Chapter Thirteen
HAVING NEVER BEEN kissed before, Sarah spent much of the next day reliving the few minutes when Lord Deverell had drawn her into his arms and showed her all that she had been missing.
As she went about her morning, her hand kept subconsciously reaching to her lips. So much so that Anne—broken-hearted after Sarah had warned her off young Mr Henderson—suggested she might be brewing a fever-sore.
“I’ve never had one in my life,” Sarah retorted, turning wildly to check her appearance in the mirror.
“It would be an awful pity if you were to brew one just before the assembly,” the house-maid frowned. “My ma swears that a dab of rosewater on the skin can prevent them surfacing.”
Though Sarah was quite certain that she wasn’t brewing a fever-sore, Anne’s mention of the looming assembly made her so nervous that she soon set off for Plumpton in search of a bottle of rose-water.
It would be just her luck to finally have a partner she wished to dance with, only to be forced into spending the whole of the assembly hiding her face with a fan.
Sarah again touched her hand to her lip, though this time it was to make certain that nothing was there instead of to reminisce on Lord Deverell’s kiss.
Once she reached the village, Sarah made straight for Mr McDowell’s and was relieved to find that he was in residence behind the counter and not in The Ring’O’Bells.
Inside the shop was dim, the air scented with spices, beeswax, and tobacco. The shelves were lined with tins of tea, bundles of candles, and small luxuries like lemon soap—perplexingly stocked beside strings of onions.
“Miss Hughes,” Mr McDowell greeted her through teeth that were clenched around a pipe. “Are you here to fetch your father some snuff?”
“He no longer partakes,” she answered sternly, hoping that if she said it enough it would eventually come to pass. “I wish to purchase a bottle of rosewater, if you have any, please.”
“Should have a few bottles somewhere,” the grocer answered, before disappearing through a door that led to the store-room out back.
Sarah idled by the jars of boiled sweets a few moments, until he returned with a bottle in hand.
“That’s the second bottle I sold today, you ladies do get through the stuff in the lead up to the assemblies,” he commented, as Sarah passed him a few coins.
“A lady always likes to look her best,” she answered politely, though inwardly she cringed at his indulgent tone.
“Especially when she has an earl chasing her,” the grocer winked.
Sarah did not deign to respond to that comment, though she did silently marvel at Mrs Mifford’s ability to plant the seeds of her ideas in every corner of the village.
“Don’t know who Mrs Fawkes needs it for, with her husband away,” the grocer continued slyly, as he wrapped the bottle in brown paper.
“We ladies do not beautify ourselves only for men, Mr McDowell,” she sniffed, refusing to be drawn into gossip. “We do it for ourselves.”
“Of course ye do,” Mr McDowell winked again as he pushed her purchase across the counter to her.
Sarah took the small packet and offered him a grudging word of thanks.
As she left she made a mental note to tell Anne to stock up on non-perishable items the next time she was in Stroud.
Mr McDowell’s discretion left a lot to be desired and Sarah did not want him commenting on her purchases to half the village.
Once outside, she took a breath to steady her nerves—which were agitated—before heading off for the butcher. She had only made it half way down the main street, when she bumped into Mrs Mifford and Lady Crabb pushing an elaborate perambulator.
“He needs more air,” Sarah heard Mrs Mifford cry as she approached.
Jane fiddled with the hood until it was down but her mother then shook her head crossly.
“No, no, I take it back!” Mrs Mifford cried, yanking the hood forward again. “There’s a wicked draught! Jane, why didn’t you say there was a draught?”
Jane’s expression of determined neutrality faltered. She straightened, caught sight of Sarah, and gave her a look of frank relief.
“Miss Hughes,” she called. “How lovely to see you.”
Sarah bid the pair hello, then peered into the perambulator to greet baby Michael. Like his cousin George, Michael was a sturdy little thing, all chubby cheeks and pudgy fists.
“He gets more adorable every time I see him,” she said, lifting her head.
“You may have one of your own soon, Miss Hughes,” Mrs Mifford replied encouragingly—and loudly—much to Sarah’s embarrassment.
Jane quickly steered them into a more neutral conversation about the upcoming assembly and the following day’s fête. Mrs Mifford extracted a promise from Sarah to supply an apple-tansey for the cake stall, while Jane promised to send over a gown that no longer fit her.
“I insist,” Jane said firmly, when Sarah tried to protest. “I cannot bear the thought of it hanging in my wardrobe gathering dust. You’d be doing me the favour by wearing it.”
Jane could be every bit as determined as her sister Mary when she wished—and secretly, Sarah was thrilled at the idea of wearing a new gown from a London modiste. Her own wardrobe contained handsome pieces, but she doubted any could compete.
Just as Jane was describing the cut of the gown in more detail, Mrs Mifford’s attention was caught by Mrs Fawkes strolling along on the far side of the road.
“I can guess how her gown will be cut,” Mrs Mifford sniffed. “Low.”
“Mama,” Jane protested, casting Sarah an apologetic glance.
“Well it will,” Mrs Mifford was unrepentant. “She’ll be out to lure a new fellow into her clutches now that Mr Hardwick’s gone.”
“I expect more from you mother than repeating idle gossip,” Jane scolded.
“It’s not idle gossip. Mr Leek himself saw them together, when he was helping Mrs Fawkes design her flower beds,” Mrs Mifford was indignant.
“That is precisely gossip,” Jane said sharply. “Second-hand, unconfirmed, and shared by a man who claims to be a gentleman.”
“No one would ever accuse Mr Leek of being a gentleman,” Mrs Mifford sniffed, missing the point entirely.
Jane rolled her eyes up to heaven in despair and began to fuss at Michael’s blankets.
“I think he’s a bit cold, Mama,” she suggested, with a discreet wink to Sarah, “Perhaps we should return home?”
Her words set Mrs Mifford into a flurry of panic and the two departed for Crabb Hall, with Jane promising to call in to Sarah that evening with the gown.
Sarah continued on to the butcher, her thoughts pleasantly occupied with the idea of trying on a new dress.
Inside, the shop was cool and dim, the air heavy with the scent of sawdust, herbs—and something less appealing.
She gave a start as she spotted Mr Leek at the counter deep in argument with Mr Hamley, the butcher.
“I requested that bill be paid three times, Mr Leek,” she heard Mr Hamley grumble. “I have suppliers to pay.”
“You’ll have to take the issue up with Mrs Vickery,” the horticulturist shrugged in reply. “It must have slipped her mind to tell me.”
Mr Hamley scowled, his expression echoing Sarah’s own internal thoughts.
It was obvious that it was not Mrs Vickery’s fault the bill was being settled past its due date.
Mrs Mifford might be prone to exaggeration, but in this case, she was quite correct—Mr Leek was no gentleman to blame a woman for his own faults.
“I only pay these prices because you’ve no competition,” Mr Leek continued. “You’d never get away with charging so much in Cirencester.”
“If you want to walk to Cirencester for a leg of mutton, be my guest,” the butcher replied, unimpressed.
Sarah stood discreetly back as Mr Leek made a great show of extracting coins from his purse.
He handed them over to Mr Hamley, who took them with a grudging word of thanks, then stalked from the shop without even acknowledging Sarah.
Apparently, she only merited civilities when Lord Deverell was beside her.
“If it’s alright with you Miss Hughes, I’ll get the lad to serve you,” Mr Hamley apologised. “I need to step out the back a moment and—and—tenderise a side of beef.”
He disappeared into the back of the shop only to be replaced a moment later by young Mr Henderson. Even in the dimness of the shop, the young man’s blonde hair gleamed gold.
He smiled a lazy, crooked smile Sarah’s way, and for a moment, she could understand Nora and Anne’s attraction.
“What can I get you, Miss Hughes?” he asked, though as he spoke his gaze drifted to the window and he became distracted by his own reflection.
“A half-dozen sausages please,” Sarah said They would do for a quick tea on the night of the assembly and breakfast the next morning.
Mr Henderson nodded and fetched a string of coarse links from the window, wrapping them in brown paper with practiced ease.
“I do hope Mr Hamley is alright,” Sarah ventured, “Mr Leek was quite rude.”
“I expect he’s accustomed to sharp words, not everyone is as prompt with payment as your father, Miss Hughes,” Mr Henderson answered, as he tied the brown paper with string.
“Still, I would not have expected such an outburst from a man of Mr Leek’s caliber,” she offered, wondering if the show of temper might be a clue.
“He’s not half as fine as his velvet coat suggests,” Mr Henderson replied. He cast a look around the shop to be certain they were alone, then leaned across the counter.
“I saw him out walking the night of the murder,” he whispered.
“Really?” Sarah raised a brow, as her heart began to race within her chest.
“Really,” Mr Henderson confirmed, with a nod of his golden head. “When I asked him the next day if he’d seen anything suspicious, he denied being out at all. But I know what I saw.”
“I’m certain there’s no fooling you, Mr Henderson,” Sarah agreed and the young man puffed out his chest with pleasure.
“Save me a dance at the assembly, Miss Hughes,” he said with a wink, as he pushed the wrapped sausages across the counter to her.
Sarah made a vague sound in reply as she left, his words about Mr Leek echoing in her ears. Was this the missing piece of the puzzle they needed to solve the mystery? She longed to tell Lord Deverell—he would know what to make of it all.
She was halfway down the main street, mulling over why Mrs Vickery had lied for her employer, when the sound of raised voices from outside The Ring drew her from her thoughts.
She glanced up to spot Mr Treswell standing nose-to-nose with Mr Marrowbone, his arms gesticulating wildly.
“She threatened me! Threatened me! With a gun!” the solicitor howled.
Mr Marrowbone, ever unbothered, scratched at his whiskers.
“When you get down to the bones of it, all she really did was ask you to leave her garden with a prop in hand,” he shrugged.
“She chased me from it with a gun in hand.”
“Still not a crime,” the constable replied with maddening calm. “If she’d really committed a crime you wouldn’t be here to tell the tale. Unless the magistrate says otherwise, I’m not moving from my perch.”
Mr Marrowbone gestured to the stool by the door of the pub, where Sarah guessed he had been sitting before Mr Treswell interrupted.
“Can you not add two and two together?” the solicitor hissed. “A man was shot dead on the very road where Mrs Bridges resides. It’s clear she’s a danger to the whole village. If you don’t demand the magistrate arrest her, then I’ll go myself.”
“You do that,” Mr Marrowbone replied, as he sat himself back down. “If you need me, you know where to find me.”
He picked up his tankard as if to toast his own indolence, then sat down on his stool with a happy sigh.
The solicitor growled in annoyance and stalked off in the direction of Crabb Hall. Sarah watched him go, worry brewing in her chest. Mr Treswell was a solicitor; it was possible that if he couldn’t influence Lord Crabb to act that he might know someone who would.
She turned on her heel and set off for home at a brisk pace.
As she walked, she pondered how she might get word to Lord Deverell—for she knew, if anyone could help Mrs Bridges, it was he.
She had just decided to call to Northcott Manor and seek an audience with him—gossip be damned—when she spotted him riding toward her through the village, as though summoned by fate.
Even in her worry for Mrs Bridges, Sarah could appreciate what a handsome figure he cut, seated on a dark bay, his coat billowing behind him.
“Miss Hughes,” the earl called, as she waved him down.
He brought his steed to a halt, dismounted, and offered her a short bow.
“Oh, thank goodness it’s you,” Sarah blurted, then hastily informed him of the altercation she had overheard.
“I’m afraid Mr Treswell is going to try his best to have Mrs Bridges arrested,” she finished glumly.
“Not on my watch, he won’t,” Lord Deverell replied, jaw set.
He looked so terribly aristocratic and faintly dangerous in that moment, that Sarah’s heart skipped a beat. Subconsciously, she lifted her hand to her mouth, as she recalled their brief moment of passion.
“Miss Hughes,” Lord Deverell said softly his eyes on her lips. “If you don’t drop your hand from your lips at once, I’m afraid I’m going to cause something of a scandal and kiss you.”
Sarah blushed and cast a glance over her shoulder, where she sighted Mrs Canards and Mrs Wickling lingering by the village green, openly staring. She reluctantly dropped her hand, earning herself a rueful grin from Lord Deverell.
“A shame,” he said longingly, “I shall have to settle for the promise of your first dance at the assembly instead.”
Her ability to form words fled as her cheeks flushed pink. Luckily, Lord Deverell turned to remount his horse, negating her need to answer.
“I want the last dance too, Miss Hughes,” he called, before taking off at a gallop up the village.
Only once he’d vanished from sight—and her heartbeat had returned to its usual meter—did Sarah realise: she had entirely forgotten to tell him what Mr Henderson had said about Mr Leek.