Chapter 18
Eighteen
Rafe
“A circus?” Captain Huntley asked as Rafe served him his house-made ale.
The captain rarely stopped at the pub when he had Lady Elsa’s fine cooking at the manor. But he'd apparently been out riding with the gentlemen, and they enjoyed good company. That's what Rafe wanted to provide—good food, good ale, and good company.
Not the grisly details of murder. Although gossip did draw folk to hear the latest. Rafe didn't believe Hunt would appreciate the gossip he had to impart though.
“I rode out with Damien after he heard about his new tenants. Not exactly a circus, sir.” Rafe did his best to bite back his grin, recalling Damien's reaction to his guests. They'd had to depart quickly to hide their chortles after their initial shock.
After the exigencies of war, Rafe had learned not to judge how people chose to live. As a sophisticated, well-traveled, educated gentleman, and a lawyer, Damien had seen everything and knew better than to judge by appearance, as well.
But imagining the reaction of a village of uneducated rural folk, folk with no experience beyond the limited confines of dull Gravesyde, to the.
. . charismatic troupe. . . they’d both bent double with laughter as they rode back.
It was a miracle they hadn’t fallen off their horses. A circus, indeed.
But now Rafe would have to bear the brunt of his neighbors’ ignorance. Charismatic had been Damien’s choice of word. Rafe would have to look it up later. He’d choose flamboyant. Others might use more condemnatory epithets. He really did need to inform Hunt.
Lt. Jack de Sackville, Lady Elsa’s husband and the former soldier who had lured Rafe and Fletch to Gravesyde, set down his mug. “Lavender described fellows in clown clothes. What else besides a circus?”
Rafe simply did not possess the words. He needed smooth-talking Damien here. “Miss Marlowe has never been to Town, sir. Jacques’ friend manages a theater troupe, but not Shakespearian theater, if you catch my drift.”
Having finished installing hooks in the shop ceiling for the ladies, Upton, the curate, had joined the gentlemen.
Educated at Oxford, he was a little more worldly than his flock.
“A theater that dresses in. . . eccentric garb? Are they gentlemen who like to, let us say, dress up? I have seen a group like that. The show was quite hilarious but more than a little vulgar.”
Amazed that a curate might risk arrest to broaden his education, Rafe nodded hesitantly. “I’ve not seen Shakespeare and can’t say. I had no notion such theatricals exist. Meeting them, though, they were quite funny, in a world-weary sort of way.”
“Man-milliners?” Hunt asked incredulously, finally understanding. “Jacques has invited a troupe of queer-street players to rehearse a show that will have everyone arrested if seen in public?”
Well, the captain might be American, but he wasn’t ignorant.
“There might be some women among them.” Rafe had tried hard not to stare, so he couldn’t be certain.
Upton began to chuckle. Jack stared at Rafe as if he’d blown off the top of his head. Hunt snorted and drank his ale.
“The women will want to watch them rehearse,” the curate warned, not trying to hide his amusement. “You know they will.”
“May the saints in heaven preserve us,” the captain muttered, evidently thinking about his ever-curious wife.
Minerva, the curate’s wife, was even nosier. Rafe wasn’t certain about Verity. She loved books and had a strong interest in everything. She’d lived in London, but she’d been very sheltered.
“I don’t have to arrest them, do I?” Rafe asked anxiously. That was his main concern. Homosexuality was illegal everywhere he knew. Damien’s valet dressed like a gentleman and was discreet. His friends. . . not so much.
“Men played all the female roles in Shakespeare’s time,” Jack observed with false gravity. “We’ll just call them historical actors.”
Hunt nearly choked on his ale. The curate lifted his mug in toast. “Amen. If they aren’t killing people, I see no harm.”
Right there and then, Rafe decided he’d settled in the right place at the right time, with people who knew what was important and what was not. What happened behind closed doors was no one’s business but their own—unless people were harmed. Men in pink hose hurt no one.
Brutes who threatened women or shoved them down stairs. . . Those were the villains Rafe wanted to hunt down and lock up.
“Well, if Hugh Morgan has been hiding in that great barn of a Hall, he won’t last long with half a dozen people running about, peering into everything.” Rafe poured himself a mug of ale. “He has to be stealing his food somewhere, but no one is admitting to it.”
“Elsa says there’s nothing missing in her kitchen,” Jack offered. “She has so many people in there these days, he’d never sneak past them.”
“No one has touched our pantry either.” Rafe sipped thoughtfully. “I’ll need to ask Oswald at the mercantile. He keeps cheeses and pickles and such. Although I’d think he’d come complaining to me if he suspected thieves.”
“His wife’s sickly,” Hunt said. “He’s home with her and has his young nephew at the desk. Better check his locks.”
Oswald was the postmaster as well as owner of the mercantile. The ladies at the manor wrote a lot of letters and visited him regularly. They knew the latest gossip better than Rafe.
“I’ll do that. I’m still trying to find out where the mules from the feed cart are, although I suppose wasp stings will be gone by now.” Rafe washed a mug and polished it. “I can’t see how Hugh could have sent those animals down the drive, but it seems mighty suspicious.”
Jack held up his mug for more. “The driver’s place is out near mine.
I had one of my lads go over and offer to fix his wheel.
He took a look at the animals while he was there.
Said it wasn’t wasp stings, no welt. But there are two small nicks, he called them, as if they’d been hit by stones.
Given how they dragged the cart, they might have thrown up stones while they were running. ”
Maybe he should simply stand by his bar and collect information. Rafe liked that notion, if he could persuade everyone in town to stop by when he needed them.
Verity arrived bearing a tray of the captain’s American crackers topped with bits of ham and cheese, along with a jar of pickled beets. She had to have sent up to the manor kitchen for those crackers. Rafe hadn’t learned to bake them. Yet.
“One of you might run up to the manor to talk with the boys,” his wife said as she set down the tray.
“It’s Mr. Birdwhistle’s day off and he has gone into town.
Oliver and Davy have evidently taken this opportunity to make a pea-shooter.
One of the stable lads told me they’re out behind the barn, practicing on fence posts. ”
“What on earth gave them the notion to make a pea-shooter?” Hunt asked incredulously, getting up from the stool he’d appropriated to rest his leg. Oliver was his wife’s nephew. The captain departed in haste, carrying a handful of crackers.
“Inventive lads.” Upton wrinkled his brow thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose they read about such things?”
“Not in mathematical books. But boys will be boys, and that pair is inventive.” Jack sipped his ale with a frown.
Rafe might look big and dumb, but he followed their thoughts all too well. “I’d better go up and ask where they found pea-shooters.” With a sigh, he set down his mug. It had been enjoyable playing host for a little while.
Crossing the lobby, he met Henri Lavigne entering with a crate of old clothes. “Are you starting a shop in here too?”
Always cheerful, the tavern owner beamed. “I’m thinking of it. Do you have any spare rooms?”
Rafe snorted and deviated from his task to lead him down the hall to the ladies’ parlor. “Do I have spare rooms? I have almost nothing else but spare rooms. But the ladies and the pub have taken the best windows.”
He opened the door to a room next to the shop. “From the stink in here, this must have been the gentlemen’s smoking room. There’s a window, but the frame is swollen shut, so we can’t air it out.”
Henri stepped in, glanced at the crooked window, wrinkled his nose, and crossed the hall to the back rooms. They overlooked the stable and had glazed windows only large enough to allow in light.
“Windows might not matter so much if I am nearby, where shoppers are drawn in by Lavender’s wares. They might also peer into mine.”
Hearing their voices, Kate appeared in the doorway and exclaimed over Henri’s box. “Children’s clothes, I hope?”
“As ordered. If Rafe doesn’t mind, I’ll leave them here so as not to be in your way. Go through them, see if anything appeals. I am here on a separate mission.” Henri set the box down.
Distracted from his pea-shooter task, Rafe watched the women excitedly emptying the box of children’s clothes.
His wards had an allowance from their wealthy trust fund for clothing, but he and Verity didn’t have time for traveling into town to find tailors.
A boy didn’t need fancy coats for their rural school.
But the pair were rapidly outgrowing the nice things they’d arrived with.
Kate happily snapped up a smart-looking boy’s coat missing a few buttons and gazed at Henri questioningly. “Your mission?”
“Dr. Walker says Patience and the baby are now well enough to attend chapel for a baptism. My beautiful wife would like a new bonnet, if possible.” Hands on hips, Henri looked like any proud father. . . and merchant. He did well with the styles he sold from his peddler’s cart.
“Oh, we can do that!” Lavender cried. “Mrs. Young, will you fetch that straw bonnet with the pretty blue lining and matching satin ribbons?”
The frail button-maker returned in an instant, holding up the requested chapeau. “Some posies on the band, perhaps? And I have some lovely blue buttons that exactly match the ribbons, if Mrs. Lavigne would like them to add to her gown or the infant’s.”
Rafe found a scholarly looking navy-blue coat that might fit Daniel and a fluffy pink frock for Daphne. “I should ask Verity. . .”
Mrs. Young handed the bonnet over to Henri to examine. “Let me take those back to the kitchen so your wife can measure them. I have to head home and start my mushroom soup. I’ll just go out the back way.”
Reminded of his duty, Rafe kept the outfits in hand. “No, go on home. I have to head up to the manor to discuss pea-shooters with little boys.”
“Pea-shooters?” Kate’s head jerked up from rummaging. “George used to use a pea-shooter to chase rabbits from the garden.”
Which meant Hugh Morgan very likely knew how to make them as well.