The Lie and the Lady (20 page)

“It's my turn to remind you of our surroundings. If you want our secret kept secret, perhaps don't call me John. Especially in public.”

She took one deep breath before painting a perfect smile on her face. “You're right. My apologies. Would you please stop breathing on me now?”

He took a half step back—not easy, as the stall was so crowded with boxes there was little room for one person, let alone two.

“I did nothing to your mill. I wouldn't even know how. And I am insulted you would think that of me.”

It was his turn to take a deep breath. “I know. You're right, of course. I was in the mill the entire time you were in the house with my mother so I know you couldn't. I'm just . . . I need to know why this keeps happening.”

“Maybe you're not as good a miller as you think.”

He shot her a look completely lacking in humor. “I could be the worst miller in the world, but not even that would explain such bad luck.”

“True. But who would want to sabotage a grain mill? No one in town thinks it will even work!”

He looked exhausted, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “I know. There would be nothing better for the town than for the mill to be a success, but . . . Helmsley is a place that likes disappointment even less than change.” He sighed. “Somewhere along the way I lost their trust. Second chances are rare enough, but third? Especially with that last fire, two years ago.”

“Mrs. Emory says it nearly jumped the wall into town.”

“That's what I'm told,” he nodded. Then hesitated. “I wasn't even here for it. I rode as soon as I heard, but when I arrived, everyone looked at me like I was a criminal. Except my mother. She just looked . . . frightened.”

Her fingers (stupid traitorous fingers!) wanted nothing more than to reach out and soothe his brow. They had to settle for fiddling with her own sleeve.

“I'm sorry about your equipment,” she said haltingly.

“I'm sorry about accusing you.”

“Good. I suppose we should exit this”—she waved her hand, grimacing—“place?”

“One moment,” he said, then flicked back the curtain, just barely. Two men stood outside, arguing loudly about the price of eggs.

Which meant they had to stand there. And wait.

Close together.

Not the most comfortable of circumstances. Which was likely the only reason Turner even made an attempt at awkward conversation.

“What are you carrying?” he asked.

She glanced down at the packet of papers, clutched tightly against her body this whole time.

“Magazine plates,” she replied, feeling foolish. “For wedding dresses.”

“Ah. Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose you'll have to lie to Sir Barty about this little interlude as well.” He tried to make it sound light, jovial.

Tried, and failed.

“Discretion isn't lying,” she replied, sharp.

“And you've already had a marriage based on lies,” he finished for her.

She looked up at him, the line of his jaw right above her.

“You made a comment the other day to that effect. I don't think you meant to,” he whispered, his eyes suddenly on hers. “Your first marriage . . .You implied it was a happy one, before.”

“It was,” she snapped, her voice louder than she intended. “Konrad and I got along famously.”

“Getting along . . . it's not the same as being happy.”

“What would you know about it?” she said, suddenly hot with anger. “What would you know about anything having to do with my happiness?” She tasted bitter acid in her mouth, the rush of fear. “In fact the only way you could make me happy is if by some miracle I never had to worry about seeing you at Bluestone or in Helmsley again.”

And with that, she pushed past him and threw back the curtain and marched out of the stall, not giving a damn if there were arguing egg sellers nearby (although happily there were not). It took only three steps to shake off her angry posture. Two deep breaths to restore her features to normalcy. And one corner to round before she spotted Margaret and Helen, looking about for her.

“Oh, there you are!” Helen said, breathless. “Now, where is my son? Margaret told me of just the most lovely potting method and I'd like her to explain it to him.”

Margaret, who clutched fish heads in a packet dripping with what Leticia hoped was water, seemed a bit unsure.

“Oh,” the girl said weakly. “But, um . . . I'm not ready to—”

“Never mind that, Margaret,” Leticia interrupted. “Helen, I'm afraid your son had to go back to the mill. He begged me to apologize to you. Both of you.”

While Margaret looked relieved, Helen looked crestfallen, but quickly rallied, painting a bright smile on her face. “That's my John—the work comes first. It's something to admire in a man, and a miller. I'm sure Sir Barty would agree. So . . . where to next? Would you two care to try the tearoom? Their refreshment is . . . somewhat refreshing.”

“Not yet,” Margaret replied. “I need to go to Jenkins's farm. He has the best manure. Feeds his horses nothing but cabbage.”

Leticia swallowed her nausea. “By all means, then. Let's go to Jenkins's farm.”

WHEN LETICIA WALKED
into Bluestone Manor later that afternoon, all she wanted was to kick up her feet and have them rubbed.

Until she saw Sir Barty being treated to exactly that.

“And you say it's been like this how long?” Dr. Rhys Gray was saying, his back to her, as he examined Sir Barty's swollen and putrid foot.

She had never seen his foot unwrapped before. He was usually very careful about keeping it clean and out of sight, lest he offend anyone. It was swollen, with red and purple splotches with a devastating-looking open sore on the ankle. As terrible as it looked, as awful as it smelled, Leticia knew it must have been twice as painful.

Sir Barty spotted her in the doorway and quickly threw a blanket over his foot while his face flamed.

“M'dear!” Sir Barty called out. “I should like you to meet Dr. Gray—he'll be staying with us for a time. Dr. Gray, my bride-to-be, Lady Churzy.”

“My lady,” the doctor said. “I'm very happy to meet you.”

He gave nothing away. His face was as blank as it was open.

At first she was irked. How dare Turner install a spy! How dare he not trust her to keep up her end of their bargain! The fact that she'd spent the week trying to circumvent the terms of said bargain was beside the point.

But then she realized Dr. Gray was not a threat to her. In fact, he might be a boon.

He would keep her secret, since it was as much Turner's secret as hers, and doctors kept confidences as well as priests.

And she expected to feel the weight of his condemnation. But when his eyes met hers, she saw only nervousness, and perhaps a little pity.

The pity made her bristle. But the nervousness—speaking to a lack of expertise with subterfuge—made her worried.

Well, she would deal with this new awkwardness at another time. Now she was utterly defeated. So far that week she had failed to convince Sir Barty to change the wedding date, failed to win over any of the ladies of Helmsley, and given Margaret stunningly bad advice she could only pray the girl would follow.

When it came to Dr. Gray, perhaps it was best that she did nothing at all and instead wait to see how it played out.

So there she was come Sunday morning. Waiting. In situ. The pieces on the chessboard all holding their positions.

The townspeople of Helmsley greeted them upon their arrival in St. Stephen's churchyard much as they had the previous week. Perhaps their curiosity was less than before, but they were equally polite and deferential. Mrs. Emory kept her distance, but Leticia was gratified to get a small smile and nod from Mrs. Robertson.

Leticia was already on edge, however. This would be the first time she had seen Turner in a week, and she could only hope it would be easier than last time. If they'd had the benefit of privacy, she would have been happy to rail at him for installing Dr. Gray in the house, but hopefully a few murderous looks would do the trick, she mused.

But the vicar was waving everyone into St. Stephens already, and the Turners had yet to arrive. Would she not have the opportunity to scornfully meet his eyes? To condemn him with a glance?

What a disappointing end to a terribly disappointing week.

“Shall we go in, m'dear?” her fiancé said in her ear, and she saw that Dr. Gray had already led Margaret through the doors.

“Sir Barty!” a deep, rumbling voice called out.

A zip of anticipation shot through Leticia. She turned, and saw . . .

A complete stranger.

A man of about forty, he was of medium height with pitch-black hair, dotted with white throughout. He had his hands behind his back, and his eyes never veered from his goal as he stalked up the church steps, moving like a bird of prey.

“Mr. Blackwell?” Sir Barty said, upon turning around himself. “What brings you to Helmsley?”

“I thought it had been simply too long since I set foot in a church.” The man shrugged. “And I have too many sins to atone for to lay them out at my village parish's door.”

His words sent a chill up Leticia's spine, but Sir Barty simply barked out a laugh. Then, turning to Leticia . . .

“This is my bride-to-be, Lady Churzy.”

“Lady Churzy,” he purred. His hand came out from behind his back, taking hers before she could even offer it. “Palmer Blackwell, at your service.”

Palmer Blackwell. She searched her memory for where she knew that name . . .

“I am quite pleased to see you, Sir Barty,” Blackwell said once he'd released her hand. “It has obviously been too long if I was oblivious to your future happiness. My congratulations to you both.”

“Thank you,” Leticia replied, keeping her voice cool.

“I am also looking forward to seeing Miss Babcock,” Blackwell drawled. “I hear she's grown up . . . remarkably well. Is she inside?”

“I . . . I believe so,” Leticia answered, wary.

“Excellent. I hope to be able to catch up with you all after services,” he said, tipping his hat. Then he met Leticia's eyes.

They were colder than ice.

“Very, very pleased to meet you, my lady.”

Leticia remained quite still, lest she give off a shiver of revulsion.

“Who was that, darling?” she asked once the man had disappeared inside.

“Palmer Blackwell,” Sir Barty replied, his chest puffing out with importance. “He owns six grain mills—the most in the county.”

And suddenly, Leticia realized who Palmer Blackwell was—Turner's competition. The man who'd taken on his business when the Turner Grain Mill burned.

A new piece had appeared on the board—one with its own agenda, it seemed.

And then Leticia felt it. That itch. Starting on the back of her knee. Small, insistent. Begging her to scratch it. The weight of all that she had been carrying began at last to show, and it all manifested into a tiny madness-inducing itch.

Whatever Palmer Blackwell's appearance in Helmsley meant, it could not be good.

12

T
o Turner's mind, everything was going fine. Not perfect, not swimmingly, but . . . fine. Hiding in tiny stalls on market day aside, his interactions with Leticia were kept to a bare minimum. Even though his mother had taken to her as one would a long-lost daughter, he managed to avoid being pulled into their relationship, using work as the excuse. And the work went . . . if not well, then certainly fine.

The masons had finished the walls of the engine house. The engine equipment had been installed. There had even been a successful first test of the machinery. It was on the second test, however, the following day, that the metal ring blew apart when the steam pressure built too high inside of it.

The equipment was repaired. Adjustments were made. It was probably an accident.

Probably.

He was wrong to accuse Letty of being the cause—he knew that the minute he had said it. But in a way, she was the cause, although through no fault of her own.