Chapter Thirty-Three
If she had heard her, Cynthia would have confirmed the vicar’s wife’s suspicions.
The interior of the cottage was a positive shambles.
There were dirty dishes on every surface and the floor had probably not been swept since the late Mrs. Vernon’s passing.
The cords holding the cheerful check curtains at the window hung drunkenly, where they had been pulled down on one side by an impatient hand.
The fire had been allowed to go out, so, apart from being filthy, it was cold and cheerless.
She had been bundled down from the gig by Mr. Vernon and all but carried inside.
She had tried to stave him off but, for the first time, became conscious of how much bigger he was than she.
Realizing she was powerless in his grip, she had stopped struggling.
She couldn’t defeat him by force. It would have to be by guile.
When he set her on her feet, locking the front door behind him, she therefore exclaimed, “What a nice cottage! Or, at least it would be, if it were tidied up a bit. Look, Mr. Vernon, why don’t you make up the fire and set the kettle going for a cup of tea while I clean up?
Then we can sit and have a chat.” She thought the longer she could delay whatever it was he planned to do, the more chance she would have to escape.
Without waiting for an answer, she looked around for an apron.
She was sure there was one: no woman who was enough of a housekeeper to make those curtains would work without an apron.
Sure enough, she found one on a hook on the door that closed off the stairs going up to the bedroom.
God knew what that was like. She shuddered.
She looked down at the gown she’d worked so hard on.
The wedding and the breakfast she’d been looking forward to seemed very far away.
With a sigh, she enveloped herself in the apron.
Ben Vernon couldn’t make up his mind if he should settle the affair by simply carrying her upstairs and taking her as his wife, or do as she said.
But, at heart, he was a coward and afraid of the screeching she’d put up, and there was no rush, after all.
She was supposed to be at the wedding breakfast, so no one would miss her at home, and he doubted that Miss Harriet (as was) would give her a second thought.
So sweeten her up with a nice fire and a cup of tea, and she’d come willingly, he shouldn’t wonder.
He could do with something stronger himself, but he knew women. They always wanted tea.
He’d filled the water pail at the well the evening before and left the kettle over the embers, thinking to have a shave in the morning, but, well, he’d had a few, and he woke up so late he didn’t have time to shave or even make up the fire before leaving for the church.
He rubbed at his chin, casting sideways glances at Cynthia as she worked.
She wasn’t a bad-looking woman. A bit skinny, but that was all to the good.
She probably didn’t eat much. And she didn’t cackle all the time like most of ’em did.
So he cleared the grate and made up the fire as she asked.
Cynthia was thinking furiously as she stacked all the dirty crockery on the stand next to the sink and wiped down the kitchen table.
She needed him to think she was resigned to being there, so he’d drop his guard.
There were mouse droppings amongst the bits of food dropped on the surfaces, and pushing it all onto the floor, she said companionably, “You need a cat, Mr. Vernon.”
“Nah,” he said. “Just another bloody mouth to feed.”
“But a cat sleeping by the fire is such a cozy sight,” she said, smiling inwardly at the image of Teacup, who, if she were honest, would be more likely to be the one who pulled down the curtains than who lay peaceably by the hearth.
“Not as cozy as a woman working in the kitchen,” replied Mr. Vernon, well-satisfied at watching her industriously sweep the débris from the floor into a tidy heap on top of a piece of paper.
“Well, if you don’t object, I’d like to wash this crockery before making a pot of tea,” said Cynthia humbly.
“It will be much more pleasant for you not having to look at this dirty pile. Besides, there isn’t a clean cup in the place and I don’t like to see a hard-working man drinking from a dirty one.
And I’m even thinking I should mop the floor.
Do you have a mop anywhere? You deserve a clean place to put your feet up in.
” Anything to keep him busy, she thought.
If Mr. Vernon had entertained any doubts about marrying a wife who liked things just so, they disappeared before her obvious desire to make the home worthy of him.
His Jenny liked the place to be reasonable, but he’d always had the impression she did it for herself, not for him.
He imagined Cynthia in her velvet gown waiting for him of an evening to come home to a cottage made perfect for him, with his dinner warm by the fire.
He was so taken by this idea, he poured the warm water from the kettle into the sink and refilled it for the tea.
Then he set about looking in all the places where Jenny might have kept the mop.
He hadn’t even thought about it, much less used it, since she died.
About an hour later, as she surveyed a relatively clean kitchen with a row of clean plates, cups and pans on the table, Cynthia said, “There!” That looks so much better,” then added, “for a man who works as hard as you. It’s not right for you to live in that muddle.”
Hiding her distaste, she picked up the grey and stinking rags she supposed had at one time been tea towels, and said, “If you’d be so kind as to put some water in that big pan over the fire, Mr. Vernon, I’ll boil these in a bit of soda.
I don’t like to think of you using them in this state.
It can’t be good for your health. Then we can make the tea.
I don’t know about you, but I’m dying for a cup!
And how nice it will be to sit down and relax by the fire. ”
Ben Vernon couldn’t but agree. Somehow, he’d been kept busy fetching and carrying for her.
She hadn’t ordered him about, as Jenny had been inclined to do.
She’d gently asked him to carry the débris she’d swept into a pile over to the fire.
Inevitably, he’d dropped a few bits (Cynthia had put it as far from the fireplace as possible), which she said she would sweep up herself except that her hands were in the dishwater, so could he possibly do it?
After that she’d said please would he swill the mop in clean water before she used it.
He’d refilled the kettle at least twice, and then, at her request, looked for candles.
They’d need them later on, she said. He was glad to produce some, for this request, together with her gentle demeanor, convinced him she had settled down and was planning on staying.
Now, finally, she was going to make the tea.
The pot was warming on the table and the cups and sugar were put out, but as she reached up to take down the caddy from where it stood on the mantle over the fire, she somehow managed to drop it.
Tea leaves were scattered all over the floor, and many into the fire.
Cynthia burst into very convincing tears and fell to the ground.
“Oh, no!” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry! How stupid I am!”
Ben Vernon was infuriated. Tea was not cheap, and he’d only bought it in because he knew she’d want it.
But she seemed really put about. What was he to do with her sobbing at his feet?
He crouched down and clumsily patted her back, saying, “Don’t take on so!
It’s no mind!” But that only made her wail louder.
“But I so wanted us to have a cup of TEA! And now it’s all GONE! ”
Into this cacophony came a loud knocking at the door. Then an angry voice cried, “Miss Rowley! Cynthia! Are you all right? Open up, Vernon! What are you doing to her? I can hear her crying. By God, if you’ve touched a hair on her head I’ll kill you! Open up, I say.”
Ben didn’t know what to do. If anyone came in and found this woman wailing on the ground, they were bound to think the worst. He tried to calm her, but when he simply put his hand on her shoulder, she shrieked even louder.
He was still in a state of indecision when, with a crack of splintering wood, the door was flung open and there stood her lodger.
Fielding. Fielding the artist, with a face like murder.