Chapter Ten
“What happened to you?” Fosterson asked, as Piers strolled into the dining room.
The young doctor had made his appearance only a couple of minutes earlier, looking to April his usual, amiable self. He was clearly wide awake and observant once more, for he immediately noticed the cut on Piers’s chin.
“A brave tussle with a flying chamber pot, which now lies dead on the battlefield,” Piers replied. “And thereby hangs a very odd tale which solves a few of our mysteries.”
Luncheon had been set out as a buffet on the sideboard, and everyone was helping themselves from the light but appetizing spread. It meant there were no servants in the room, but April, hanging back a little, noticed the several sharp glances cast at Piers from various points in the room.
These were Piers’s friends, and she didn’t want any of them to be guilty. On the other hand, they were little more than strangers to her, and she didn’t have anything like the same trust in them that he did.
“Such as who attacked the poor footman?” Claudia asked, a hint of challenge in her voice, though April couldn’t tell at whom it was aimed.
“Sadly, not yet,” Piers said, passing a plate to April, and drawing her gently toward the sideboard before him. “But we now know what happened to your reticule on its brief parting from you, Mrs. Hubb.”
“It eloped with the candlesticks?” Hale suggested.
“In the same company, certainly. We’ll tell you all about it when we sit down.”
April, whose stomach was rumbling so loudly she was sure everyone must hear it, filled her plate as quickly as she could. The professor himself held her chair for her, and Piers followed at the final place setting.
As though by some magical timing, a manservant entered with two wine bottles on a silver tray. April, absorbed in her own thoughts about their guests and how they would react to the latest news, barely noticed him until he poured wine into her glass.
“Stewart,” she said, pleased.
Too late, she recognized her mistake. She should not have acknowledged a servant, whether her own or anyone else’s. She should certainly not have greeted him like an old friend, even if he was.
Stewart inclined his head. “My lady.” He moved on to the professor.
Heat singed April’s cheeks. She did not look at anyone, although she imagined Claudia’s eyes upon her, amused because April’s crime was worse than a mere glance one could pretend not to have noticed.
Piers began to speak while Stewart was still in the room. With humour, he told the tale of their unexpected hostess in the locked wing of the house, her brief midnight raid and the explanation of the noises which somehow reached April’s bedchamber. Astonished, the others listened, agog.
“That’s a bit inhuman, isn’t it?” Mal said.
“I think so,” Piers replied. “The question is what we do about it.”
“Can we send her to her family in London?” Professor Algernon asked.
“The same people who abandoned her here?” Claudia said, and April immediately thought more of her.
“How would you feel about inviting her to join us when she wishes to?” Piers said. “We could unlock the doors on this floor to give her the freedom of the house, though I suspect for her own safety, we might have to keep doors to the outside locked when there’s no one with her.”
“What if she throws the crockery at us?” Hubb asked, not entirely seriously.
“Not our crockery,” Mal said, and won a round of laughter.
“Perhaps,” the professor suggested, “Fosterson should have a look at her?”
“If she’ll let me,” Fosterson said dubiously, “but I understand there is a family doctor on whose toes I am already stepping.”
“You heard about our visitor?” April said, interested particularly in who told him.
He nodded. “Looked in on our patient and the maids told me who had changed the dressing.”
“Is he improved any?” Piers asked.
“I would say he’s no worse,” Fosterson said. “Though I don’t like that he still hasn’t wakened. I’m hoping it’s just his brain healing itself in sleep, but he could as easily just slip away. His pulse is not strong.”
“The accident theory is unlikely,” Piers said, meeting the doctor’s gaze. “How strong would a person have to be to have inflicted such an injury? Could a woman have done it?”
“I say, surely not!” the professor exclaimed.
Fosterson shrugged helplessly. “Human strength varies. So does the thickness of skulls, and though I’ve dealt with them before, I’m no expert in this kind of injury. Perhaps I should consult with this other physician—Dr. Forbes, is it?”
His willingness to consult was a good sign to April. “I told him you might wish to. He seemed happy enough to share knowledge with you.”
“What about the magistrate?” Dr. Hale said uneasily. “If the fellow was assaulted, are we not obliged to tell him?”
“I thought I might call on him after luncheon,” Piers said.
“Hurry back, then,” Hale said. “A vital game of pall-mall will be under way, and you, Withy, are required.”
Hubb hooted. “For the losing side!”
“You should know,” Piers retorted.
As the conversation descended into bantering insults, April felt her suspicions and her anxiety ease.
These were good people, funny people, surely as worthy of Piers’s friendship as Haggs and Percy Austin, and Dr. Laine, and the others she already knew.
The guilt of any of them would hurt Piers badly, but she began to think it less likely. If still possible.
***
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH was easy enough to find. April could hear the ringing beat of his hammer as they walked their horses up the main street, and they simply followed the noise.
The rest of the village appeared to be quiet. It was a Sunday after all, even if the blacksmith was working. A few curtains twitched as they passed, and a couple of women at the church gate turned to gawp. Piers raised his hat to them, which seemed to cause a flurry of confusion.
As they neared the blacksmith’s shop, April tried to banish her vision of that rhythmic hammer striking Edward’s head.
And at first sight, the blacksmith certainly looked the brutish part.
Although as large and muscular as his son Harold, his whole being was much more focused, his face serious, scowling with the effort of his work, while sweat ran down his face, and his wild hair swung with his every controlled action.
But he stopped hammering as soon as he saw them in the doorway and laid his work aside.
“Sir, ma’am. What can I do for you?” He wiped his hands on his apron, walking toward them, his expression civil, though far from ingratiating.
“We just wanted a quick word, if you don’t mind,” Piers said.
“You’ll be his lordship up at Temper House,” the blacksmith said.
“Petteril,” Piers admitted. “And Lady Petteril. Mr. Jenson, I believe.”
“My Harold is giving satisfaction, I hope?” There was a shade of anxiety in the blacksmith’s tone, a little fierce, a little resigned, a father who knew and worried about his son’s deficiencies, at least as seen by other people.
“He is of considerable help and always polite,” April said quickly. “One cannot ask for more. I daresay you know there seems to have been a misunderstanding over staffing between us and Lady Temperley.”
“I can’t help you there,” Jenson said flatly. “I won’t have my Anne at that house, and so I told Mrs. Riley.”
“Because of Edward the footman,” Piers said. It wasn’t really a question, and he gave the blacksmith no time to answer before he continued. “Actually, it’s about Edward I wished to speak to you, confidentially, of course. My understanding is that he once courted your daughter.”
“Courted!” Jenson spat the word derisively.
“Led her on and promised marriage though he’s beneath her and got no means of keeping her.
Never let on he was courting several others at the same time.
Now who’s going to marry her? With no reputation and—” He broke off, pressing his lips together as though to keep the angry words inside him.
“A good man who loves her,” April said stoutly, and felt herself blushing as Jenson stared at her in surprise. “We understand your anger, of course,” she hurried on. “The thing is, someone has attacked Edward and injured him rather badly. He could die.”
“Good,” said the blacksmith. “Wish I’d done it myself. At least I’d have finished the job.”
“Does Harold feel the same way?” Piers asked innocently.
Jenson blinked. “Harold? He doesn’t really understand what happened. He just knows his sister’s feelings were hurt. He understands hurt feelings well enough, being teased all his life. He doesn’t fight, Harold, he cries. Like a child.”
April could hear his frustration, an old disappointment in a son who wouldn’t stand up for himself.
And yet, if he ever did, with the strength in him, Harold would be lethal.
She thought the blacksmith understood that, for he cast a quick glower at Piers, as though guessing the point of the conversation.
“May we speak to your daughter?” April asked.
Jenson’s scowl deepened. “Aye, you can speak. But it’ll make no difference. She won’t be going to that house, even if that Edward croaks. The master of that house is responsible for his servants.”
“Indeed he is,” Piers said seriously and Jenson, as though mollified, shouted, “Annie! Here, a moment!”
A young woman emerged from the cottage behind the forge.
April could see at once why Edward had been attracted.
She was certainly a remarkably pretty girl, with raven hair and clear skin, and quick, graceful movements, but to April’s surprise there was no trace of the bowed, regretful creature she had more than half expected.
Anne Jenson had refused to be broken by betrayal and humiliation.
Character and sheer vitality still lit up her face.
If there was a shade of defiance behind it, who could blame her?
“Lord and Lady Petteril from the big house,” Jenson growled. “They want to speak to you.”
He retreated back to his forge, leaving Anne gazing at them in some surprise.