Chapter Seven
FLORA DECIDED TO brew a remedy to distract herself from the ever-pressing worry of the open jar of wolfsbane in her grandmother’s press. The familiar rhythm of chopping, grating, measuring, and steeping kept her hands busy and soothed her mind.
Even Helen, who was wont to chatter inanely, had obliged Flora by deciding that all the rugs needed beating and had taken herself out of the kitchen for the morning.
Flora hummed a soft tune to herself as she added a sprig of rosemary to the pot atop the stove.
“Rosemary for loyalty,” she whispered absently, giving the remedy a stir.
She paused, watching the leaves swirl in the boiling water, and ran through the list of all she had added to the concoction. Chamomile, of course, for frazzled nerves. Lemon balm to lift the spirits, honey to sweeten, and a pinch of vervain.
Which was said to…
Flora bit her lip as she realised she had unconsciously brewed one of her old love potions. She’d sold them occasionally at the summer market, whispering to the young ladies of Plumpton about vervain’s power to attract love to whoever drank it.
She sighed, wondering at how her brain worked. A man was dead and the metaphorical loaded gun lay hidden in her grandmother’s cupboard, yet here she was brewing potions for Captain Thorne.
Still, she reasoned, as she lifted the iron pot from the flame, it would be a pity to waste it…
From the pot, she poured herself a large cup of the tea, waiting a moment for the leaves and petals to settle before she took a sip.
It was tart with a hint of sweetness—comforting, but not potent enough to dull the gnawing worry in her chest. Once again, she ran through the list of people who had called to her grandmother’s house on the day of Sir Ambrose’s murder.
Mrs Mifford had been the first caller, not for a remedy but to ask for Mrs Bridges to consult her almanac for the best date for the harvest-home festival.
The second caller had been young Mr Henderson, delivering a joint of mutton.
Neither gave Flora any cause for suspicion—if Mrs Mifford were ever to commit murder, Mrs Canards would surely be the victim, and Mr Henderson was far too distracted by his own reflection to have time to form murderous intent.
Mrs Fitzhenry, however…
The irritable housekeeper had collected a remedy for Sir Ambrose’s gout that morning.
While her grandmother had insisted she was there but a few minutes, Flora wondered if, in that time, she’d managed to pinch some wolfsbane to poison her employer.
It seemed quite likely to Flora that anyone forced to spend an extended period in Sir Ambrose’s company might feel inclined to murder him.
Certainly more so than Mrs Pinnock and Miss Vale, who had called after, or Mr Jasper Goodwin who, like them, was staying at the King’s Head.
It was all so puzzling, Flora thought, as she sipped her tea. Its scent of rosemary reminded her of Captain Thorne, and she wondered if it would be misplaced to put her trust in him.
He seemed steadfast and loyal, though how could she truly be certain when she had known him but a few days?
Flora drained the last of the tea from her cup, then set it aside to wash later. The kitchen felt suddenly stifling—in fact, the whole house felt as though it was pressing in on her.
“I’m just going for a walk, Helen,” she called out the back door as she tied the ribbons of her bonnet.
Helen, who was beating a rug with the type of anger women usually reserved for errant lovers, gave a silent wave of acknowledgment.
“There’s a fresh remedy in the pot, if you’re feeling out of sorts,” Flora added, for Helen had the look of a girl in dire need of a love potion.
Flora left the house at a brisk pace, following Brackenfield’s drive to the gate.
She had no clear destination in mind, though she knew her steps would likely carry her to her grandmother’s cottage before long.
Instead of taking the Bath Road, she veered onto the quieter path along the river Churn, hoping for solitude.
Her wish was not granted; she had not gone far when two familiar figures appeared at the bend of the river: Mrs Mifford—resplendent in a fine bonnet and walking coat—and her niece, Miss Charlotte Mifford.
“Why, Miss Bridges,” the reverend’s wife cried as she spotted Flora, “we were just talking about you.”
Mrs Mifford was not known for her tact.
“You’ve probably already heard,” she continued, somewhat breathlessly, “that Captain Thorne came to blows yesterday afternoon on your behalf, in the Ring o’ Bells.”
Flora blinked in bewilderment as she tried to make sense of this news.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs Mifford beamed, mistaking her confusion for enthusiasm. “Poor Mr Marrowbone had to be carried out by five men and the doctor sent for.”
“The doctor?” Flora stuttered—surely not?
Beside her aunt, Charlotte discreetly rolled her eyes.
“Mr Marrowbone was quite well when we saw him this morning,” she assured Flora, frowning pointedly at her aunt. “I believe the only thing Captain Thorne injured was the constable’s pride.”
“The whole village is abuzz,” Mrs Mifford continued, undeterred. “A man does not go to such lengths to defend a lady unless he is invested. And what a timely distraction—it gives people something else to discuss about you, besides the murder accusations.”
“I think what my aunt is trying to say,” Charlotte interjected, her expression pained, “is that no one believes you had anything to do with Sir Ambrose’s murder, and you have the support of the entire Mifford clan behind you. Isn’t that right?”
“Oh, of course,” Mrs Mifford agreed hastily, as her niece nudged her with her elbow. “And even if you had murdered Sir Ambrose, I don’t think anyone would mind too much. There’s a lot to be said for marrying well, Miss Bridges.”
“There is,” Flora agreed, though she doubted even marriage would acquit a woman of a murder charge.
Muted though her response was, it was enough to satisfy Mrs Mifford, who patted her hand in a congratulatory manner before turning to her niece.
“Come, Charlotte,” she cried. “We’ll be late for lunch if you don’t stop your chattering. Honestly, I don’t know how I get anything done in a day.”
Flora waved them goodbye, saving a sympathetic smile for poor Miss Mifford who—judging by her flushed cheeks—had suffered the most during the exchange. She waited until the two were out of sight before she allowed herself a slow, astonished exhale.
Captain Thorne had come to blows with Mr Marrowbone over her?
Though Flora abhorred violence—and did not fully understand the context under which the argument had taken place—she had to admit the idea was rather thrilling.
She wasn’t accustomed to anyone defending her against village whispers, much less a handsome naval captain.
She continued her walk, idly raking over her every interaction with Captain Thorne—including several revisits to the moment he’d stood shirtless in her grandmother’s kitchen. Was it possible he felt the same fizzle of attraction as she, or was his motivation to help merely well-bred chivalry?
As Flora had no experience of men or courtship, she found it too difficult to decide. So she placated herself by once more envisioning the captain’s broad shoulders and neat waist.
Which was possibly why, when she spotted him striding along the riverbank—coat unbuttoned, hair wind-ruffled—she had to remind herself to close her mouth.
“Miss Bridges,” the captain hailed her with a warm smile. “What good fortune to bump into you. There is much to discuss.”
“There is?” Flora stuttered, willing her heart to calm its ceaseless fluttering.
“Lord Crabb asked that I search Sir Ambrose’s cottage yesterday,” the captain continued, his tone brusque and businesslike. “I found a letter that confirms his involvement in the investment scheme.”
“That’s marvellous,” Flora exclaimed with excitement.
“Even better, the gentleman who wrote the letter had threatened to collect what was owed in person,” the captain finished, his handsome face breaking into a proud grin.
“We have a suspect,” Flora breathed, relief making her giddy. “What did Lord Crabb have to say?”
“I haven’t told him yet,” Captain Thorne replied, a little bashfully. “I wanted to share the news with you first.”
As Flora had never been at the top of anyone’s list for anything, she found herself a little overcome.
“You did?” she whispered, then cleared her throat. “I mean, thank you. That is very kind. You’re very kind.”
And loyal, she added to herself. The open jar of wolfsbane in the cupboard weighed heavily on her conscience. It was ludicrous to keep such important information to herself, especially now that he had proved his steadfastness.
Still, Flora hesitated. She did not want to test the captain’s gallantry past its limits. It would be only natural for a man to wonder at the serendipity of it all—her vengeful outburst, her skill with herbs and potions, the wolfsbane in the cupboard, the same poison that tainted the brandy…
“There’s something else,” Captain Thorne continued, his tone grave.
“Oh?” Flora raised a curious brow, though she felt the blood drain from her face. Did he somehow already know? Was his mind as capable of omniscience as his shoulders of magnificence?
“During the course of my search, I came across some correspondence between Sir Ambrose and a Mr Treswell,” the captain said, lifting a hand to ruffle his hair awkwardly. “Sir Ambrose had applied for another increase in your allowance—on account of your grandmother’s illness.”
“Grandmother is in the rudest of health,” Flora stated, confused. “And I don’t know what you mean by another increase; there hasn’t been any change at all to what I receive from the estate since he took charge of my affairs.”
“As I suspected,” Captain Thorne sighed, then explained further. “I believe Sir Ambrose was feathering his own nest with your fortune.”
“Why,” Flora gasped. “That cretin. Why, I hope—”
Flora paused, her cheeks pink. She had been about to wish all kinds of ill upon Sir Ambrose—momentarily forgetting that ill had already befallen him. She glanced up at Captain Thorne, whose mouth was quirking with amusement at the corners.
“I mean,” Flora clarified, adopting a calmer tone. “What reprehensible behaviour.”
“Indeed,” the captain nodded. “I have taken some of his financial ledgers to read through; from a cursory glance, I can already see that he gleaned monies from other fortunes he was made trustee of.”
“Perhaps that might be the reason for his demise?” Flora suggested, keen to add another suspect to their list. “A vengeful ward?”
“We can consider it,” the captain answered, eyes dancing. “Though we might keep that theory to ourselves for now, Miss Bridges, and focus on our London gent instead.”
Flora opened her mouth to protest at keeping another—perfectly viable, in her mind—suspect secret, when realisation dawned upon her. If they were to reveal that Sir Ambrose had been pilfering her funds, it would only add weight to the whispers that she had killed him.
“A very good plan, Captain,” she agreed, averting her eyes with embarrassment.
“We’ll have to make up a list of recent male arrivals to Plumpton,” the captain continued encouragingly. “Though I hope you trust me enough not to add me to it.”
Without thinking, Flora replied, “Oh, I do. My grandmother always said blue eyes are hopeless at deception.”
The captain’s brows rose in amusement, and heat crept over her as she realised she had been gushing.
“Not that yours are… hopeless. Nor do I believe in old wives’ tales. I mean—well—oh, you know what I mean,” she sighed, willing herself to stop digging the hole she had created.
“If I’ve interpreted you correctly, Miss Bridges,” the captain grinned, “you mean that you trust me—I am honoured.”
Flora found herself smiling shyly back, a warm flutter of longing unfurling in her stomach. This was quickly joined by a jolt of guilt—she ought to tell him now about the jar of wolfsbane in the cupboard.
She opened her mouth to share her secret—but the captain was already taking a timepiece from his pocket.
“I am due to meet Mrs Fitzhenry with Lord Crabb shortly,” he said, with some reluctance. “We’re going to try to get a list of visitors to the cottage in the lead-up to the murder. With any luck, we’ll find our London gent amongst them.”
“It would be wonderful if the whole affair could be wrapped up that quickly,” Flora smiled wanly.
“I have every certainty it will,” Captain Thorne assured her. “I will call to your grandmother’s tomorrow with any news.”
He tipped his hat, wished her a pleasant afternoon, and took off in the direction of the village.
Flora stood watching him go, her heart tugged in two directions—yearning in one, guilt in the other.
It will all be settled by this afternoon, she assured herself as she continued her walk to her grandmother’s.
It had to be—or she would be forced to explain to Captain Thorne that she had lied to him, and she knew his blue eyes would not be able to hide his disappointment.