Chapter Thirteen
THE MORNING AFTER the storm, Flora rose with a sense of dread for the day to come. She did not know how she would fill all her hours trying not to think of Captain Thorne, or the disappointed way that he had looked at her the day before.
She also did not want to think too much on if it was actually disappointment she had seen in his eyes, or suspicion.
She would not blame him if he suddenly decided that she was, after all, the prime suspect for Sir Ambrose’s murder. Though she knew that if such a terrible thing was to pass—that the man she had attached her heart to now doubted her—that she would not easily over come it.
She would be heart broken. Perhaps she was already heartbroken, she mused, as she dressed for the day.
That might explain why her hands were slow and clumsy as she closed her buttons, why her eyes looked back at her dully from the mirror, and why she felt so…
bereft. There was no other word for it; her day seemed empty without the promise of seeing Captain Thorne’s smile.
After breakfast, she did her best to occupy herself with household tasks, though she quickly lost interest. From the kitchen drifted the clatter of pots and pans, punctuated by the sharp slam of a cupboard door.
“Men!” came a muttered exclamation, followed by another bang.
Helen, Flora realised with a start, was suffering from the same affliction as she.
Flora tiptoed down to the kitchen, hesitating at the doorway. She and Helen had not yet grown easy with one another but the sound of her disgruntlement struck a chord. Perhaps they might finally bond over shared heartache.
“Shall we have some tea?” Flora suggested, moving from the door to the stove-top. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
“I could murder a tea,” the maid agreed, abandoning her task with enthusiasm. Her face then fell and she gave Flora an awkward glance, quite obviously thinking that she’d put her foot in it.
Flora feigned deafness, focusing instead on filling the pot with tea-leaves, ready for when the kettle decided to sing. When ready, she brought the pot to the table, where Helen had set out the milk, sugar bowl, and slices of fruit loaf.
They sat awkwardly at first, Flora pouring, Helen cradling her cup as though uncertain whether conversation was truly invited.
“I’m not in my usual good humour,” Helen eventually offered.
Flora kept silent; she had never known Helen to be in good humour.
“It’s Mr Henderson,” the maid revealed, whispering his name as though it was a distasteful oath. “I thought he loved me—he said it enough times you can’t blame me for thinking it true. Then, a few weeks past, he lost interest like I was yesterday’s mutton.”
Flora tried to hide her surprise as she consoled the poor girl; Mr Henderson was known for chasing after ladies of means, not housemaids with low income.
“He kept saying he wanted to call on me here at Brackenfield,” Helen continued, her words gathering speed.
“Then the next day he must have decided I wasn’t worth the walk.
And now he’s strutting round in new breeches and flashing coin like a gentleman.
I ask you, what butcher’s boy makes that kind of blunt in a week? None that ever worked an honest trade.”
She stabbed at her slice of fruit loaf with such malice that Flora wondered if she was picturing Mr Henderson’s face amongst the currants.
“My mother keeps pressing me to move home — says I’ve lost my morals now that I’m working for a murderess—oh!” Helen stopped herself too late, her eyes darting up to Flora. “Beg pardon, miss. I didn’t mean—”
Flora lifted her cup, hiding a smile behind the rim. She had never known Helen to be in good humour, but she had rarely found her quite this entertaining, either.
“Think nothing of it,” she said lightly, as she stirred her tea, mind racing. Broken hearts, coin of suspicious origin, breeches too tight for propriety and too fine for a tradesman’s wages — it was all beginning to add up.
“Do you think Mr Henderson is involved in something nefarious?” Flora ventured, wondering if the girl might still be love-sick enough to defend him.
“I have no doubt,” Helen sniffed, her loyalty long vanished. “No honest butcher’s boy makes that sort of money overnight.”
She drained her cup and gave a sigh. “I suppose I’d best get back to work,” she said, rising from the table with a tentative smile Flora’s way.
Those pots won’t bang themselves, Flora thought dryly, though she managed a smile for the girl.
“Don’t overly exert yourself today, Helen,” she said as she too stood, gathering their empty cups. “You’ve had a tough time of it.”
“That I have,” Helen agreed, and—with all the cheer of someone whose complaints had been properly heard—she bustled back to the scullery.
Flora left the crockery by the sink for later, idly wondering what she should do with the news about Mr Henderson. Her first instinct was to tell Captain Thorne—then she recalled, with a sinking feeling, that he was no longer her safe port.
At least her grandmother’s door was always open to her, Flora thought, as she went to fetch her shawl.
She called to Helen that she would be back before supper and nearly added a quip about not murdering the pans in her absence, but thought better of it.
Their fledging friendship had not quite reached those levels yet.
Outside the gates of Brackenfield, she again eschewed the main road in favour of the quieter path by the river. The water ran high and swollen from the storm, but last night’s wind had swept the sky clear, leaving it a brilliant blue, and the sun on her shoulders was almost warm.
A few minutes into her journey, a group of children darted past Flora, clutching baskets stuffed with windfall apples. She watched them for a moment wistfully. How lovely it would be to be a child again; full of hope, carefree—unaccused of murder.
The children’s laughter faded into the distance, and in their wake another figure emerged: Captain Thorne, walking toward her with his hat already in hand.
Flora’s heart gave a traitorous leap, which she hastily quashed. For all she knew, Mr Marrowbone might be lurking just behind him, ready to haul her off into custody.
“Captain Thorne.” She inclined her head, her lips parting to blurt an apology, but he was quicker.
“I should not have left so abruptly yesterday,” he said, the words rushed but earnest. “I’m afraid my pride was wounded. I thought we had a rapport—an understanding, a trust,” his gaze caught hers, steady and sincere. “I may have confused what I thought we had with… what I would like us to have.”
Flora blinked, startled by his frankness, her heart beating faster at the quiet candour in his voice..
“I feared you suspected me,” she admitted softly, “And that was why you left. I am sorry too. I should have told you about the wolfsbane sooner. I only…”
She faltered, not wanting to sound self-pitying by confessing that she had never known another person she could trust implicitly besides her grandmother.
The captain gave a small nod, as though reading her very thought.
“I know,” he replied softly. “Though I do hope you will one day come to think of me as the person whom you can share your worries with.”
Flora’s chest tightened with a feeling she scarcely recognised. Before her stood a strong man, cap in hand, offering not just his apology but something more enduring—a safe harbour, if she dared trust.
She should have charged more for the love potions she used to brew as a girl, if this was the sort of result they could bring about, she thought wryly as she smiled up at him.
The thought steadied her, enough that she found her voice again.
“I was just on my way to visit my grandmother, if you would like to join me?” she offered. “I could tell you my suspicions about the wolfsbane over a cup of tea.”
“I couldn’t imagine anything nicer,” he answered, offering her his arm.
Flora slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, trying not to dwell on the way her heart fluttered at the contact.
She managed only the safest of topics as they walked—the storm, the swollen river, Mr Marrowbone’s being seen leaving the pub at dawn—his nearness making her too giddy to manage anything weightier.
At last, her grandmother’s cottage came into view, and Mrs Bridges herself appeared at the door, scowling down the lane at Captain Thorne.
Oh dear, Flora thought. She had readily accepted the captain’s apology, but her grandmother—ever protective—was not so easily won.
“You’re back,” Mrs Bridges sniffed to the captain, turning her back on them and retreating into the cottage.
They followed her down the hall and into the kitchen. Mrs Bridges set the teapot firmly on the table before turning, arms folded.
“You left in a hurry yesterday,” she remarked tartly to Thorne. “And you left me mopping up someone’s tears.”
Flora flushed scarlet and made a frantic little gesture for her grandmother to hush—though it went unheeded. Mrs Bridges’ eyes were fixed on the captain like a hawk’s.
“That was not my intention, Mrs Bridges, and I apologise,” he answered, meeting her gaze steadily.
“Oh? And what are your intentions, then?” Mrs Bridges cocked a brow.
For a moment the room held its breath. Thorne’s eyes flicked to Flora, warm and unwavering, before returning to her grandmother.
“Honourable,” he said simply.
Flora’s heart gave a foolish flutter; honourable could mean only one thing…
“Well then,” Mrs Bridges said gruffly. “If that’s the case, you’d best have tea.”
She turned away to set the kettle on the stove—but not before Flora glimpsed the satisfied smile that crept across her face.
The whistle of the boiling kettle soon filled the room, and before long the three of them were seated at the kitchen table, steaming cups in hand.
Flora noted that her grandmother did not insist on the good biscuits today—Captain Thorne was not quite back in her good books.
“About this wolfsbane business,” Mrs Bridges began briskly, “Flora knew immediately when she saw it that someone had tampered with the jar. It’s not something I use often—it’s for pests and the like, not people. I rarely touch it.”
The captain inclined his head gravely. “Then the question is who might have had opportunity to pilfer your stores?”
“We compiled a list,” Flora interjected, eager to help now that she could speak freely on the matter. “Mrs Fitzhenry, Mr Goodwin, Mrs Pinnock, and Miss Vale all called for remedies on the day of the murder.”
“Don’t forget young Henderson,” Mrs Bridges added. “He brought a delivery of offal that morning.”
Flora gasped; she had completely forgotten his visit. An idea struck her so forcibly she nearly upset her teacup. Both her grandmother and the captain turned to look at her.
“Helen told me this morning,” she explained in a rush, “That she suspects Henderson is up to something. He had been courting her—saying he meant to call at Brackenfield—”
“Probably to see you,” Captain Thorne muttered darkly. “Mrs Mifford said he’d set his cap at you since you inherited.”
Flora flushed bright red, secretly warmed by the jealous note in his voice. She took a moment to gather herself before continuing.
“Well, Helen said that Henderson dropped her quite suddenly a few weeks ago, and now he struts about in new clothes, with coin in his pocket that could never have come from a butcher’s wages.”
“Miss Vale told me he’d been paying calls on Mrs Pinnock,” the captain’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
Flora felt a stab of jealousy at the thought of the captain and Miss Vale speaking privately.
“I had assumed the new breeches came from her purse,” the captain continued. “But perhaps he was only trying to impress her. After all, some men—like some women—hope to marry into money.”
“Indeed,” Flora nodded, trying to sound knowledgeable of such matters though she feared her shocked expression gave her away.
She gazed down into her cup to hide her blushes, when something occurred to her.
“The argument I overheard when I was outside Sir Ambrose’s cottage—it might have been Mr Henderson arguing with him! ”
“What does all this mean?” Mrs Bridges demanded, glancing between the two impatiently.
“It means,” Captain Thorne said somberly, setting down his cup, “That we have another suspect. And we must decide how best to smoke him out.”
Flora felt a thrill—not at the thought of unearthing another suspect, though she knew she should—but at the word he had chosen: we.