Chapter Seven
THE CHRISTMAS MORNING sun rose over a Plumpton blanketed in snow.
Charlotte—who had slept fitfully after the revelation about the brandy—watched it break across the horizon from the window seat in her bedroom.
On her feet she wore three pairs of woollen stockings, and around her shoulders was draped a thick blanket. She had stoked the small fire in the hearth as best she could, but soon she would have to give in and venture downstairs for more logs if she wanted any real warmth.
And once she was downstairs, there would be no escape: there was a goose to baste, potatoes to peel, and gravy to prepare. And despite Mrs Mifford’s insistence on hosting her own Christmas luncheon, it would take both Charlotte and Nora’s combined efforts if anyone in the house were to eat at all.
Charlotte sighed and drew the blanket closer around her. She wanted just a few minutes more to ponder the previous night’s strange events and try to make sense of them.
After the revelation that it was possibly Mr Postlethwaite himself who had poisoned the brandy, the Comte de Roche—and a startlingly irate Mr Mifford—had both made noises about marching back to the village to challenge the postmaster.
Lord Crabb, however, had insisted that they wait until Christmas Day had passed before speaking with him.
“Mr Marrowbone traditionally disappears down a barrel of ale for the day,” he’d explained to the two incensed men. “And unless either of you wish to spend hours transporting a prisoner to Stroud, I’d suggest you wait until the constable resurfaces on St Stephen’s Day.”
“Besides,” he’d added, upon seeing their unconvinced expressions, “There might be a perfectly reasonable explanation behind all this. I cannot imagine anyone wishing to murder Mrs Mifford.”
Several people had shifted awkwardly at that final statement, but in the end the group had reached a general consensus that the mystery could wait for another day.
Now, hours after that decision, Charlotte felt a faint stab of disquiet—alongside the chilblains. She wasn’t quite as certain as Lord Crabb that there was an innocent explanation behind the poisoned brandy, though there was little she could do with her suspicions until St Stephen’s Day.
With a sigh, she gave in to the inevitable and rose to dress. After a quick wash, she chose one of her plainer gowns—for even with an apron, she was bound to come away from the kitchen covered in stains—then pulled her hair up into a neat bun.
She gave Billy, who was nestled contentedly at the foot of her bed, a gentle scratch behind the ears before venturing downstairs to the kitchen.
Nora had not yet risen—nor was she likely to soon, for she hadn’t returned from wassailing until sunrise—so Charlotte set to work, stoking the embers in the stove, piling the kindling high, and working the bellows until merry flames leapt in the grate.
Once the stove was hot enough, she put the kettle on to boil and ventured into the larder, in search of Nora’s hidden stash of mince-pies. Sweatmeats for breakfast was something of an indulgence but it was Christmas day—and there were an awful lot of potatoes that needed peeling when she was done…
She had just laid the table for tea when Mr Mifford came down, his eyes immediately alighting on the plate of mince pies.
“Nora informed me there were none left,” he said, looking genuinely confused.
“She lied,” Charlotte replied with a smile, waving for him to take a seat. She fetched an extra cup and poured the tea, then sat quickly before her breakfast treat vanished before her eyes.
“What has you up so early?” she asked, taking a sip from her cup.
“My sermon for this morning’s service,” he admitted ruefully. “I should have written it last night, but alas—I am the sort of man for whom inspiration only ever strikes at the final hour. And I would rehash the sermon from last night, but some of my flock take notes.”
“God is always watching, I suppose,” Charlotte jested lightly.
“The Almighty occasionally takes a day off,” her uncle grumbled in return. “It’s Mrs Canards who never rests.”
On that chipper note, Mr Mifford drained the last of his tea, snatched the last mince pie from the plate, and departed for the library.
Charlotte lingered over her own cup a while longer, but when she could put it off no more, she set to work.
She tackled the potatoes first—washing, chopping, and peeling—until she had produced a veritable mountain of them.
She was just turning to the goose, which required both stuffing and basting, when Mrs Mifford appeared downstairs, rigged out in her finest regalia.
“Merry Christmas, Charlotte!” her aunt cried. No embrace followed—only a horrified glance at Charlotte’s flour-dusted gown and sodden apron.
“Such messy work, cooking,” Mrs Mifford sighed, her gloved hands fretting at the front of her green velvet coat. “And so time-consuming—I don’t know how I do it. Would you mind preparing the vegetables, dear, while I accompany your uncle to this morning’s service?”
“Of course,” Charlotte said, wiping her brow with the back of her hand.
“Angel.” Mrs Mifford beamed. “It’s good for someone in the family to show face and give thanks for our Saviour’s birth—and it gives the Lord a chance to thank me for my culinary efforts.”
She turned to leave, but paused in the doorway and looked back.
“You’ve a bit of muck there, dear,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward Charlotte’s forehead—then swept away, feathers bobbing with every self-satisfied step.
“Thank you, Aunt,” Charlotte murmured to herself, wiping at her brow with a dishcloth. She waited a few beats, listening for the front door to slam behind her aunt and uncle, then let out a sigh of relief.
Alone at last.
Silence settled over the house; the only sounds were the steady tick of the longcase clock in the hallway, the soft crackle of the fire, and Nora’s gentle snores drifting from her little room off the scullery.
Charlotte began to hum a carol under her breath as she plucked a few stray feathers from the goose. The bird’s unfortunate pallor and puckered skin put her in mind of death, though she tried to push the thought aside.
It’s Christmas Day, she reminded herself firmly—a time for celebration, not for dwelling on murder. Especially when one hadn’t even been committed!
Her suspicions about Mr Postlethwaite were hers alone, she scolded herself—though perhaps the Comte de Roche shared them…
Her mind, traitorous thing, drifted to him now—his hand hovering at the small of her back as he’d guided her through the crowd; the dark, amused eyes that had met hers across the sitting room—well, amused until the moment her aunt had tried to poison him; and, most alarmingly of all, the remembered feeling of his thigh pressed against hers on the pew at church.
Charlotte exhaled, fanning her neck with the edge of her apron. It had suddenly grown quite warm in the kitchen.
“Let’s get you in the oven,” she scolded the goose, as though it were responsible for the dangerous train her thoughts had taken.
She braced herself to lift the heavy beast into the roasting tray and had just managed to hoist the slippery, glistening bird aloft when the latch at the back door rattled.
“Did you forget something?” she called over her shoulder, as footsteps approached.
“Merry Christmas, Miss Mifford,” a lilting French voice replied.
She started at the sound of it, and the goose slid from her hands.
It was caught before it could hit the floor.
“I would not wish to see a good bird die twice,” the Comte de Roche said, as he straightened, the rescued goose cradled easily in his powerful hands.
He looked entirely composed as he deposited the bird into the waiting roasting tray—and Charlotte was glad that at least one of them had their wits about them.
“Oh dear,” she fretted, spotting a streak of oil on the front of his coat. “It will stain. Here, allow me.”
Without thinking, she rushed forward to dab at the offending grease with a dishcloth. It was only when her breath caught—as she became aware of the solid muscular chest beneath the fine wool—that she realised what she was doing.
Rubbing down a French aristocrat. Alone. In her kitchen.
“Forgive me,” she squeaked, springing back as though she’d touched the stove.
“I find there’s nothing to forgive,” he replied, voice low, one dark brow lifting in quiet amusement. “In fact, I rather enjoyed it.”
Charlotte’s cheeks flamed so hot that the heat might have roasted the goose. She opened her mouth to reply, when their tête-à-tête was interrupted by the sound of an irritated yawn.
“What’s all this noise?” Nora grumbled, rubbing at her eyes.
“The Comte just saved the goose,” Charlotte answered—rather stupidly.
And Nora, she realised, had just saved her bacon.
For had the maid not interrupted, there was every chance Charlotte might have thrown herself straight into the poor Comte’s arms. Which would have been utterly mortifying, for he hadn’t been flirting with her. Not at all.
He was simply French.
Everything they said sounded flirtatious, and she’d be a fool to let that go to her head.
“Is that so?” Nora raised a neat brow, glancing between the two. “Are you calling door-to-door to assist the ladies of Plumpton with lifting their birds into the oven, Comte? Or is it just this bird in particular?”
“Nora,” Charlotte whispered, aghast—but the Comte appeared utterly unbothered by the maid’s wicked tongue.
“In fact, I did not call to ‘elp with the bird,” he said, shrugging his broad shoulders, “Though if you require assistance, I am all hands.”
“Ears,” Charlotte corrected faintly, touched by his muddled turn of phrase.
“My head,” Nora muttered, pressing a hand to her brow.
“I came instead,” the Comte continued, his tone shifting, “To inform Miss Mifford of some grave news. Mr Postlethwaite was found dead this morning—murdered, by the looks of things.”
“Oh, dear,” Charlotte replied, startled.
“Indeed,” he agreed, a trace of a smile haunting his lips at her very English reaction to such dreadful news.
“Tea?” she suggested after a beat, aware that it was another woefully English reaction to murder—but at least it was something to offer.
She gestured for the Comte to take a seat, then turned to Nora—only to find the maid looking distinctly green about the gills. With a sigh, Charlotte set about preparing it herself.
“Perhaps a tisane instead of tea, Nora?” she suggested gently, as she brought the pot to the table. “And perhaps a dash of something festive to go with it—it might help your head.”
The maid’s eyes brightened immediately, and she slipped off to the larder in search of Mrs Mifford’s medicinal wine.
Charlotte poured for the Comte, then herself, and finally sat down opposite him at the table.
“Dead?” she echoed at last, unable to believe it.
“Mort comme un poisson,” he replied, nodding his head. Then, when he caught her confusion, explained. “Like a fish.”
“But whatever happened?” she pressed, “Who did it—and why?”
“Those are all very good questions,” the Comte answered, smiling slightly as he set down his cup.
“But, alas, I have only an answer to your first. Mr Postlethwaite was hit—repeatedly—on the back of the head with a shovel as he returned home last night. We know this, as the shovel was found close by. He did not make it through his front door—a neighbour spotted him in his garden this morning, on their way down for Christmas service.”
“How terrible,” Charlotte breathed. She thought of Jane and suddenly found she was in agreement with her cousin—murder was a much worse thing at Christmas.
“As to the who and why,” the Comte continued, holding her gaze steadily. “We cannot yet know. But what we can be certain of, is that this is the second time someone tried to kill him—only this time they succeeded.”
“The brandy,” Charlotte gasped, realising his meaning.
“Just so,” the Comte confirmed. “Someone tried once—and, when that failed, they tried again.”
Charlotte stared at him, the weight of his words settling like frost. “But who would wish to kill Mr Postlethwaite?”
“That,” he said quietly, “Is the question that we will have to answer together.”
His quiet we sent a thrill through her, slipping past all her good intentions. She had promised herself to be practical, but it was Christmas Day, after all—surely she was allowed to indulge in a little dreaming.