Chapter Two #2
The words gave Gabriel a jolt of alarm—it seemed the rumours were true: the women of Plumpton made sport of abducting any man who wandered into their midst. He moved swiftly toward the next stall, catching her murmur to her companion as he went, “Goodness, it’s only a turn of phrase.
I doubt anyone could keep a man of his size if he weren’t willing… ”
Threats of kidnap aside, Gabriel soon found himself enjoying the bazaar—especially once he gave in to temptation and joined the other men at the cider stall.
There was something wonderfully comforting about sipping spiced cider while nibbling on a mince pie—one of Mrs Honeywell’s; Crabb had been quite right on that score.
He was enjoying himself so much that he almost didn’t notice when his robin fluttered into his orbit.
Luckily, she was accompanied by the same handsome, older woman he had seen with her at the shop—a lady possessed of such a powerful voice that Gabriel wondered if she had once been employed as a town crier.
As the pair moved toward the judging table, Gabriel overheard the woman call out, “I steeped it in brandy again last night—almost a full bottle. Good stuff, too!”
“Will you set it alight with a taper?” he heard his robin reply, her tone rather wistful.
Gabriel was startled by a sudden urge to set whole villages alight, if it meant the spectacle would please the girl. Perhaps he ought to slow down on the cider, he thought grimly—he was at risk of turning into Boadicea.
“Hush, dear—don’t be ridiculous. You’ll burn off my secret ingredient,” the older woman replied.
From where he stood, Gabriel strongly suspected the secret ingredient was the brandy itself—a surefire way to make one’s baking popular by ensuring the judges were too sozzled to care.
He was reminded of the babas au rhum he’d once shared with an Italian sailor, so thoroughly soaked in liqueur that he could not recall whether he’d enjoyed them—or, indeed, much of the night that followed.
A commotion at the top of the room signalled that the competition was about to begin.
The postmaster, Mr Postlethwaite, emerged—puffed up with importance and armed with a tasting spoon.
From the cloying smiles bestowed upon him by the ladies guarding their bakes, Gabriel gathered that he was Plumpton’s chief arbiter of what constituted the best Christmas pudding.
The crowd began to drift forward to watch, and Gabriel followed, though his attention remained fixed on his robin, who stood alone at the edge of the gathering. In as unassuming a manner as a man of his size could manage, he sidled across until he was standing beside her.
When she turned and saw him, she started—just a little—then offered a shy smile that caught him entirely off guard.
“It rather feels like the calm before the kettle boils,” his robin whispered nervously to him—much to his delight. “Though if we watch it, perhaps we’ll not see a storm at all. Isn’t that what they say?”
“I believe so,” Gabriel replied with a shrug. He had brought his own sayings with him from France and was not entirely accustomed to the English ones. He only knew that any words spoken in her sweet voice sounded like music to his ear.
“Are baking competitions usually a source of violence?” he continued—partly out of genuine curiosity, partly because he did not wish their whispered conversation to end. He was rather surprised by his own inclination toward small talk; he must be more besotted than he had first supposed.
“Oh yes,” she said, distracted, as Mr Postlethwaite began sampling the puddings. “Mrs Griggs once tore Mrs Bunstable’s bonnet clean off during an argument over a pie contest—though it later turned out Mrs Bunstable had bought her entry from the baker in Stroud, so no one holds it against her.”
Gabriel—who knew none of these people—made a polite sound of interest. “Who do you suppose will win?” he asked, taking the opportunity to lean a little closer.
A foolish decision—her soft scent had surely been brewed by cherubs.
“Mrs Canards has won the last three years in a row,” his robin replied, nodding toward a woman standing beside an elaborately iced pudding—though the festive decoration did little to distract from her sour mien.
“Though my aunt, Mrs Mifford, has been working doubly hard to ensure victory—she’s become quite fanatical. ”
“Baking around the clock?” Gabriel guessed.
“That—and buttering up Mr Postlethwaite,” she replied dryly. “Which, in my mind, would make the victory quite Pyrrhic.”
“Victory is in the eye of the beholder,” Gabriel mused, now thoroughly enjoying himself. “Who truly knows what drives a man—or a woman, in this case—to such lengths?”
“Usually a wish to spite Mrs Canards,” she replied brightly.
Gabriel took another look at the sour-faced woman and decided that yes, he could quite see how that might motivate anyone.
Their conversation was promptly cut short as Mr Postlethwaite finally reached Mrs Mifford’s pudding. The postmaster paused before it, polishing his spoon with great ceremony, while Mrs Mifford offered him a smile so saccharine that Gabriel saw his robin cringe with embarrassment.
Mr Postlethwaite took a generous spoonful, lifted it to his lips, and tasted. A hum of appreciation escaped him—then another. He swallowed.
And promptly fell to the floor.
A stunned silence followed as the assembled company stared in horrified disbelief at Mr Postlethwaite’s motionless form.
“He’s been poisoned!”
Mrs Canards broke the silence, leaping forward to point a trembling finger of blame. “Mrs Mifford has poisoned him!”
The hall erupted into chaos—shrieks, gasps, and the clatter of dishes. Gabriel heard a man swear in surprise and was silently thankful that someone else had voiced his own reaction before he did.
Then he felt a small hand clutch his, and when he looked down, his robin’s eyes were wide with alarm.
Instinctively, he tightened his fingers around hers, caring only, in that moment, of soothing her fears.
Plumpton worked its magic quickly, he thought, watching distractedly as Mrs Canards called out for the doctor—for he already felt bereft at the idea of a life without that delicate hand in his.