Chapter Seven
The meeting with Groby had disturbed Nate.
There was more that needed investigating.
Groby had clearly been jealous of Collins, and it sounded as though he had just cause.
If Mrs. Groby and Collins were lovers, they’d have had good reason for wanting Groby out of the way.
It was far better to frame him for murder than to kill him themselves, in which case the suspicion would fall directly upon them.
If all that were true, then George Otis had been a pawn in their scheme.
Nate decided to stop by the butcher’s cottage and speak with Mrs. Groby; he suspected he’d find Collins there as well. As he made his way there, he was delighted to see Bridget riding toward him. He tugged on his horse’s reins as she neared, and the animal came to a halt.
“Oh, I’m glad to have caught up with you,” Bridget said, bringing her chestnut mare to a halt beside his tan gelding. Her cheeks were flushed, and her riding cape was askew as if she’d thrown it on in a hurry. Nate thought she looked beautiful.
“I’m pleased you did,” he said. “I was on my way to speak to Mrs. Groby, but I think it’s better if we visit her together. That’s why you came to town, isn’t it?” Nate frowned, suddenly realizing that Bridget had already passed the cottage.
Bridget, in turn, seemed to hesitate as if thrown off guard. “I—yes. That’s right. I mean to check up on her. I wanted to reassure her that she needn’t worry about our meat order. The poor woman has enough to do already.”
“I don’t know. I suspect she has some help from Mr. Collins.” Nate related what Groby had told him.
“So, it seems I was right. There is something between them,” Bridget said.
“Yes, it seems you have good instincts. Mind you, that doesn’t make them guilty or Groby innocent.
He already had suspicions about his wife, and being ridiculed in front of everyone at The Black Horse must have sent him into a blind rage.
He can’t remember much about what happened that night, though.
What if he went in search of Collins but found the poet instead? ”
“You don’t believe that do you?” Bridget said.
“I have enough doubt not to let the man hang without asking some questions. As for his pigs, if there’s even a slim chance he killed Otis and fed his heart to his pigs, I don’t think we can risk serving them to our guests.”
“Cook had said she wouldn’t allow it anyway,” Bridget said. “I shall ask Mrs. Groby to remove them from our usual order. Perhaps we can replace it with extra mutton.”
“Agreed,” Nate said and spurred his horse forward.
Bridget turned her horse around and followed him. Within a few minutes, they were in front of the butcher’s cottage and adjacent slaughterhouse.
“It appears as though they are open for business.” Nate dismounted from his horse. “I imagine we’ll find Collins inside doing Groby’s work.”
“So soon,” Bridget said, also dismounting. “That seems a bit…”
Bridget didn’t need to finish her thought. The fact that the butcher shop was open did seem a bit suspect. That was for certain.
“I agree,” Nate said. He watched as Bridget reached for a small bundle tied to her saddle. “What’s that?”
“Biscuits for the children. I had Cook make them. I don’t want any ill will toward Groby’s children. Whatever happened, it’s not their fault.”
Nate smiled. Bridget had a good heart. After everything she’d been through with her papa and the murders last summer, she never wallowed in self-pity or lost her ability to think of others and their suffering.
“That’s a lovely gesture.” He nodded at the bundle. “Hopefully it will help.”
They entered the slaughterhouse and, as expected, found Collins donning the butcher’s apron. Mrs. Groby worked diligently alongside him, wielding her butcher’s knife quite expertly.
Mrs. Groby looked up from her work. “Miss De Lacey. Mr. Squires.” She put down her knife and wiped her bloodied hands on a cloth hanging from her waistband.
“I’m surprised to see you here. If you’re worried about your meat order, you needn’t be.
Mr. Collins kindly offered to help me fulfill our obligations. ”
“How noble of him,” Nate said, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “I’ve just come from speaking with your husband.” Nate let that information hang in the foul air of the slaughterhouse.
“Then, the magistrate allowed you in to see him. I wasn’t sure—”
“Did you ask?” Nate said. “I’m certain the magistrate wouldn’t begrudge a wife from visiting her husband.”
“I was going to…later today. But as you can see, I have my hands full here. Somebody has to do the work. Unless, of course, you wish to withdraw your business and find a new butcher as so many of our ‘friends’ and neighbors have done.” She dropped her gaze.
Nate swallowed. He couldn’t fault the woman for wanting to survive and support her family.
“No, of course not.”
“We just came to tell you that Mr. Groby is well—” Bridget paused—“at least under the circumstances.” She held out the bundle. “And to give you these biscuits for the children. I had Cook bake them fresh this morning.”
“That’s kind of you.” Mrs. Groby took the bundle. “The children are both down for naps, and they’ll be wanting a little something when they wake. Why don’t you come in for some tea? I think Mr. Collins and I could use a small break, too.”
“That would be lovely,” Bridget said.
Nate smiled to himself. Bridget had such a way with people. Despite the inward anxieties she suffered from, she was always able to put others at ease.
Once inside the comfortable cottage, Nate and Bridget sat on the settee in the front parlor with Collins while Mrs. Groby prepared tea.
“You’ve only been here a few months, haven’t you, Mr. Collins?” Nate took the opportunity to ask the man a few questions. “What made you decide to come to Westmorland?”
“Indeed, I’ve only been in Westmorland for a few months, but I’m from York. That’s not too far away. One day, I picked up Mr. Wordsworth’s guidebook and that lured me here.”
“Are you also a poet?” Bridget asked.
“No. I’m only a farmer and a bit of a wanderer.”
A farmer? The man doesn’t sound like a farmer. He’s educated, and he can read. Nate was about to ask Collins more when Mrs. Groby’s young son wandered into the room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“Just in time for your tea,” Mrs. Groby said as she entered the front parlor and placed the tea tray on the table. The child ran to his mother. She embraced him. “Where’s Charlotte? Still asleep?” The child nodded, and his mother guided him to his seat.
But it wasn’t the child that interested Nate.
It was Collins. He saw a change in the man’s face as he looked at Mrs. Groby’s little boy.
He saw the softening of his eyes and the corners of his mouth turn up slightly as he reached out and ruffled the child’s blond hair.
He saw exactly what he felt when he looked at his own little boy, Henry.
It was the look of unconditional love. It was a look a father would give a son.
*
Bridget could see something was bothering Nate. He’d grown very quiet once the children had woken up. She’d seen him watching young Edmund closely, and she knew immediately why. He was thinking of Henry.
Guilt gnawed at her stomach. She should have told Nate about Henry’s arrival as soon as she met him on the road as planned.
That was the reason she’d abandoned the croquet game and rushed out of the villa, only stopping to drop Bijou off in the kitchen where Cook had insisted she take the biscuits “afore they grew hard and brittle.” But she’d become sidetracked by the visit to Mrs. Groby.
She’d planned to go anyway, and after Nate had told her what he’d learned about Mr. Collins, it seemed better that they went together.
Still, now was as good a time as any to tell him.
She had no intention of allowing Lady Luxton to blindside Nate as the manipulative woman had obviously planned.
She couldn’t imagine the shock he’d experience upon seeing Henry playing on the lawn, particularly after Lady Luxton had sworn never to let him see the child again.
He’d mourned for Henry these past eight months, and Bridget had ached for him.
She knew the unimaginable agony of loss.
Nate would be delighted to see his son again, but he needed to be prepared for it.
He needed to be in control of his emotions, or Lady Luxton would rule them.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Nate said as they mounted their horses.
“Pardon?” Bridget asked, startled.
Nate’s gelding trotted forward, and she pressed her calf against her mare’s side to make her horse catch up with his.
“The little boy.” Nate slowed his horse as she came up beside him. “He’s the same age as Henry.”
“Edmund? Yes. He’s three.” Bridget’s heartbeat accelerated. Why had she waited? It had been selfish of her. “Can we stop a moment? There’s something I need to—”
“It’s his child.” Nate interrupted. “The boy.”
“Sorry?” Bridget said, confused.
“You saw the way Collins looked at the boy, didn’t you?”
“I…are you talking about Mrs. Groby’s son?”
“Of course? Who else would I be talking about?” He paused. “I thought you noticed it too.”
“Noticed what, exactly?”
“The way Collins doted on the boy.”
“He seemed very kind to the children, especially Edmund.”
“You’re not hearing me. What I’m saying is I don’t believe Collins and Mrs. Groby to be recent friends. I believe they’ve known each other for a while—more than three years, I’d say.”
“Three years,” she repeated, finally realizing what Nate was talking about. “Then…you believe that Collins is Edmund Groby’s father?”
“I’m certain of it.”
“But how…how can you be certain?”
“I told you. I saw the way he looked at the boy, and…well, a father knows these things. His love for the boy was transparent. I thought you saw it too.”