Chapter Two
WHEN CAPTAIN JAMES Thorne had decided to visit Plumpton, he’d had two goals in mind.
The first was to spend time with his old friend Ivo Bonville and learn how one adjusted to a life on land.
The second was to speak with Sir Ambrose Brocklehurst and discover what exactly—if anything—the old snoot knew about the investment scheme that had relieved a fellow officer of half his fortune.
His first goal had been easily achieved. A few days in Ivo’s company—now styled Lord Crabb—had made it abundantly clear that the best way for a man to settle down was to marry a woman he adored and promptly begin producing offspring.
The second goal, however, was proving trickier.
James had endured an interminable, one-sided conversation with Sir Ambrose about his thesis on the Romans—Excreta et Imperium: A Political History of Roman Public Conveniences.
When the man had at last exhausted the subject of his own genius, James had attempted to steer the discussion toward matters of finance.
Unfortunately, it seemed the only thing that James was good for steering was a ship, for Sir Ambrose’s lips had clamped shut like a limpet to a hull.
As he made his way from the old teacher’s cottage back to The King’s Head Coaching Inn, James knew he ought to feel dejected.
And yet, he could summon little emotion beyond a burning curiosity about the young lady he’d seen on his arrival who had, quite sincerely, hoped their host would be murdered.
Not only was he curious about the cause of her outburst—had she too lost money to the old fool?
—but also about her circumstances. What was her name?
Was she married? And what colour was her hair beneath that charming bonnet?
He guessed dark, for her eyes had been dark—and rather bewitching to behold.
At The King’s Head, James was greeted by Edward, the footman, who informed him that lunch was soon due to be served in the dining room.
“It’s beef, Captain,” he said wistfully, “With swede and potatoes and dripping. The potatoes aren’t as good as those that Moinsour Canet used to make, but the dripping makes up for it.”
“Moinsour Canet?” James echoed.
“The old chef,” Edward explained cheerfully. “He was murdered a while back.”
“I can’t imagine anyone being murdered in a sleepy village like Plumpton,” James commented, raising a brow.
Edward turned beet-red above his pimples and mumbled something incoherent before making a rapid escape.
James watched him go with growing interest. Surely the lad had been trifling with him?
Plumpton was everything that one pictured when they imagined a Cotswolds village; quaint, calm, and unbothered by scandal.
In the dining room, James opted for a table at the back in the hope that it might discourage company. Unfortunately, no sooner had he seated himself, than he was joined by three other fellow guests; Mr Jasper Goodwin, Mrs Honoria Pinnock, and Mrs Pinnock’s companion, Miss Julia Vale.
Like him, the trio were taking an extended visit to Plumpton. Unlike him, they were determined to form friendships with every other soul doing the same.
“Miss Vale and I took a stroll by the Churn,” Mrs Pinnock bellowed across to the two men. “It was most relaxing.”
James met Miss Vale’s eye across the table and hid a grin; Mrs Pinnock was hard of hearing but too vain to use an ear-trumpet. He doubted her long-suffering companion had found their walk in any way as relaxing as she.
“Then, on Edward’s advice, we went to old Mrs Bridges’ cottage for a remedy for Mrs Pinnock’s gout,” Miss Vale added softly. “It’s been flaring up this past week.”
“Edward sent me her way for a tincture of rhubarb for my dyspepsia,” Mr Goodwin offered in turn. “The lad must be working on commission. He feeds us rich, heavy fare, then sends us to his accomplice for the cure. A nice little earner for the lad.”
“Oh, I don’t think anyone could be so duplicitous,” Miss Vale argued, glancing nervously across the dining room at the poor footman.
As Mr Goodwin thought everything a money-making scheme and as Edward was not the sharpest tool in the box, James rushed to reassure Miss Vale that she had not been hoodwinked.
“I expect Edward is accustomed to dealing with guests who overindulge in a way they would not at home,” James said, averting his eyes from Mr Goodwin who was on his second helping of beef.
“And as Plumpton lacks a druggist, I would assume that this Mrs Bridges is the only person he can direct them to for relief. Where did you say you found her?”
As Miss Vale helpfully sketched directions to the herbalist’s cottage, James idly wondered if she might have anything to help him sleep.
The shoulder injury which had ended his naval career early was acting-up again, but he was loath to use the bottle of laudanum his London physician had prescribed.
The lunch continued without incident, bar the occasional bellowed remark from Mrs Pinnock. When it ended, the two ladies retired to their rooms, while James accepted Mr Goodwin’s invitation to partake in a brandy and cheroot in the smoking room.
“I expect Lord Crabb’s cabinet is far superior to the stuff here,” Mr Goodwin commented, as he morosely swirled the brandy in his glass.
“And Lord Chambers too,” James replied pointedly.
Mr Goodwin was visiting Plumpton under the auspices of catching up with his old chum, the Marquess of Highfield. James was beginning to suspect that Mr Goodwin had issued his own invitation to visit.
“Old Freddie’s too loved up to even think about his drinks cabinet,” Mr Goodwin grumbled. “If he’s not talking about his wife, then he’s talking about his son. It’s unseemly, if you ask me. A man of his means should spend his days drinking and carousing, not doting on an infant.”
“I expect the novelty of it will wear off soon,” James dryly reassured the young man.
Mr Goodwin’s ears were obviously not tuned for sarcasm, for he perked up considerably at the idea that fatherhood was a phase one might grow out of.
“I hope he does before the week is out,” he said, as he knocked back his glass in one go. “I don’t have the blunt to fund all my drinks for the month.”
“Then might I suggest you savour them a little longer?” James advised sagely. “It might also assist your dyspepsia, if you refrain from bolting them so quickly.”
“But where’s the fun in that?” Mr Goodwin shrugged, then helped himself to a cheroot from James’ box on the table.
Sensing that the lad wished to spend the afternoon getting inebriated on his coin, James finished his brandy and cheroot, then hastily made his excuses. As he left the smoking room, Edward hurried over to him, his expression anxious.
“Captain Thorne, sir,” the footman stuttered, “I just wanted to clarify that you did, in fact, wish for that bottle to be billed to your room? Mr Goodwin was quite insistent.”
James stifled a sigh; that would be the last invitation he’d accept from Goodwin.
“Just this once,” he informed the footman, for he didn’t want Edward’s wages garnished. “Though next time come fetch me, before he decides to add anything to my bill.”
“Yes, sir. Captain, sir,” Edward nearly saluted with relief.
Though a bottle of brandy would hardly dent James’s fortune, he had no desire to fund the excesses of a lad like Goodwin.
They were both second sons, but that was where the resemblance ended.
James had purchased a naval commission straight out of Oxford, earned his captaincy through hard work and dogged perseverance, then amassed a tidy fortune in prize money during the war.
The only thing Goodwin had ever worked at, as far as James could tell, was burning through his quarterly allowance from his father in the space of a week.
The walk to Mrs Bridges’ cottage took James through the village, at the bottom of which he crossed the bridge that led to the London Road.
He followed it for a spell, enjoying the crisp autumnal weather.
The trees were just beginning to turn and formed a canopy overhead of warm red, orange, and gold.
As per Miss Vale’s directions, James turned off the main road just after the field which contained a donkey behind a red gate—which, of course, required a quick greeting.
He then found himself on a winding lane, at the end of which stood a charming cottage of yellow stone, complete with a thatch roof and smoke curling from its chimney.
He hesitated a moment, wondering if it was impolite to call unannounced on an elderly woman, but was relieved of debating any further as Mrs Bridges emerged from the open front door. She was a small, wiry woman, though despite her tiny stature she gave the impression that she was perfectly hardy.
“Can I help you, sir?” she called across the garden.
“Edward at The King’s Head sent me, Mrs Bridges,” James called back, as he removed his hat.
“I’ve told that lad before to warn the guests that the chef uses too much butter,” Mrs Bridges rolled her eyes as she beckoned James inside.
“I’ve a tincture for dyspepsia but if you want my advice—and to save yourself a few coins—prevention is always better than cure.
Nothing wrong with saying no to seconds. ”
James followed her inside the cottage, ducking his head beneath the low lintel.
Mrs Bridges led him down the short hallway to the kitchen, where the air was thick with the scent of dried herbs.
Every available surface seemed to hold something; jars of preserved petals, bottles of cloudy tinctures, and pots of beeswax salve with herbs pressed into their lids.
Overhead, bundles of dried lavender and thyme hung from the beams like garlands, adding to the cozy chaos.
“Take a seat,” Mrs Bridges instructed, shooing away a snoozing tabby cat. “I didn’t catch your name, Mr—?”
“Thorne,” James supplied, “Captain James Thorne.”
“And it’s not dyspepsia or trouble saying no to seconds that you’re here for,” she stated, eying his flat stomach with a hint of mischief.
“It’s not,” James agreed, ridiculously flattered by her comment. “I require something to help me sleep. An old shoulder injury has been keeping me up.”
“I don’t keep laudanum here, captain,” Mrs Bridges narrowed her eyes.
“That’s precisely the stuff I want to avoid,” James assured her. “Just something gentle to help me sleep through the pain.”
Mrs Bridges remained silent for a moment, as she assessed him top-to-toe with her bright blue eyes.
“I reckon we should try treat the pain first, if that’s what’s keeping you awake,” she finally said, then—rather startlingly—added, “If you’d like to remove your coat and shirt, so I can have a proper look.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary—” James began, but she waved his protests away with an impatient hand.
“I have tended to the wounds and injuries of half the village, captain,” Mrs Bridges said firmly, “And delivered the other half of them into this world. I can guarantee you that there’s nothing under there I haven’t seen before. Now, off with your coat.”
Unable to argue, James removed his coat, tugged free his cravat, and lifted his shirt overhead so Mrs Bridges could examine his old wound. She poked and prodded at it with cool fingers, while James explained its origin.
“A cannon ball hit near my position,” he recounted cheerfully, “Most of the shrapnel from the blast ended up in there. Might have healed better if I’d had time to tend it, but we were attacked again on our way back to port.”
“Is the pain worse, since the leaves turned?” Mrs Bridges asked briskly, unimpressed by his war tales. James supposed that as she had delivered half of Plumpton village, she’d witnessed far worse than a mere skirmish at sea.
“It is,” James agreed. “My whole shoulder feels tight and stiff, especially on colder days.”
“You need a salve of St John’s Wort,” she decided, as she took a step back. “That should help with any nerve pain. We’ll add comfrey to loosen the tissue and some rosemary to encourage the blood flow.”
“That sounds the ticket,” James said, standing from his seat to reach for his shirt.
He had just grasped the garment in his hand, when the door of the kitchen burst open, and Miss Gardiner hurried inside.
“You’ll never guess the day I’ve had, Grandmother,” Miss Gardiner sighed, her hands rising to her chin to untie the ribbons of her bonnet.
She froze, her mouth a perfect “o” of surprise, as she sighted James standing shirtless beside her grandmother.
“This is Captain Thorne, Flora,” Mrs Bridges introduced him, nonplussed, “Give him a moment to dress, he’s got no shirt on.”