Chapter 8 #2
“Oh, everyone!” She swung one arm wildly in an arc to encompass her world.
“Gussie and Marty a’course as they were her special friends, the Viscount, Mr. Vernon, Jerome Abernathy—though he weren’t happy to get one of her notes on account he’s sweet on a girl in the next village—and the blacksmithy’s twins.
” She laughed again. “They were so jealous of each other. Miss Georgia told me—confidential-like—that she only sent notes to them on account it was fun to watch them get in fights with each other. That weren’t nice, I know, but they’d take off their shirts and git to fightin’ and wrestlin’, so it were fun to watch.
If I were older, I’d wish either Jebus or Josiah Cathcart would pay attention to me.
Coo…” she breathed out, a dreamy expression on her thirteen-year-old face.
Cecilia bit back a laugh at the expression. “How did you get the messages you were to deliver? Did you visit her every day?”
“No. She left ’em in the old henhouse.”
“Old henhouse?” Cecilia queried.
“Yes, by the abandoned cottage in the earl’s woods. The twins fixed the roof of the cottage, and Miss Georgia had us clean up the inside and that’s where we met.”
“I’d like to see this cottage,” Cecilia said. “Can you take me there?”
Summer shook her head. “Oh, no, milady. We made a pact… I’ve got to get back to the bakery,” she said suddenly, her face now twisted with worry.
She started to run toward the drive, then stopped and turned back.
She curtsied. “Goodbye, milady,” she said, then turned and ran down the drive toward the village.
Cecilia watched after her. Likely, the group still met at the old cottage.
She would have thought that with the loss of Miss Inglewood, the glue that had held them together, the group would have dissolved.
She turned back to the house and pondered how she would approach her conversation with Miss Augusta Sandiford when she delivered the fabric.
At Cecilia’s request, Cook set a cold collation in the breakfast parlor for a nuncheon that could be partaken whenever she and James were available.
It had been a practice started during their early days of the estate remodel two years ago.
Now they frequently continued the practice when they did not know when they might be available to eat.
They seldom came to nuncheon at the same time, so it was with surprise and delight that Cecilia entered the small parlor to find James ahead of her, choosing his food.
She went to his side and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
He obliged her efforts by bending his head down toward her, then he smiled at her.
“I have news for you,” he said.
“As I have for you,” Cecilia returned, “but you go first while I get my plate,” she said, looking across what the cook had spread out for them this day. It was never the same, depending on what Cook found in the larder that she thought they might enjoy.
“First, Romley told me Mrs. Jones’ horse did have painting supplies packed in a satchel slung over the pommel.”
“So she had gone to paint,” Cecilia said.
“It looks that way. And in another bit of news, Miss Hope Jones has come to Mertonhaugh for her mother’s services.”
“I’m so glad,” Cecilia returned. “Any word about her sister?”
“None as yet; however, I believe the earliest she could possibly arrive is this evening. But overall, I assume it depends on the tides and winds.”
Cecilia nodded. She set her plate down on the table. “Just lemonade for me,” she told Daniel as the attending footman poured a glass of wine for Sir James.
“I shall have to go to the rectory this afternoon to pay my respects,” she said as she cut her ham slice.
“She is not staying at the rectory,” James told her, one of his smirking smiles on his face.
“She’s not? Where is she staying? Certainly not at the tavern inn.”
“No. She is staying at Mortlake House.”
Cecilia’s eyes widened as she considered that. “Well, he is her father. But I’m sure that must hurt Mr. Jones’ heart.”
“I don’t know why she is staying there, so I caution you about making assumptions.”
“Yes, I know; however, if I am, you know what the biddies of Mertonhaugh will be saying. It is bad enough that talk insists Mrs. Jones committed suicide because she poisoned Miss Inglewood. I’ve only known Mrs. Jones for two years and know her to be a kind, strong woman who is strong in her beliefs and wouldn’t hurt anyone.
These people have known her for over twenty years, and yet the minute something unsavory is presented as a possibility, they rush to condemnation.
I do not understand it.” Cecilia’s voice had grown louder and more insistent as she talked. Sir James laid his hand atop hers.
“Easy, love,” he counseled in his even manner. “There is agency behind these gossips, I’m certain. We need to discover who and why. It will come out in due time. It always does with gossip such as this.”
“I certainly hope so.”
“But tell me of your news.”
“Summer Rutledge, the baker’s daughter, acted as Miss Inglewood’s courier to all her friends and swains in the village. She picked up the notes she was to deliver from an old henhouse.”
“An old henhouse!”
“Yes, and your reaction is the same as mine. An old henhouse associated with an abandoned cottage on the earl’s estate.”
“Hmm. Did you discover where this cottage is?”
“No, and the girl seemed sorry she had said as much as she did. Evidently, it is still in use by Miss Inglewood’s associates.”
“It should be fairly simple to discover its whereabouts after a discussion with the earl or his steward.”
“Yes, but I do not see the reason for haste to do so—unless you believe we might find pennyroyal there.”
“Possibly, however, I wouldn’t believe so. Their continued gatherings could be innocent gatherings to mourn another’s death.”
“True.”
“Did you discover who was in Miss Inglewood’s thrall?”
“Thrall? Interesting, descriptive word and possibly accurate,” Cecilia mused with a smile.
“Summer delivered messages to Martha Broadbank, Augusta Sandiform, the Cathcart twins, Mr. Vernon, and…Viscount Kendell.”
“The Viscount!”
“Yes. I do wonder about that relationship. A match between them is not out of the realm of acceptability.”
“And might be something her parents would encourage, so why the secret notes delivered by another child?”
“Because it was not a connection either took seriously? It was a youthful game?”
“Possibly; however, one would think that with the example of his father, the Viscount might steer away from such potential entanglements. I’ll have to see if I can’t arrange a discreet word with the viscount.”
“I thought you might. This afternoon, if the delivery wagon returns on time from London, I should receive some fabric for Hugh’s clothes.
Mrs. Sandiford said she would have her daughter deliver it.
I will try to speak to her about Miss Inglewood and try to learn more about this group and their meetings. ”
“I will go by the church today to see how McCurdy is getting on with his work. I’ll see if I can get a feeling on how the vicar is doing,” James said, setting his serviette down on the table.
“I hope to be back in time for tea. I missed my time with Hugh yesterday. I don’t want to miss two days in a row. ”
Cecilia grinned. “That would not be good, else he might forget you.”
“Minx,” James countered as he walked out of the room.
“Miss Sandiford! Over here!” Cecilia called out when she saw Miss Sandiford approach the servants’ entrance. She’d been enjoying her afternoon tea from the shady back terrace, hoping to see the young woman approach.
The package Augusta Sandiford carried looked unwieldy, more than Cecilia would have considered for five ells of fabric. The young woman looked burdened, her brown hair curling damply around the edges of her bonnet, a sheen on her forehead.
“Daniel,” Cecilia called out to the footman standing by the terrace door, “please take that package from Miss Sandiford and put it on the bench, then fetch her a glass of lemonade.”
Augusta Sandiford looked up, startled, when Daniel reached for the bundle she carried.
“Oh, yes. Thank you!” she managed and slowly released her clasp as she stared at the tall, blond footman.
She stood stock still, watching him. When he turned to go into the house to fetch the lemonade, she remembered herself and turned toward Cecilia, a blush staining her cheeks beyond what her exertions had given her.
Cecilia pressed her lips against a laugh.
Daniel often had that effect on young ladies, and Miss Sandiford was at the right age to take note of his attributes.
“Come sit here with me while we wait for Daniel to return,” she told the young woman.
“That was quite a large bundle you carried here. I can’t believe my five ells are that bulky. ”
“No, my lady,” Miss Sandiford said as she slid into the chair across from Cecilia.
“In the shipment we received yesterday was a beautiful, blue-figured heavy cotton that Mama swore would match your eyes. She sent it on with your order to see if you might be interested—no obligation, of course,” she hurriedly added.
Cecilia laughed. “Your mother is an astute businesswoman. I am interested in seeing the material. I haven’t had a new outfit in over a year, and though I have lost the weight of carrying Hugh, none of my old clothes quite fit me anymore as I should like.”