Chapter 11
GEORGE INGLEWOOD
There was a loud commotion coming out of the Sheep’s Head Tavern when Cecilia and James came upon it on their way home. In their typical communication style, with merely a glance at each other, they agreed to enter the tavern to see what was going on.
It was George Inglewood standing in a circle of men from the village, toasting his return with cheers and echoes of “Congratulations!” He was grinning and clinking mugs with each man in turn.
From what they could hear, the Branstokes concluded George had bought a round for all the people in the tavern.
James and Cecilia approached George as the crowd around George began to disperse. “Did you go with Captain Horsley to Devon?” James asked.
“That I did,” George said gleefully, “and the Captain let me take charge of the yacht on our return! I’ve been unofficially apprenticing under him for almost a year now, and this is the first time he’s let me captain the yacht.
He said I’m a natural! I’m chuffed. I haven’t been able to stop grinning since we docked. ”
“Let us add to the congratulations,” Cecilia enthused. “That does call for a toast.” She turned toward the bar. “Mr. Hopkins, an ale for my husband and me, please… Shall we sit?” Cecilia suggested when Mr. Hopkins slid the drinks over the bar to her. “I should like to hear about your trip.”
“Yes! Of course.” George followed James and Cecilia to a table in a corner away from the others in the tavern.
“Did you bring Miss Faith Jones back with you?” James asked.
“Yes. I left her at Mortlake Manor. She was an odd sort, didn’t know if she wanted to cry or be angry.”
“I can understand that,” Cecilia said. “The vicar said she wrote a letter to her mother to explain her anger and perhaps mend their relationship.”
“That was my understanding, and she was angry she didn’t have a chance to do that. But I didn’t get a chance to speak with her much, as I was sailing us back to Folkestone as swiftly as the winds would let us come.”
“You made good time,” James observed.
“Yes, we did. Captain Horsley told me the earl wanted us to make haste. Oh—the Duke of Monteith handed me a letter to give to you on our return here. Unfortunately, I put it in my portmanteau which I sent on home.”
“I’ll get it from you later,” James told him. “Thank you for bringing it.”
“That duke wasn’t happy about Miss Jones leaving with us. Said it was a bad time. She told him she would stay if he felt strongly about it. He got rather angry then, and told her she had to go.”
“Interesting,” James said, now curious about the letter George had. His cousin was not known for having a temper. Had he a tendre for Miss Jones?
A lovely smell came from the direction of the kitchen. “Ummm. I smell something enticing,” Cecilia said.
“Mrs. Hopkins’ pasties,” James told her.
“Are you hungry, Mr. Inglewood? My husband told me Mrs. Hopkins makes delicious pasties, and I am rather famished,” Cecilia said.
“I’ve been too chuffed to eat.”
“Well, you should eat. I’ll ask Hopkins if we might have three pasties,” Cecilia said, rising from the table.
James watched his wife walk away, then turned back to face George. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about your sister’s death. And the death of Mrs. Jones.”
“I heard about Mrs. Jones’ death,” he said. “I’ve been away from Mertonhaugh since two days after my sister’s death.”
“Your father wants to declare Mrs. Jones’ death a suicide. He believes she suffered guilt for your sister’s death and therefore ended her own life.”
George barked out a sharp laugh. “Not likely! My father likes to have truth match his created narrative. He has always been like that. Truth is not the truth unless it matches what he believes should be the truth,” he said bitterly.
“Why does he want Mrs. Jones’ death classified as suicide other than to see that she is buried in an unconsecrated grave?”
“Because she was one of the people who did not automatically agree with everything he said, nor did she do as he wished. To my mind, the worst thing that ever happened to my father was being named magistrate for the area. He asked for it, you know, and no one ran against him.”
“No, I didn’t know,” James said.
“No, I guess you wouldn’t,” George said remorsefully. He waved at Mr. Hopkins for another beer. “It was before you moved here.”
Cecilia came back to the table. “Mrs. Hopkins put a fresh batch of pasties in the oven. She’ll bring them over when they’re done.”
“You had an opportunity to meet Mrs. Hopkins, then?” James asked.
“Yes!” Cecilia said, grinning. “And she said she could arrange for someone else to help Mr. Hopkins so she could come to tea—after I convinced her she was welcome in our home. I’ll invite Elinor, too.”
“Good,” James said.
“Have you asked Mr. Inglewood about his sister yet?”
“No, we have been discussing Mrs. Jones and why his father wishes her death could be named a suicide.”
“What is it you want to know about my sister?” Mr. Inglewood asked.
“We know that she asked several people in the village to get her pennyroyal. Did she ask you as well?”
“Yes. I wasn’t going to get it for her. I saw no need for she had already received packets from several people. I told her that, too. Father insisted I get her more pennyroyal and told me to visit the apothecary in Folkestone to see if he had any. Worse luck, he did, and I gave it to my father.”
“Not to your sister directly?” Cecilia asked sharply.
He shook his head. “Father said to give it to him when I returned, and he’d see it was added to her canister. I asked him why she felt she had to have so much. He shrugged and said that was my sister’s way.”
George accepted another mug of beer from Mr. Hopkins. “I loved my sister, I did, but she was a hard person to love. She thought a great deal of herself, like she were the daughter of a king, not a squire. Everyone was to do as she asked. She and Father were much alike.”
“And that is probably why they did not get along,” Cecilia offered.
He nodded. “She was always trying to make him dance to her tune. That could be amusing at times and at others, depressing. Mother and I were spectators of their conflict.”
Mrs. Hopkins brought their pasties out to them, steam rising from the vents. Cecilia inhaled the aroma. “Smells heavenly, Mrs. Hopkins,” she said.
Mrs. Hopkins smiled. “Thank you, my lady. Would you like more ale?”
“I’ll take another ale,” James said.
“Do you have any lemonade?” Cecilia asked.
“I do. I keep some fresh for the ladies, should they come in.”
Cecilia winked at her. “Good idea. I’ll have some, please.”
“Right away, my lady.”
“What did your mother think about what your sister did?” James asked Mr. Inglewood when Mrs. Hopkins went to fetch their beer and lemonade.
“She was horrified! However, Father said to let her be. He had plans for her that he saw her stepping right into, like leading a horse to water. If Georgia had known that, she would have been enraged.”
“Did they always work at cross purposes to each other?” James asked.
“Always,” Mr. Inglewood said on a heavy sigh.
The three of them ate in silence for a moment.
“You know, my sister took sick in that gamekeeper’s cottage she liked,” George suddenly said.
“I was wondering,” Cecilia said quietly.
He nodded his head.
“What state was she in?” James asked.
“Mrs. Hester came and got me. By the time I got to the cottage, Georgia said her belly hurt so fiercely she couldn’t walk.
I carried her back to the house,” he said, memories firing across his face, “her losing her stomach on herself—and me. I got her up to her room, then Mother and Father came up and Father told me to go clean myself up and get out of the house. I came here,” he admitted, looking around at the familiar insides of the Sheep’s Head.
“How long did you stay here?” James asked.
“At least four hours. I didn’t leave until a servant came to tell me my sister had died.
I knew our father was behind it,” he said bitterly.
“I knew Georgia didn’t want to die or even take any pennyroyal concoction.
I suspected by her manner that she had already lost the child she carried. He wanted her dead.”
Cecilia gasped, this wasn’t something she had considered; however, it made a twisted form of sense. “Why would he want his own daughter’s death?”
“Because he couldn’t control her,” George said sadly.
“Does he control you?” Cecilia asked gently.
“He thinks he does, but I don’t throw my rebellious feelings in his face.”
“You do things like quietly learn to be a ship’s captain.”
He looked at her. “Yes. I tried to tell Georgia that she would do better being subtle, but there wasn’t a subtle bone in Georgia’s body.”
“No, I can see that,” Cecilia said sadly.
“Pardon, Sir James,” said their footman, Daniel, coming up to them in the tavern. He held out a cream-colored invitation. “Mr. Coggins felt this might be important and asked me to seek you out,” he said.
Cecilia took the invitation from him, her expression skewed into confusion. She slid a fingernail under the lightly sealed envelope. She pulled out a handwritten note to join the Mortlakes for dinner that night to welcome home both of the Jones daughters.
“Well,” said Cecilia as she handed the card to James, “I hope the vicar is invited.”
“I do as well,” he stated after reading the card. “Please excuse us, Mr. Inglewood. We need to return to our home to prepare for another engagement this evening. And allow me to say once again, congratulations with your success in your sailing.”
“Thank you, Sir James,” said Inglewood, not looking up at them, his sad attention fixed upon his beer.
“Do you suppose he’ll be all right?” Cecilia asked James softly as they left the tavern. “He’d been in such high spirits, and I’m afraid we dashed him to the ground. I hate to leave him like that.”
“I agree; however, I also deem it is time he acknowledges to himself—really acknowledges—what his father has done.”
“What do you mean?”