The Charmer (20 page)

"Is there a problem, Mr.
Holt?"

"What were you doing in the
brewery?"

"I told you. Getting a drink.
Ah, here's the building materials just arriving. Excuse me, I have work to
do."

Orlando let him pass then
followed even though he needed to investigate the brewery himself to see what
had been disturbed.

He would not leave Monk alone
with Susanna.

But as he passed by the entrance
to the kitchen garden, Cook beckoned him from the doorway with a hiss and a
crook of her stubby finger. "Did you see him coming out of the brewery
just now?" she asked when he was close.

"Yes."

"Well, that's not the only
place he went." She clutched Orlando's arm and pulled him closer. She was
amazingly strong. "He was in the bakehouse before that."

The bakehouse stood next to the
brewery. Like the stables, barn, and the main house itself, both buildings
needed repair. Someone had fixed them up enough so they could be used, but all
needed more work. The brewery in particular looked like a strong wind might
blow it away.

"No one is to enter either
the bakehouse or brewery until I've gone through them first," he said. "Understand?"

"But I've got to make the
bread!"

"I'll do it immediately
after we dine. Can the bread wait until then?"

"Aye, I suppose." Cook
looked to Monk where he stood near the walled garden, giving directions to the
men who'd delivered the timber. She frowned and the spidery lines across her
cheeks reddened. "I don't trust him. It's those eyes. Too many shadows in
them, like he's...haunted. He's hiding something, mark my words."

"I agree." Orlando went
to join Monk and Susanna and hoped that Cook didn't see the shadows in his
eyes.

CHAPTER 10

"Nothing out of the ordinary
that I can see," Orlando said from the brewery attic.

Susanna agreed. The brewery was
as neat as when she'd filled up a jug the evening before from the ale keg. It
wasn't a large brewery, certainly not as big as the ones at Sutton Hall and
Cowdrey Farm, but it didn't need to be. Hendricks made the ale and beer because
Cook was too busy helping Susanna make the succades and marmalades, and he was
very particular about keeping the barrels clean and the place tidy.

If Monk had disturbed anything,
he'd put it all back before he left. It had been the same in the bakehouse. Susanna
and Orlando looked everywhere for signs of what Monk was up to but found
nothing amiss.

Orlando swung down from the attic
by hanging one-handed from a beam and dropping to the packed earth floor with a
soft thud.  

"You could have taken the
ladder," Susanna said.

"Not as much fun." He
pecked her lightly on the nose, but the impulsive gesture seemed to catch him unawares
as much as it did her. He stalked off.

"Any thoughts on what Mr.
Monk was doing in here?" she asked, catching up to him as he headed out of
the brewery. She had to step quickly to keep up with his long purposeful strides.

"None."

"What do you mean, 'none'?
Surely you have some thoughts?"

His hesitation was slight, but she
noticed it. "No."

"You do. I can hear it in
your voice. You have
some
thoughts, yet you don't wish to share them
with me."

"
Hmph
."

"That is not an
answer."

"I wasn’t aware you'd asked
a question."

Why was he being so difficult? "Is
it because I'm a woman and you think our sex incapable of keeping a
secret?"

He stopped suddenly and regarded
her. "No. It's because I'm not sure what any of this means. I need to
think about it awhile." He stepped closer and touched her fingers, just
the tips. He bent his head and whispered, "Thinking about it in your arms
may help. We could return to the bakehouse and...think in there. It's nice and
warm."

"Cook will be baking
soon." She stepped back, otherwise she might find herself agreeing to his
scheme. When it came to making love to Orlando Holt, the word no seemed to have
vanished from her vocabulary.

"In the stables then. Not as
warm but there is all that lovely soft straw."

"Straw is not soft."

One eyebrow shot up and those
wicked dimples appeared. "Oh? And how does the lady of the manor know
that?"

She turned away. "I'm going
to the village with Bessie and Hendricks to visit an ill friend I didn't get to
yesterday. What are you doing this fine afternoon, Mr. Holt?"

He fell into step beside her.
"I prefer Orlando when we're in private."

"We're not in private."
She nodded at the kitchen door visible over the top of the low wall surrounding
the herb garden.

Hendricks stood there like a
faithful hound, the folds of his wrinkles practically trembling in indignation
as he watched Susanna and Orlando approach together. All he needed were fangs
and a snarl.

"How goes it, Mr.
Hendricks?" Orlando asked.

"Everything all right, m'lady?"
the servant said, ignoring him.

Poor man, he was quite out of his
depth when it came to Orlando. Not that she was any better. Her gardener was
like no man she'd met before, yet in some ways he was just the same. His
ability to charm her into bed, for example. Both John and Phillip had been like
that during their courtship, hence her understanding of the ways straw could
poke tender places.

"Everything is well, Mr.
Hendricks," she said, "however, if you have any suggestions as to why
Mr. Monk was looking through our bakehouse and brewery, I would welcome
them."

He shook his head. "None,
madam. All I can say is he was looking around for something to steal."

"Steal what? Bread and ale?"
She clasped Hendricks's arm. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to speak harshly.
I'm concerned and more than a little confused."

Beside her, Orlando shifted. She
wondered if he wanted to touch her and comfort her as much as she wished he
would.

"Come, Hendricks, let's go
into the village as planned." She turned to Orlando. "What about you,
Mr. Holt? What are you going to do this afternoon?"

He grinned. "Come with
you."

***

Orlando didn't mind being
relegated to the back of the cart with Hendricks while Susanna and Bessie rode
on the seat. He'd offered to drive and, to his surprise, Hendricks had been an
ally and agreed to the arrangement since he thought women not strong enough and
his own eyesight was poor. Susanna had declined Orlando's offer and brooked no
opposing argument.

It was market day and Sutton
Grange was busy. Orlando remained vigilant for Lynden or Monk but neither
seemed to be in the vicinity of the Green. That didn't mean they weren't there,
blending into the crowds purchasing goods from carts and makeshift stalls set
up in rows across the Green. Or perhaps they were in one of the permanent shops,
waiting for Susanna to arrive, or The Plough inn.

He would not let her out of his
sight while so much uncertainty surrounded Monk, and certainly not when so many
people occupied the village. 

"It's late and some have packed
up and already left," Bessie said as the cart pulled to the side of the
road. "But we should be able to get what Cook needs. Oh look, there's
William Frate the grocer. Why don't you speak to him today, m'lady?"

"I'll give the London merchants
more time to respond," Susanna said, setting the reins down. "I don't
think Mr. Frate will know what to do with orange marmalade any more than Mr.
Goody, our regular village grocer," she added for Orlando's benefit.

He was about to ask her which merchants
she'd sent enquiries to but remembered he wasn't supposed to be from London let
alone know any merchants so kept his mouth shut. He jumped down and helped
Bessie then Susanna to climb off. He offered his hand to Hendricks but the old
servant declined with a brusque flick of his hand. He stepped cautiously from
the back of the cart onto the slippery, muddy road.

"There still seems like many
sellers here to me," Orlando said. The Green was a hive of enterprise.
Farmers tried to out-do each other, announcing their wares in their loudest
voices. Since it was already afternoon, many had lowered their prices and the
competition to attract customers was fierce. Added to the din was the cluck of
hens, the snorting of pigs, and the honks of geese. Women walked from cart to
cart, baskets over their arms, and men stood in clusters discussing events.
Everyone seemed to be ignoring the children who no doubt liked that arrangement
very much. Younger ones played in the dirt and fallen leaves while older ones
skipped or threw a ball. A group of about seven youngsters ran past, two of
them holding a stick topped with a sticky ball covered in seeds and nuts. Their
squeals of laughter lingered long after they disappeared around the corner. 

"Market day is always
busy," Susanna said, her gaze on a small child sitting by herself, intent
on the rag doll in her lap. Susanna's eyes shone and a wistful smile slowly
appeared, but it remained small, distant. Forlorn.

 "Draws the farmers from all
around here," Bessie said. "See there, that's Farmer Cowdrey's men
tending to his carts. He always has the most to sell. He doesn't come himself
anymore. Doesn't like crowds much."

"Doesn't like people
much," Hendricks muttered. "A word of advice, Holt," he said.
"Don't try to get a drink in The Plough today, Milner will be run off his
feet. Course it won't stop his mouth. Might just make it go faster, actually,
what with all the extra ears to hear him."

Orlando laughed again. "You're
witty when you want to be."

Hendricks glared at him.
"I'm not trying to be witty, Mr. Holt."

"So what will you do while
we visit my friend and do some marketing?" Susanna asked Orlando.

"I'm coming with you,"
he said.

Her lips formed a perfect O. It
would seem she didn't understand the extent of the danger she could be in.
"Then we'd better go. If you're coming along, you might as well put those
big arms to use and carry the basket."

Away from the market, the village
was a quiet collection of crooked houses pushed up against each other, rather
like in London. Unlike London, most of the houses were only two stories high
with attic windows peeping from beneath the steeply pitched roofs. The village
itself was small and the short, narrow streets radiating off the High Street disappeared
into the countryside or simply ended. Susanna's friend lived in a wooden house
with a dangerous lean to it. If it hadn't been propped up by the house next
door, it probably would have fallen over.

"Joan's a widow,"
Susanna said, "with four children to care for. She recently became ill and
I need to make sure she's not lacking anything."

Orlando lifted the cloth covering
the basket and peeked inside. Susanna was a generous friend since she could ill
afford to give much away. The basket was packed with jars. Some of them he knew
contained her orange marmalade, plus brown bread, dried fruits, vegetables, and
a pie.

"Bessie, would you mind
visiting Widow Dawson for some cure-all." Susanna untied the pouch from
her girdle—she'd changed into women's clothes for the journey into the
village—and handed it to her maid. Coin jangled.

"Widow Dawson is the wise
woman?" Orlando couldn't believe his luck. The wise woman had studied
Phillip's body and had been the one to call for the coroner. With the coroner
dead, she was the best person to tell Orlando what the body looked like after
death. "Is her house nearby?"

"Just across the road."
She nodded at a thin building opposite.

Perfect. He could keep watch on
Susanna's friend's house from the front window and speak to the wise woman at
the same time without raising suspicions.

"I'll buy the cure-all,"
he said, holding out his hand for the pouch.

Bessie glanced at Susanna who
shrugged and the maid passed him the pouch.

Hendricks snatched it away.
"We can't give him money! What if he runs off with it all?"

"Mr. Hendricks,"
Susanna said on a sigh, "if Mr. Holt wanted to steal from us, he would
have done so already. Besides, there's hardly enough in there for a hearty
meal. Give him the pouch."

Grumbling, Hendricks reluctantly
handed it over. "Why are you so eager to go see Widow Dawson anyway? Got an
ailment you're not telling us about?"

"Hendricks!" Bessie and
Susanna cried.

"That's none of our
business," Bessie said.

"Course it's our
business," he said. "What if we catch it?"

"I don't have anything
contagious," Orlando said, tying the coin pouch to his belt.

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure. My ailment
is..." He glanced at Susanna. She looked beautiful dressed in women's
clothes. Hell, she looked beautiful all the time. "My ailment is of a
personal nature. It's not something you'll catch." Although it was
debilitating. Utterly. Perhaps Widow Dawson could give him something to expel
it. He didn’t like feeling this way about one woman. Nor could he afford to.

He crossed the road and knocked
on the door. The leather and cloth pouches filled with sweet smelling herbs nailed
to the wood shook. Above the door was a sprig of rosemary for warding off evil
spirits, illness, or perhaps both. Orlando didn't have much faith in most of
the concoctions sold by apothecaries and used by wise woman and physician
alike. What was sold in the shops wasn't always what they'd bought from his
brother's imported stock. Unicorn's horn, a valuable ingredient in many medicines,
was more likely to be the teeth of a cow and although the snake skin might be
genuine, he'd never seen any benefit come from consuming it, wearing it, or smoking
it.