Chapter Twenty #2
“Ever since I came down from London, he’s been trying to sniff out whether it was some scandal that drove me here—and when he finally found the answer, the wretch blackmailed me into acting as his maid. He began to hint that he wanted more than that though—all men are the same, are they not?”
She gave a watery, humourless laugh and sagged back in her chair.
“When Lord Fa…” She caught herself, shaking her head.
“Well—when a friend called, and gifted me that brandy, I realised I could use it to keep Postlethwaite at bay until the new year. A little illness to calm down his more masculine urges. How was I supposed to know he’d pass it straight along to Mrs Mifford?
He was half in love with her, the fool,” she muttered, rolling her eyes despite her tears.
Gabe leaned forward.
“So on Christmas morning, when you realised you might soon be caught for attempted murder, you decided to confront Mr Postlethwaite at his cottage.”
Miss Weaver nodded, looking small and defeated.
“And you killed him,” he finished quietly.
To his surprise, she shook her head with sudden, fervent force.
“No,” she whispered. “I didn’t. I swear to you, I didn’t.”
Gabe was momentarily lost for words. He looked to the viscount, who leaned forward to address the sniffling seamstress with surprising gentleness.
“Then who did, Miss Weaver?” he asked softly.
A cough sounded from the doorway.
All heads turned.
Tom Boden stood there, pale but sober. His eyes were wide with fear and something very like guilt.
“I did,” he said.
There was a stunned silence, broken first by Mr Marrowbone.
“I don't get paid enough to be expected to keep up with this many twists and turns,” the constable complained as he rubbed his temples wearily. Lord Crabb silenced him with a single pointed look.
Miss Weaver leapt to her feet, her hands fluttering anxiously to her throat.
“It wasn't deliberate!” she cried, rushing to defend the young man. “Tom didn't mean any harm. He was only trying to protect me.”
Her fingers fumbled at the knot of her scarf, tugging anxiously until it came loose.
“I went to Mr Postlethwaite to tell him that it was I who had tampered with the brandy. I wanted him to know I could be a threat, so that he’d leave me alone. But I wasn't to know he was a man who did not take kindly to being threatened.”
She pulled the scarf from her neck.
The room inhaled as one in horror.
Ugly, finger-shaped bruises ringed her throat. Dark, deep, and vicious.
Tom stepped forward, his voice unsteady but determined.
“I saw Miss Weaver walking toward the cottage. I knew there might be trouble. I'd seen the letter...” His ears went pink, for Gabe knew he'd seen it more than once. “So I followed at a distance. I didn't want to get involved, not really, but then I heard a scream. A terrible scream.”
His voice cracked.
“I ran around the corner and found Mr Postlethwaite atop her. Choking her.” He swallowed hard. “I tried to pull him off, I swear I tried, but he wouldn't budge. He was like a man demented.”
The boy's breath shuddered.
“So I grabbed the nearest thing I could find. A shovel, leaning against the wall. And I hit him over the back of the head.” Tears spilled freely now down the lads full cheeks. “I didn't mean to kill him. I didn't.”
Tom broke down completely then.
Captain Thorne was on his feet in an instant, guiding the lad to a chair and murmuring reassurances as Tom sobbed into his hands.
Gabe's gaze shifted to Lord Crabb. The viscount looked as troubled as Gabe felt.
At last Crabb rose to his feet.
“Miss Weaver.” His tone was grave. “Attempted poisoning, even if meant as a morality lesson, is a serious offence.”
Miss Weaver began to shake violently, clasping her hands in her lap.
Crabb sighed and the severity in his face softened.
“However, I believe Mr Postlethwaite's attempt to kill you rather voids the need for punishment in this case.”
The seamstress sagged in relief, tears spilling anew down her porcelain cheeks.
Crabb turned to Tom, extending a hand.
“Mr Boden, you did the right thing. You acted bravely in defence of a woman's life. No man here will say otherwise.”
Tom looked up, eyes red. “But I—”
“No,” Crabb interrupted, gentle but firm. “You saved her.”
“All’s well that ends well!” Mr Marrowbone declared brightly. He sprang to his feet and began edging toward the door. “And if we leave now, I believe my pint may still have a frothy head by the time I get back. What was it you called me, Comte? An optimist? I think I’m inclined to agree.”
He tipped his hat to Gabe and marched out into the night without waiting for a reply.
Lord Crabb rolled his eyes heavenward but said nothing. Instead, he turned back to Miss Weaver, his expression softening once more.
“Miss Weaver, may I call anyone to sit with you? Miss Morton, perhaps?”
Miss Weaver let out snort through her tears.
“I’d rather you didn’t, my lord. Can you imagine the fodder she’d get for those silly samplers of hers from this torrid tale?
” She shook her head, then added more quietly, “I expect I shall begin packing at once. Plumpton is not the village for me, even if a friend does live close by. I’ll return to London, where people mind their own business.
Perhaps I’ll find a new friend while I’m at it. ”
All four men nodded in wholehearted agreement with her plan.
“Then we shall leave you to your packing, Miss Weaver,” the viscount said with a bow.
“Come along, lad. I’ll see you home. It’s on my way,” Captain Thorne said softly to Tom. He rose and gently guided Tom toward the door, a steadying hand on the boy’s shoulder. Tom, still red-eyed and shaken, let himself be led out into the cold.
Gabe and Lord Crabb followed them, tipping their hats awkwardly in farewell to Miss Weaver.
By the time they stepped outside, Marrowbone was already halfway down the lane, his pony trotting at a brisk clip. Thorne and Tom disappeared a moment later, swallowed by the darkness.
A wind stirred the bare branches overhead. From somewhere across the sleeping village, church bells began to toll the hour. Midnight; the twelfth day of Christmas had arrived.
Crabb mounted and gathered his reins.
“Shall we return to Crabb Hall and mull over the evening’s entertainment with a glass of brandy?” he called across to Gabe.
“A quick brandy,” Gabe agreed, swinging into the saddle. “Then I must depart again for Primrose Cottage.”
“Oh?” Crabb raised a brow, startled. “Primrose Cottage, you say?”
“Yes.” Gabe nodded, resolute. “There’s something I need to ask Miss Mifford.”
Fate had toyed with him long enough. Tonight, at last, he would decide his own course — and it led to Miss Mifford’s door.