my financial predicament, but I came to town for another reason entirely. It seems we have a thief in our midst.”

He blinked. “A thief?”

Though Mr. Blackstock was duly outraged by Phoebe’s tale, his conclusion did not jibe with Phoebe’s. “We haven’t had a thief in Swansford since that Thornley lad was arrested eight—no, nine years ago. Robbed Leake’s till he did, but we figured it out fast enough. No, he’s the only thief from Swansford, ’less you count Dirty Harry and his habit of overcharging his customers once they get too soused to notice. So you see, Phoebe girl, it must be Gypsies. They’re known to head up along the coast once the weather begins to warm up.”

“It hasn’t warmed up very much. Besides, Gypsies are more likely to steal chickens and goats.”

“Well, now, I’m sure Gypsies use baskets and buckets like anybody else.”

“And garden benches?”

He frowned, turning his bushy brows into one long gray line overhanging his eyes. “Maybe they took it for…for firewood.”

“With a forest full of wood available for the taking? Besides, have Gypsies been seen anywhere in the district of late?”

“Well, no. But then, they’re a sneaky lot,” he said, clearly not willing to have his judgment overridden.

Phoebe let out an irritated sigh. “I don’t believe it’s Gypsies,” she insisted. “The only new faces around Swansford are ensconced at Farley Park, and they’re hardly suspect. So my thief must be someone local. Perhaps it’s only a prank,” she went on before he could disagree. “I know boys can be a troublesome lot. But I want my basket back, and my bucket and my bench.”

“Yes, yes. Perhaps it was a prank,” he admitted. “I’ll look into it and see what I can find out. But you know, Phoebe girl, if you moved to town or got married, you wouldn’t have this problem.”

“I’m not moving. Not yet,” Phoebe said, trying to remain pleasant. “And in order to marry, one must first find a willing partner.”

Frowning, Mr. Blackstock leaned back in his chair and crossed his sausage hands across his tightly stretched waistcoat. “As you wish.” He thought a moment, then his expression lifted. “There is another solution. Not for the taxes, of course, but for your protection. Indeed, I believe I made the very same suggestion to your mother after your father passed on—God bless them both. But she didn’t like dogs, she said. Nor cats neither.”

“A dog.” As soon as the idea was planted it took immediate root in Phoebe’s head. “A watchdog.”

Mr. Blackstock nodded, well pleased with himself. “A watchdog,” he echoed. “And it just so happens that Martin Leake’s bitch whelped nearly a dozen pups. ’Course, four of ’em died. But there’s seven or eight left. I ’spect he’ll be glad to give you one.”

A dog. When Phoebe fetched Helen from the Blackstocks’ kitchen and her treat of blackberry jam on scones, she gave her the news. The girl’s eyes lit up with delight. “A puppy? For us to take home?”

They found Martin behind his mother’s store greasing the axle of their delivery wagon for Monday’s trip to Louth. In a small pen near the store’s tilting back steps were the wriggling puppies with their mother complacently nursing them.

“You come at a good time, Miss Phoebe. They’re just about ready to leave their ma.” He held up his hand. “They was born on St. Simon’s day. Since then we’ve had St. Oswald’s day and St. Frances’s day. Then there was St. Maud’s and St. Basil’s.” One by one he ticked off his fingers. “The vicar says they’ll be ready on the feast of St. Rupert, and that’s tomorrow.”

“I see. I wonder, do you think it would be all right to take one of them a day early? Please?”

A silly grin came over his face and his ears turned red. “Well, I guess. I mean…” The red crept onto his already florid face. “For you, Miss Phoebe. Only for you.”

“Oh, thank you. Thank you so much.”

Martin Leake might look like a man, and his exacting mother certainly worked him like one. But he was a simple fellow, more like an overgrown child than a man. Still, he was good-natured, a diligent worker, and he had a gentle way with both animals and children. Phoebe sometimes suspected he had a bit of a crush on her, but then, he blushed when any woman paid particular attention to him.

“Well, Helen. We may select a puppy today. Which one will you have?”

It was a hard choice, but in the end, with Phoebe’s encouragement, they selected the smallest of the litter, a little brown and white spotted fellow with a stumpy tail which nonetheless beat back and forth with feverish excitement every time Helen petted him.

“He’s going to fuss the first few nights,” Martin said as he placed the pup in Helen’s arms. “But if you let him sleep with you he’ll keep quiet. Plus, the closeness will make you his family, and he’ll guard you extra special good.”

Martin tied a length of string about the puppy’s neck for the walk home, and though she’d not really accomplished her goal of finding their thief, Phoebe did feel better. She’d always wanted a dog. So had her father. But her mother had forbidden it. If Louise had wanted one, no doubt their mother would have relented. But Louise was no more enamored of dogs than their mother had been. Animals were for providing meat, milk, cheese, and eggs, she’d always said.