Chapter 8
MISS GEORGIA’S COTERIE
“You were gone a long while in the village today,” observed Sir James as he handed his wife her preprandial later that day as they gathered in the morning room to await dinner.
Cecilia nodded. “Yes. It was a most instructive day. Though we have lived here at Summerworth Park for the past two years, we have not taken the opportunity to get to know the village as we might.”
“I should say we have been rather busy,” James observed as he sat down on the couch with her. He casually crossed his legs and leaned back into the corner of the couch to make it easier to converse.
“I suppose so; however, even our staff is not as well-known in the village.”
James inclined his head in acknowledgement. “We tend to send our people directly to the market towns for what we need rather than use the services we might find in our own village.”
“I don’t imagine even our footmen or grooms visit the village pub regularly, as we have ale readily available here for free. We need to make a better effort to be part of the community.”
“There is merit in what you say. If we were more visible, it might make it easier for us to investigate what happened to Mrs. Jones.”
“Hmmm. Perhaps, however, I can use the village not knowing us to our advantage. The village thrives on gossip, as you may have found out.”
James snorted a laugh. “Yes. And people are quick to make up what they don’t know.”
“And they don’t know us. I saw a certain avarice in the baker’s attention to me to learn more about my history that she might be the first to let fall of it to others. I might use that desire to my advantage.”
James frowned. “I don’t like the idea of you calling down gossip upon yourself.”
“Do not be concerned. I will not dwell on Mr. Waddley. I’m trying to decide when and to whom I should reveal my grandfather’s identity.”
James chuckled. “Depending on the folklore surrounding the Duke of Cheney, that could be to your disadvantage as well as advantage.”
“With the passing of time, his exploits have acquired a romantic patina.”
“If you say so.” He shook his head. “However, highwayman-to-duke tales have more grit, danger, and criminal aspects than romantic tales.”
“To some, he was the Robin Hood of his time.”
“If one didn’t acknowledge that the poor he shared with was himself,” James returned drily.
“Not totally,” Cecilia argued with a smile.
James tossed off the rest of his drink. “You know his stories far better than I.”
“Yes, and bringing a bit of my grandfather’s stories into conversations might be good.”
“So long as he and the duchess never journey here to visit.”
“Nonsense. He’d only laugh at whatever tales got back to him, thinking it all a great hum.”
James laughed. “I’ll not argue with you any longer. So what have you learned today?”
“Most seem to believe Mrs. Jones gave Georgia a fatal dose of pennyroyal and then committed suicide out of remorse. I have detected a kind of comfort with that solution,” she said, her brows furrowing as she recalled the manners of those she talked with.
“I concur; some have even taken to approaching the vicar saying they know that is what happened but they won’t argue against her having a shriven burial.
They have upset the vicar. As Mr. McCurdy is going to be doing repairs at the church, I have requested he intervene if others come to say these same words to the vicar. ”
“So ridiculous when we know the jury found Mrs. Jones’s death not to be suicide.” Cecilia huffed.
“The sense is that the magistrate has painted himself into a corner with his insistence that Georgia died of natural causes, yet he believes Mrs. Jones culpable. He could be part of the rumors flying through the village.”
Cecilia’s brows rose. “Even when it makes him a liar.”
“Even so,” James said.
Cecilia nodded. She held out her small glass to James for a refill. He rose to grab the decanter from the sideboard and refilled their glasses. When he had seated himself again, she continued.
“Miss Inglewood was more egalitarian in her friendships than her family would have her be. She was close friends with Augusta Sandiford, the drygoods daughter, and Martha Broadbank. And she let Summer Rutledge trail along with them because she could use her to run errands for her. For some reason that I do not know yet, Mrs. Rutledge was particularly irate at discovering Summer was friends with Miss Inglewood. I was, for a time, quite fearful for Summer.”
“You think her mother might have beaten her?” James asked.
“Yes. I have a plan to ask Mrs. Rutledge for more of the baby biscuits for Hugh and some sweet rolls for us. It is my understanding that Summer does her deliveries, which is probably how she began to do errands for Miss Inglewood.”
“You intend to befriend the girl?”
“If I can. I also have Augusta Sandiford coming tomorrow to deliver fabric for new clothes for Hugh. I will use that opportunity to get to know her better as well. I think the young people in the village know more about Miss Inglewood than her parents or anyone else. I’m interested to learn if the smith’s boys dangled after Miss Inglewood as well.
Being twins, there could have been a rivalry between them for Miss Inglewood’s affections. ”
“I wonder if either of them might have been the father of her child.”
Cecilia shrugged. “It’s possible. I will know more after talking with Summer and Miss Broadbank.”
“Excuse me, Sir James, Lady Branstoke, dinner is served,” announced Coggins from the doorway.
“Thank you,” Sir James said. He rose to his feet and extended his hand toward his wife. “My dear, let’s put more conjecture on this mystery aside so we might enjoy a quiet dinner together.”
Cecilia smiled up at her husband as he drew her up and tucked her arm in his. “It will be my delight,” she said, with a wanton look in her eyes.
Sir James laughed.
The next morning, the youngest scullery maid crept into the morning room.
“Pardon, milady, Cook sent me to tell you that Miss Rutledge is in the kitchen with the bakery items you requested,” the little maid said.
She looked wide-eyed all around her as she spoke, so seldom did she leave the kitchen domain.
“Cook said you wished to speak to her when she came today?”
“Yes,” Cecilia said, setting aside the London newspaper she’d been reading, and rose from the couch in the morning room. “I’ll be there directly,” she told the young woman.
She grabbed her shawl from the couch and wrapped it around her, then followed the maid to the kitchen, where she found Summer Rutledge standing by the heavy wood prep table, enjoying a mug of lemonade.
The young girl thrust the mug toward the cook, a look of fear in her eyes when she saw Cecilia approaching.
“Finish your drink, dearie,” the cook told her, handing the mug back to her.
“But…” began the girl, looking between the cook and Lady Branstoke.
“Please, finish your drink,” Cecilia told her.
“That’s a dusty walk from the bakery to Summerworth Park.
You deserve to refresh yourself.” Cecilia watched as the young girl looked again uncertainly between her and the cook, then took the mug back and gulped it down. Cecilia laughed. “Did you like it?”
Summer nodded as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Yes, milady, and thankee, milady,” she said, bobbing two quick curtsies with her answer.
“I’d like to talk with you more about the unfortunate Miss Inglewood. Come, let’s go outside to the garden to talk. You can bring your basket with you. I promise not to take up too much of your time so your mother will not fuss,” she said with a smile to the young girl.
“I never met Miss Inglewood,” Cecilia told her as they entered the garden. “It appeared yesterday that you knew her quite well. Can you tell me about her?”
“Oh, milady, she were so nice and kind to me always—except when I lost one of her messages.” Her brow furrowed. “But that’s to be expected, right?” She looked up at Cecilia like a puppy that knew it had done wrong.
“What happened?”
“I had a note to take to Mr. Vernon.”
“The brewer?” Cecilia asked.
“Yes’m. She cuffed me good when I told her, but after she were so nice and acted as if nothing had happened.”
“Did she apologize?” Cecilia asked.
“Oh, no, milady. It were my mistake. I deserved it. But she didn’t bear no grudge.”
Cecilia compressed her lips together. She had plenty to say about Miss Inglewood’s behavior and about what she’d witnessed at the bakery yesterday; however, she knew she would serve the poor girl best by simply listening to her. Time later for taking all parties to task.
“The very next day, she gave me a straw bonnet she didn’t want anymore. I fixed it up a bit, and now I wear it to church on Sunday. Even my mother likes it—even if it did come from Miss Georgia.”
“Your mother did not like Miss Inglewood.”
“No. Said she needed to keep with her own kind. Said no good came of the classes mixing like they be friends when the Lord knew they never could be. That only brought about hurt.”
“It sounds like your mother might have spoken from the place of some experience,” Cecilia observed.
Summer shrugged. “Miss Georgia, she was friends with all of us in the village. It weren’t like there were others of her sort around except for the Viscount, and he’s old and a bit stuffy.”
“Old?” countered Cecilia in surprise.
“He don’t acknowledge none of us, like we don’t exist. –La!” she said, laughing. “You should have seen his face when he realized I was trying to give him a message from Miss Georgia. I had the durndest time getting his attention so I could give him the note.”
“Who did you take notes to?” Cecilia asked.