Chapter 16
SUNDAY
During the Vicar’s church service on Sunday, Cecilia did not have to look toward the Inglewood pew box to know Squire Inglewood glared at her. She felt it.
James reached over to gently squeeze her hand.
She looked up at him and smiled. They expected a confrontation with the squire when the service ended.
The parish must have too, for people filled the pew boxes and crowded the standing room at the back of the church.
The attendance would have gratified the vicar if he hadn’t known why the crowd gathered, he told Cecilia and James before services began.
Cecilia felt guilty that the confrontation with Inglewood would occur on holy ground, a place of peace.
And she knew there would be a confrontation; it was in that glare and the set of his jaw.
Cecilia took in a deep breath and exhaled. Her shoulders relaxed as she returned her attention to Vicar Jones, where her attention should have been the entire time.
“I have good news to share,” the vicar was saying. “The Archbishop has approved the addition of a curate for our parish. Lord Mortlake and our bishop will begin the process of selection. In addition, Lord Mortlake will see a residence is constructed for our new curate.”
There was a murmur throughout the congregation at the news, taking the minds of all off the Inglewood rumors. Cecilia saw that as a good conclusion to the service, easing the tension she’d felt since she’d taken her seat in their box.
The vicar gave the final blessing and said, “Go in peace,” signaling the end of the service. The congregants hurried to leave the church; however, they did not leave the church property; they huddled in groups, whispering.
James and Cecilia exited with the Aldriches, stopping to shake the vicar’s hand. “Don’t worry so,” Cecilia said softly. “Everything will be fine.”
The vicar looked beyond them to where the Inglewoods followed. “I trust you are right. I place it in God’s hands.”
James and Cecilia walked away from the church entrance, stopping every few steps to answer queries about the rumors that had flooded the village.
“Sir James!” called out Inglewood, pushing his way through the people before him to catch up with the Branstokes. His wife and son hurried after him.
“I want my daughter’s diary,” he yelled, his face red. “You have no right to it!”
“Father,” George tried to intervene.
Inglewood shoved his son away. George stumbled and fell backward. “Stay out of this,” Inglewood growled.
Mr. Altman, the butcher, helped George to his feet.
“Give me that diary!” Inglewood demanded.
“I do not have it upon my person,” James said calmly.
Cecilia stepped closer to her husband. “Why do you want it?” Cecilia asked. “You have the diary she kept in her bedroom. You used to sneak into her room to read it.”
“I am her father!”
“And as her father, you had the right to inflict bruises on her?” Cecilia heard a sharp intake of breath from Lady Inglewood, her face hidden behind a veil, and more murmurs from those around them.
“She shamed the Inglewood name. She was a willful whore and deserved what happened to her.”
“Is that why you killed her?”
“I didn’t kill her, you stupid woman—”
“Easy, Inglewood,” James warned, his voice low, a drawn rapier.
“It was that bloody pennyroyal!”
“Your daughter wrote in her diary that she had emptied the canister of pennyroyal and replaced it with spearmint. She knew the apothecary in Maidstone had sold out his supply of pennyroyal, so you sent your son to Folkestone to buy more there. You put the pennyroyal in the canister. You ordered Mrs. Hester to brew the pennyroyal and take it to her in the old gamekeeper’s cottage while you waited in your garden for events to unfold. ”
The crowd of parishioners gathered tighter around them, their voices louder. Inglewood glanced at the growing crowd.
“Georgia had lost the child. She had no need of an abortifacient,” Cecilia continued, “but she encouraged her friends and family to buy pennyroyal for her. That was her drama, for she still hoped to convince the viscount to marry her.”
“It was never going to happen,” yelled Kendell from where he stood with the Earl and Countess of Mortlake. Lord Mortlake shushed him.
“After she died, you refused to let Dr. Patterson examine her body, and you somehow persuaded the coroner to pronounce her cause of death as iliac passion. You couldn’t let her death be pronounced suicide, for that would mar the Inglewood name.
You didn’t understand your daughter well.
Everyone who knew her knew she was not the sort to commit suicide. ”
“But Mrs. Jones knew,” James said, picking up the narrative with strong certainty. “She already knew of the bruises your daughter and your wife bore from your hand.”
“That is family business. That witch poked her nose where it didn’t belong.”
“She started asking questions, difficult questions about the past and present. People confessed to her as they would to her husband. What she learned angered her, and she confronted you.”
“She had no proof, and neither do you. What judge will lend credence to the written words of a mentally deranged young woman?”
“But Mrs. Jones kept pressing, didn’t she? Every time she saw you.”
Inglewood’s hands clenched at his sides.
“One day, you followed her as she went up on the downs to paint. You wanted to talk to her, threaten her, as you did others, to keep her mouth closed. You needed to do this away from a village of prying ears and easy gossip.”
“She refused to understand. She wouldn’t listen!”
“You grabbed her around her neck, didn’t you? That’s when her pin came off. What did it do? Scratch you, and you let her go, giving her time to run away from you. Unfortunately, she ran toward the cliff.”
“No! I wanted her to listen to me. But she kept ranting on about how I was responsible for my daughter’s death. She didn’t understand Georgia had to die!” He pulled a gun from his pocket.
Screams erupted. James pushed Cecilia aside.
George leaped for his father’s gun hand as he fired at the Branstokes, the bullet digging a path into the dirt.
Lady Inglewood flung herself at her husband.
In an instant, his expression changed from fury to surprise.
A heartbeat later, Lady Inglewood stepped back, her hand releasing the hilt of a large carving knife.
Blood spurted out of his side. Inglewood’s head turned slightly to look at her, then he crumbled to the ground.
Lady Inglewood stared at him, and fainted.
Dr. Patterson came forward to see to Inglewood, while George, at the vicar’s instruction, carried Lady Inglewood into the vicarage.
Cecilia hurried after them. She pumped water over a cloth she found in the kitchen, wrung it out, and went back to Lady Inglewood, who George had laid on the vicar’s sofa.
“Take off her hat and veil,” Cecilia directed George. Cecilia gasped when she looked at her, but quickly placed the cool cloth on her head. The squire’s wife had a black eye and a deep gash in her cheek.
George pointed to the gash. “That’s from my father’s signet ring,” he said flatly. “I don’t know how he caused the black eye.”
Cecilia looked at him, shocked, more for how he told her than what he told her.
She turned back to Lady Inglewood and dabbed the cloth across her brow and down her neck.
Lady Inglewood moaned as she roused from her faint.
She blinked her eyes. “Lady Branstoke?” she said weakly. “He didn’t shoot you?”
“No, he didn’t, thanks to you and your son,” she said gently.
“Good…good…” She closed her eyes again.
“Do you hurt anywhere?”
She smiled slightly and opened her eyes. “Other than my usual afflictions, no.” She struggled to sit up. Cecilia rushed to help her.
“Don’t try to stand; you need to sit here awhile. . . George, would you please bring over that pillow from the wing chair? We’ll put it behind her back to make her more comfortable.”
The vicar came in the door, followed by James.
“Is Lady Inglewood all right?” the vicar asked.
“I’m fine,” Lady Inglewood assured him from her seat on the sofa.
He crossed the room and took her hands in his. “Dr. Patterson does not know if Squire Inglewood will live. He thinks the knife nicked a liver artery.”
Lady Inglewood shrugged. “If I am arrested for murder, so be it.”
“You won’t be,” James said, coming forward, “no matter the outcome. You were acting in the defense of others.”
“I shudder to consider what you have suffered at the hands of that man,” Cecilia said.
“It has only been in the last five years that he has become obsessed with respect, dignity, and power. He twists around a slight or disagreement into displaying disrespect, and that makes him livid. Only perfect agreement and obedience are accepted, and occasionally, even that can be twisted. It was like he looked for us and others to disrespect him. Expected it.”
“But to hit you… How can you respect a man who does that?”
Lady Inglewood smiled slightly. “You learn.”
“Mother, if he lives, you will not be safe living with him, you know that, don’t you?” George said.
“Yes. But…I have a confession to make.”
They looked at her quizzically.
“I followed my husband when he followed Mrs. Jones up on the downs. I haven’t ridden a horse in years; however, I am a good rider. Better than Alfred.”
“Which is the reason you haven’t ridden in years,” James said.
She smiled. “Yes… I kept to the line of trees at the far left side of the meadow. It was beautiful up there. The golden hour before dusk, when everything is bathed in warm golden light. I understood why Mrs. Jones liked to paint up there at that time of day.
“I saw him grab her around her neck to choke her. You were correct in your supposition that the pin came loose. It glinted in the sun and caught his hand. He sharply jerked that hand away. That gave Mrs. Jones the opportunity to run away from him. He chased her, cornering her near the cliff. She tried to get away, but he laughed at her. Laughed! …And he pushed her. I heard her scream, then nothing. I didn’t consider that she might be alive.
I rode back to Inglewood Manor quickly so he wouldn’t know I had followed him. ”
“You saw him actually push her?” James clarified.
She nodded. “Strange, though, it appeared…slow and casual, and when she went down, he looked…satisfied.”
“I do not blame you for not coming forward before now,” the vicar told her. “But I don’t understand why he wanted to claim she committed suicide.”
“Even in death, he wanted to hurt her,” Cecilia said.
Lady Inglewood agreed.
The vicar sadly nodded.
“If you are feeling up to standing now, you should go home and rest,” Cecilia suggested.
“Yes, I’ll fetch the carriage,” George offered.
“Can you stand?” Cecilia asked.
“I think so.”
She started to get up, then noticed the blood on her gown. “Oh, dear.”
“Don’t let it worry you.”
“But the people outside?”
“All know what happened. Do not be embarrassed,” Cecilia said.
Cecilia and James helped Lady Inglewood to her feet and led her outside. James lifted her into their carriage.
“Thank you,” she murmured. Some people remained around the church, though many had gone home. Those who remained looked on her with sympathy.
James backed away.
“Oh! Sir James! Wait!” George said. He stuffed his hand in his pocket and pulled out a battered and creased letter. “I brought this with me to give you today and almost forgot!”
James took the letter from George Inglewood’s outstretched hand and returned to Cecilia’s side.
“The letter from your cousin?” Cecilia asked.
“It is his handwriting,” James said.
Cecilia nodded. “Did the morning go as you expected?” she asked, threading her arm in his. They turned toward their home.
“Except for the knife and the gun, yes,” he said.
“I never thought gossip could be useful in catching a criminal,” she said as they walked the short distance to Summerworth Park.
“In many ways, anti-climactic,” he said, his brow furrowing as he thought over the past week.
“Except for the knife and the gun,” she parroted back.
He laughed.