Chapter 7 #2
Sarah made a face. “Babies make such a mess with those biscuits, leaving mushy bits everywhere.”
“I know; however, if it helps Hugh to get his teeth in, I won’t mind the extra cleaning he requires.”
“Just wait until he gets it in your hair and on yourself.”
Cecilia laughed. “I shall look forward to it!”
“Ugh!” Sarah returned.
There were two other village women in the bakery when they entered. They moved back to allow her immediate access to the baker; however, Cecilia waved them back into her position. “I just arrived. Please, go ahead. I need to look around and decide what I want,” she told them with a warm smile.
The women looked disconcerted; however, they did as she asked.
Cecilia saw loaves of bread on the shelves along the wall and different types of biscuits and muffins on the shelf in front of Mrs. Rutledge, the baker. A young girl of thirteen or fourteen years came out of the back with a large, wooden paddle laden with more loaves of bread for the shelves.
“The buns should be done now, too, Summer. Mustn’t let them burn.”
“No, Mama. I’ll get them straight away,” the young girl said, retreating to the back room with her paddle.
When the women before her had finished their purchases and turned to leave, Mrs. Rutledge reached out her hands toward Cecilia, motioning her closer. “Lady Branstoke! You should not have waited!”
Cecilia laughed as she shook her head in denial. “I was not always a titled Lady. For eight years I was married to a merchant. I am no better than anyone else.”
“Oh! And how is it you are now married to Sir James?” Mrs. Rutledge asked, her face bright with inquisitiveness.
Cecilia belatedly realized she should never have mentioned her first marriage, for Mrs. Rutledge was now on the hunt for information she could pass on to others.
“He died, and a year later, I met and married Sir James,” Cecilia said simply, hoping to divert more questions about her.
“Lady Aldrich told me you make some biscuits that are perfect for a teething baby. Do you have any today?”
“I have four left. They are about a week old; however, these biscuits last at least a month if kept away from bugs.”
“I should like to get one for my son, Hugh, to see how he takes to them.”
“Is he starting to fuss and drool?” Mrs. Rutledge asked.
“Yes.”
She nodded wisely. “How old is he now? Six months?”
“Almost. Mrs. Jones gave me a salve for his gums, which I am almost out of. I do need to find something else to help him.”
“Right shame about Mrs. Jones. Fallen down that cliff. —Didn’t you find her?”
“Sir James did.”
“Is it true she were still alive when he went down the cliff to her?” Mrs. Rutledge leaned forward across the sales counter to ask.
“Yes, though she passed soon after,” Cecilia told her.
“Did she say why she done it?”
Cecilia frowned. “Done it? Done what?”
“Why she kilt herself,” Mrs. Rutledge said, rocking back on her heels.
“Where did you get the idea she killed herself, Mrs. Rutledge? She did not kill herself; the inquest jury was unanimous at that.”
She shook her head. “They would say that with the vicar there. Everyone knows she gave that horrid potion to Miss Inglewood to rid herself of the babe she bore.”
Astonished at the depth of belief the baker held as to Mrs. Jones’ culpability, Cecilia’s mouth fell open as she placed her hands on her hips. She drew herself up, as if she could make her diminutive self taller.
“Mrs. Rutledge, I must protest. Mrs. Jones turned down her request for a potion and had none of the ingredients in her house. I am horrified at the gossip being spread to that effect.”
Mrs. Rutledge looked uncomfortable, her lower lip pouting forward. “But she did take her own life. Why would she do that if she were not guilty of something like killing Miss Inglewood?”
“Mrs. Rutledge,” Cecilia began again with a calmness she was far from feeling, “Mrs. Jones did not commit suicide. I saw her position down the cliff, and it was not the position of a person who has committed suicide,” she said emphatically.
“You must tell whoever is speaking these untruths to stop. A better topic for gossip would be to know who is trying to defame Mrs. Jones and what would be their reasons. Are they the ones who acquired the pennyroyal Miss Inglewood took?”
Mrs. Rutledge’s shoulders rolled back. Cecilia swore she could almost see the new possibilities for gossip shift through her mind.
Behind her, another villager entered the bakery shop. Cecilia recognized her as the stable owner’s wife, Mrs. Broadbank. “Did you say ‘pennyroyal’? Isn’t that a type of mint?” the woman asked.
Cecilia turned toward her. “I wouldn’t know about that,” she admitted. “However, pennyroyal can be highly poisonous.”
She scowled. “Poisonous? Are you certain?”
“Yes!” Cecilia returned. “It is one of those plants that can have healing properties, but has to be treated carefully, or it is a poison.”
Mrs. Broadbank frowned. “I shall have to tell my Marty.”
“And why is that?” Cecilia asked.
“She told me it was merely a mint, like one would make tea with.”
“Who is Marty?” Cecilia asked.
“My daughter, Martha,” Mrs. Broadbank said.
“Is she acquainted with Miss Inglewood?” Cecilia asked.
“She was, all the young people know each other, even if they don’t socialize together. I don’t believe she was a close friend of Miss Inglewood; her parents wouldn’t have allowed it.”
“Yes, she was,” said a small voice from almost behind Mrs. Rutledge. Summer came around her mother.
“How can you know that, Summer?” asked her mother.
“Because Marty, and Gussie, and Miss Georgia met once a week if the weather were nice to talk of boys and clothes and such. Sometimes they let me come, too. Georgia gave me this dress when it was too small for her,” Summer said, pulling the skirt of the dress out from behind her enveloping apron.
Mrs. Rutledge frowned. “I thought I told you to stay away from her. She was no better than she ought to be,” her mother reproached her.
“No, Mama,” Summer countered. “She was friendly and nice to everyone.”
Her mother laughed coarsely. “I’m sure she was.”
“She was nice to me. And I helped her, and that’s why she gave me this dress.”
“How did you help her?” her mother asked, her voice now low and her expression like a thunderstorm about to break.
Summer backed up a step, her face draining of color as she looked up at her mother. “Just…just little stuff. –Umm, like the time I found a handkerchief she lost once, and I washed it and pressed it before I gave it back to her. She was impressed with my attention to do that.”
Cecilia was certain the girl had done more than find a lost handkerchief, but her mother’s manner scared her from relating more. She wished she could talk to her without her mother around.
Cecilia purchased the baby biscuit and four sweet buns from Mrs. Rutledge, then she and Sarah left the bakery.
“Milady,” Sarah whispered after the door closed behind them, “I’ve never seen a person change so swiftly as that Mrs. Rutledge did from the nice, smiling lady to the angry-faced woman she became when she addressed her daughter.”
“I know. And by Summer’s expression, she’s seen that anger before. It frightened her. I hope she does not punish Summer for speaking up.”
“I didn’t get the feeling it was because she spoke; it was more because she talked about Miss Inglewood having friends and Summer doing favors for her.”
“This has been an interesting morning. Let’s go to the drygoods store to see about fabric for new infant gowns for Hugh and what they have to say about Miss Inglewood and Mrs. Jones there.” Cecilia said. “It seems everyone has an opinion.”
The drygoods store was busy, but not with shoppers looking at the different products that could be found in the store.
They stood in a queue before a clerk’s tall desk, where Mr. Sandiford—dressed like a city clerk in a neat brown suit and waistcoat—sat writing.
He took payments for what was immediately available in the store and wrote what must be ordered from larger market towns in a ledger book.
Mrs. Sandiford, speaking with one of the customers in the queue, broke off her conversation when she saw Cecilia enter the store. “Lady Branstoke, to what do we owe the pleasure of your commerce?” she declared.
Cecilia, looking around at the store’s merchandise, slowly brought her gaze to Mrs. Sandiford. “I beg your pardon if I stare at everything I see here in your store!” she said. “You seem to have a bit of everything.”
Mrs. Sandiford laughed indulgently. “We have a little of a lot.”
Cecilia looked at her quizzically.
“What I mean is, we do not carry many multiples of items. We prefer to show what we can get easily and take orders for what our customers want,” she explained.
“With the Folkestone, Canterbury, Maidstone, and London markets so close, we generally fill orders in less than two days. We do sell the merchandise we have on hand and immediately order replacements—or order what has become the newest trend.”
Cecilia nodded. “Wisely done.”
“It seems to work for us,” Mrs. Sandiford said, rocking back on her heels, while clasping her hands before her. “So what brings you here today?”
“Fabric for infant gowns,” Cecilia said. “Our son, Hugh, is rapidly outgrowing his newborn gowns.”
“And you’d like to make him new ones,” the woman said.
“Not me; a member of my staff has volunteered. If I tried to sew, I’d have the material all stained from blood due to pinpricks. Do you have any plain, light-colored muslin or lawn that we can consider?”
Mrs. Sandiford laughed. “Let’s see what we have left.”
She guided Cecilia and Sarah to a far wall where fabric lay folded.
She ran a finger up and down the shelves until she spotted a thin fold of white.
She pulled it out. “Och, I thought I’d found what you desire; however, this one has small embroidered flowers.
Not what I suspect you want for a baby boy. ”
Cecilia touched the cloth. “It is very pretty, and the weight is good, but you are correct. Not for my Hugh. You have nothing else?”
Mrs. Sandiford looked back at her shelves.
“Not at the moment. The plain fabric sells quickly. I am expecting twenty ells of white, pale-blue, and a cream-colored fabric, amongst other fabrics, late today when the local carter returns from his London pickups. I can set some aside for you if you tell me how much you want and tomorrow have Gussie bring it to you at the Park.”
“Who is Gussie?”
“Augusta—Gussie, as everyone addresses her—is our eldest daughter. She is over there,” Mrs. Sandiford said, pointing to a neatly dressed young woman wearing a blue dress and a pale gray full dress covering apron. She appeared to be assisting a bent old woman with getting an item off a shelf.
Perfect! Cecilia thought. To Mrs. Sandiford, she ticked off on her fingers what she would like in fabric.
“An infant’s dress doesn’t take much fabric.
I’d like an ell of pale blue, an ell of the cream you mentioned, and four ells of white—if taking that much won’t leave you too short for other customers and their orders. ”
Mrs. Sandiford shook her head. “It shan’t,” she assured Cecilia. “…Lady Branstoke,” she began tentatively, “might I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” Cecilia returned.
“Mrs. Jones,” she began, “did she suffer much?”
Her question surprised and pleased Cecilia. Hers was not a ghoulish rumor-mongering question.
“I’m afraid I can’t say with certainty; however, judging by the position I saw her in, and what my husband has told me—for he was next to her when she passed—I would have to say yes, she did.”
“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Sandiford softly, her expression shifting to sadness.
“I was afraid that would be the case. Thank you for being honest and not offering me a sugar-dusted answer.” She compressed her lips tightly together for a moment, then shook off the sadness.
“You know, there are those who believe she provided the pennyroyal tea, which undoubtedly killed Miss Inglewood—not that story of iliac passion,” she declared, standing straighter.
“Only one person ordered pennyroyal tea through us, and that was Mrs. Hester.”
“The housekeeper for the Inglewood family?”
“The very same, and naught but three days before the Inglewood girl died.”