Chapter Nine #2
Satisfied, Mrs Walton went on. “Well, naturally, it was Mrs Canards causing all the fuss. Her face was red—more so than usual; you know her high colouring—and she was stamping her feet in rage. ‘All the favours you’ve extracted from me, Postlethwaite—the baking of bread, the darning of socks, and the dusting of your parlour—and at the last minute you say you’ve changed your mind! ’”
Charlotte held her breath. Why, this sounded promising.
“What did Mr Postlethwaite have to say for himself?” she pressed, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“He said”—Mrs Walton paused for dramatic effect—“that he could no longer continue their agreement, that it wouldn’t be right.
That he had an obligation to his position.
I didn’t hear any more, because young Mr Boden arrived and I had to go in, so the argument ceased—but you know as well as I what it all means. ”
“Er—what does it all mean?” Charlotte asked, thoroughly flummoxed.
“That Mrs Canards was bribing Mr Postlethwaite in order to win the pudding competition!” Mrs Walton cried, casting Charlotte a look that suggested she wondered whether there was fluff between her ears instead of brains.
Oh, Charlotte tried not to let her shoulders drop in disappointment—for Mrs Walton seemed very proud of her hypothesis.
“She wins it every year,” the woman went on, a dark scowl settling on her brow.
“And now we know why—it’s not because of her baking skills, but her bribing ones!
I’ve suspected it for years. Have you ever tried a bit of her jam roly-poly?
Dry enough to constitute a choking hazard.
Though I suppose anything that looks on that sourpuss of hers withers and dies with fright—even cakes. ”
She made a faint noise of agreement with herself and took another hearty sip of tea.
Charlotte nervously followed suit. Mrs Walton, she realised, might not be the most credible of witnesses; she clearly held a strong bias against Mrs Canards.
“I know Mrs Canards is awful,” Charlotte ventured cautiously as she set down her cup, “But do you really believe her capable of murder?”
“She’s capable of anything, that one,” Mrs Walton snorted darkly.
Charlotte had no time to reply, for the back door was suddenly flung open and Mr Walton appeared—swaying slightly as he stomped the snow from his boots onto the mat. Mrs Walton would not escape his snores this evening, Charlotte thought, hiding a discreet smile.
“Charles, you’re back,” Mrs Walton cried, waving at Charlotte to finish her brandy-laced tea. “I wasn’t expecting you so early.”
“Nothing gives a man a greater hunger than a pint or two of ale,” the wheelwright replied cheerfully, padding toward the table in his stockings. He spotted the tin of shortbread and pounced.
“Where’d these come from?” he asked, already bringing one to his lips.
“Miss Mifford brought them with her,” Mrs Walton explained, gesturing toward Charlotte—whom he had not yet noticed in his haze of ale and good cheer.
He froze, the shortbread halfway to his mouth, as though a sudden gust of icy wind had turned him to stone.
“They’re from Mr McDowell’s,” Charlotte said quickly.
“Oh, that’s all right then,” he sighed, relaxing again and swallowing the shortbread whole.
Charlotte hid a sigh behind her cup. Clearing her aunt’s name, she realised, was going to prove rather more complicated than she had hoped. She finished her tea in one quick gulp, discreetly coughing as the brandy hit the back of her throat.
“I’d best be off,” she said, rising from her seat. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs Walton.”
“Any time, dear,” her hostess beamed. “You be certain to call on me if anything arises from what we discussed—I’d hate to miss out on all the fun.”
If Mr Marrowbone were to arrest Mrs Canards, Charlotte suspected Mrs Walton would happily lead the mob calling for her tarring and feathering—and not out of any loyalty to the deceased.
“That Frenchman you’ve found yourself ain’t half big,” Mr Walton remarked as Charlotte tied her cape.
“He’s not my Frenchman,” she stammered, her cheeks flaming as Mrs Walton peered at her curiously—and with a hint of reproach. She had shared her gossip and was clearly annoyed that Charlotte hadn’t returned the favour.
“That’s not what I’ve heard,” the wheelwright grinned. “Everyone down The Ring was talking about what a fine pair you’d make. I’d put money on you being engaged by Twelfth Night, Miss Mifford.”
“Charles,” his wife admonished with a tut. “You know how I feel about gambling.”
More hostile than she felt about her husband embarrassing guests, Charlotte thought. She was desperate now to be gone.
“Well,” she said with a forced smile, “All’s well that must come to a good end, as they say. Thank you for having me.”
There was a pause as Mr Walton squinted at her, then turned to his wife. “Have you two been at my brandy, Maude?”
“Goodbye, Miss Mifford,” Mrs Walton cried, springing from her chair to usher Charlotte out into the cold night.
As the door closed behind her, Charlotte caught the unmistakable sound of the pair beginning to argue. Unlike Mrs Walton, she wasn’t one to eavesdrop, so she took herself quickly off through the village.
Her mind ought to have been ruminating over what she’d learned, but it slipped instead to the Comte de Roche.
She should have been mortified to know that people were already speculating over their acquaintance, but she found she couldn’t care.
The memory of him holding her against him that morning took up far too much space in her head to allow room for anything else.
It’s a one-sided infatuation, she reminded herself, ducking her head against the cold wind. And yet, as she pulled her cape tight about her neck, she found herself searching the material for any trace of the leather and spice scent that he might have left behind.