Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Maisy was so tight-lipped as she helped Georgie dress the next morning that she knew something was wrong. It didn’t help that rain clattered against the windows as if trying to get in. Very likely she would have no opportunity to see Hugh today.
But she could still see to matters in her own house.
Georgie tucked her handkerchief in her sleeve and turned to the maid just as Maisy reached for the door to the room as if fleeing.
“What’s happened, Maisy?”
She froze, but she addressed the door panel. “That’s not for me to say, Your Grace.”
Anastasia, who had followed the maid to the door, gave a yip and turned in an agitated circle. Georgie strolled up to her and patted her on the head.
“Even Anastasia is concerned,” she pointed out to the maid. “Please, let me help.”
Maisy sighed and turned, but she kept her gaze down. “Mr. Kinsle thinks he knows the name of the thief who’s been stealing from the area.”
And Maisy clearly didn’t believe him. Georgie had never heard the maid call her husband by his last name, even before he’d been made the butler.
“Who?” Georgie asked.
Maisy’s head came up, and her chin thrust out. “Morrigan, but I promise you, Your Grace, that that is a mistake.”
“Of course it’s a mistake,” Georgie said, frowning. “Morrigan is a treasure. She’d never steal from us. She certainly never stole from the vicarage or the village.”
Maisy puffed out a sigh. “Just so. I should have known you’d take her side.” She bit her lip and dropped a curtsey. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace. I meant I’m glad to see someone else willing to stand up for her.”
Georgie nodded at the door. “Where is she?”
“Packing her things,” the maid admitted.
Georgie drew herself up. “His Grace hasn’t gone so far as to discharge her!”
“No,” Maisy said. “She quit before he could.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Maisy must have heard the determination in Georgie’s voice, for the maid stepped aside, and Georgie swept past her into the corridor. Voices echoed from the breakfast room a few doors down, but none of them belonged to Max. She turned to the maid.
“Where is His Grace this morning?”
Maisy edged around her even as Anastasia trotted into the corridor. “In the library, last time I saw him.”
Georgie headed in that direction, her pet keeping pace.
Max was at the desk, frowning at a letter in his hand as she entered the library. He set down the parchment and rose to smile at her. “Good morning, Georgie.” His smile faded. “What’s wrong?”
Georgie marched up to him. “Someone appears to have accused Morrigan of stealing. I won’t believe it.”
He stuck out his lower lip. “It wouldn’t be the first time she was accused of being a thief.”
Georgie blinked. “What?”
He motioned her into the chair across from him, then took his seat again.
“She is unaware I know the story, but I always look into those who will be serving in this house. Morrigan was discharged from her previous position because her employer claimed she had stolen from the house. The master of the house attempted liberties, you see. Only when Morrigan roundly refused him was she suddenly discovered to be a thief. His wife sacked her without reference.”
“I see.” Georgie thought she saw all too well. “So the fellow got his revenge for her refusal. That doesn’t make her a thief.”
“I came to the same conclusion,” Max assured her. “Now, however, I can only wonder. She’s given you good service?”
“Excellent service.” Georgie bent and ran a hand down Anastasia’s back as the pug stood beside her chair. “Anastasia dotes on her.”
The pug obligingly yipped her agreement.
Max smiled. “Well, who are we to doubt Anastasia’s opinion?”
“Precisely.” Georgie nodded. “Dogs understand people, sometimes better than we do. I have been told that some cats have a similar ability.”
He chuckled. “Yes, I can’t tell you how many people suggested I see Mrs. Mayes about a wife when I was elevated to the title. It seems her cat Fortune matched the Duke of Wey and his charming wife.”
“Fortune matched the Marquess of Kendall as well,” Georgie remembered. “His wife supports the orphanage where I volunteered. Delightful people.” She shook herself. “But we are getting off the topic. What do you intend to do about Morrigan? I understand she’s served notice.”
A bang came from outside. Georgie started, and Max frowned out the window.
She’d been so concerned about Morrigan she hadn’t realized the furious rain had come with an equally furious wind.
Already the flowers were bending, the bushes shaking.
One of the chairs at the table on the terrace had fallen onto the flagstones.
That must have been the noise they’d heard.
“It seems a storm is brewing,” Max mused. “I suggest we ask Morrigan to stay until the roads are safe for travel. You might also speak to Tom Bailey. He may know more about the situation.”
Georgie rose, forcing him to his feet as well. “You can be sure I will. Thank you, Max. I can always count on you to see things clearly.”
She and Anastasia retreated to the breakfast room for fortification. Georgie was pleased to find the table empty and Bailey himself on duty at the sideboard.
“May I fill you a plate, Your Grace?” he asked, white gloves held at the ready. Anastasia waited at his feet, gazing up at him.
Georgie sat at the table. “A cup of chocolate, if you please. And toast with some of Cook’s lovely apricot jam.” She patted her skirts, and Anastasia reluctantly trotted over to join her.
As the footman busied himself, Georgie studied him. Were his movements stiff? Surely pouring a cup of hot chocolate did not warrant that frown. He was worried too.
He set down the cup and plate with its golden toast and pot of jam, his face averted, then stepped back.
“Maisy mentioned that Morrigan is leaving us,” Georgie said, applying herself to spreading the jam over the toast. Anastasia’s tail swept across the carpet hopefully.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Could that voice be any cooler? “Do you know why?”
“You’d have to ask her, Your Grace.”
It turns out it could. “I intend to, but I asked you first, and I am a little surprised by your belligerence, sir. I was under the impression that you liked her.”
She glanced up to find his jaw working. He met her gaze, and, for the first time since she’d known him, those broad shoulders slumped.
“I love her, Your Grace,” he said, voice now rough. “I had hoped to ask her to marry me. But I muffed it.”
Georgie set down her toast. “How?”
She truly had no right to know, but Bailey seemed to need a willing ear.
He drew in a deep breath that made the silver buttons on his livery wink in the light.
“I didn’t rally to her side fast enough, I suppose.
She seemed to think I doubted her. I never did.
I just wanted to know why someone would try to blame her. ”
“A good question,” Georgie acknowledged. “But given what happened in London—I assume she told you about it?”
He nodded.
“Well, trust must be a little hard to come by,” she continued. “Since she is being blamed, the best thing we can do is find the real thief. Show her you love her and believe in her.”
The words seem to echo in the little room. Bailey nodded again, but Georgie could barely swallow her sip of chocolate.
Show that you love and believe. That was very good advice. She truly ought to take it too.
* * *
Hugh knelt at the railing before the sanctuary, head bowed and hands clasped.
“Please, Lord, help me to understand my parishioners and neighbors. Help me to know what they need from me and how I can serve them most faithfully so that they turn not to me but to the One who called me.”
The windows rattled as if in protest, and despite himself, he flinched. But that wasn’t God’s answer. Hugh knew better. God wasn’t in the wind or the quake. He was in the still small voice.
Hugh just had to listen.
Around him, the church building settled with the creaks and moans of the elderly after a life well lived.
A thump from the vicarage next door was likely Mrs. Hallet closing a cupboard.
He heard no voice inside him, but a peace stole over him, easing the burden on his shoulders, strengthening his hands for the work ahead.
Thank you, Lord.
The door behind him opened with a click.
“I’ll be in shortly, Mrs. Hallet,” he called without turning.
“I’d wait in the sitting room,” the Duke of Tyneham offered, “but the note sounded urgent.”
Hugh scrambled to his feet. “Your Grace! Please, join me. But I’m not sure what note you mean.”
“I sent it.” The voice was small and tight.
Sally Bailey slipped from the shadows near the door to the churchyard.
She eased down the aisle, face a white oval in the dim light, then held out both wrists in front of her red wool cloak.
“I’m your thief. I submit myself to the magistrate’s justice on Mr. Caddington’s witness. ”
Hugh stared at her, then looked to His Grace. A frown gathered on the duke’s brow.
“What have you stolen, Miss Bailey?” he asked, voice soft against the howl of the wind against the church.
She dropped her hands. “Things. From the shops, from the church.”
“From the manor?” he persisted.
She nodded, then bit her lower lip.
Mrs. Hallet had once mentioned providing a basket of food to the Baileys, but Hugh had never considered them destitute. No one here was. Mr. Wellman frequently shared the contents of the poor box with the next parish over, which had greater need.
“Are you hungry, Sally?” the duke asked. “Going without proper clothing?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“Lacking coal? Unable to get water from the well?”
“No.” Despair clouded her gaze. “I confessed. Can’t you just take me away?”
He regarded her, then glanced at Hugh. “Do you have an accurate accounting of what was stolen, Mr. Caddington?”
“Only from the village and the church, Your Grace,” Hugh admitted, mind whirling.
“And the total in pounds sterling?”