Chapter 8
Eight
Eleanor
“I’m not certain it is safe to stay in Gravesyde,” Andrew protested as he and Eleanor lingered over tea in the inn’s quiet pub that evening while the professor visited the manor. “Perhaps we ought to go to Bath, as Greybourne suggested.”
They’d appropriated the only chairs and table in the pub. All else were trestle tables with benches. Made of solid oak, the chairs were uncomfortable, as was this discussion, in Eleanor’s opinion.
She had steered her own independent course for years now, but the straits had been narrow. She finally had a glimpse of a wider world beyond gray city alleys, and she wasn’t eager to turn back.
“Miss Talbot says the village is looking for a tailor,” El murmured, not certain if the kitchen staff could hear. “The manor has a sewing manufactory for women, but no one to alter men’s clothing.”
Andrew pressed his temple. “I am not really a tailor, El. I only apprenticed for a while.”
“You altered clothes to fit me! And you can measure men, whereas ladies cannot. The inn has a shop down the hall where they sell second-hand goods, but they have no one to alter boys’ and men’s clothes. Is that something that might interest you?” El asked in concern.
“I brought my scissors and patterns and such, but I hadn’t thought of doing it professionally.” Andrew played with his teacup. “I enjoyed what little I’ve done. I’m good with my hands.”
“Then it’s a possibility to consider.” El had no notion what she would do in a village this small, but once Andrew had a solid position, she’d worry less. Not needing to walk distances was ideal for him.
She might even spread her wings and go elsewhere once she knew he was happy. Best not to plan too far ahead when they didn’t even know if they were staying.
“I suppose, if we can earn enough these next months with Greybourne, we might save to rent a small cottage, although finding one with a decent roof might be a challenge.” Her twin wrinkled his brow doubtfully. “But staying in a house where someone was murdered. . .”
“Mr. Comfrey died outside, and it might have been an accident.” El tried to sound confident.
“His corpse was stuffed down a well, El,” Andrew protested. “Do you really wish to draw water from it?”
She hadn’t given it a speck of thought. Domestic details when their entire future was at stake didn’t interest her.
She pouted and spun tales from thin air.
“The well is fed by a spring. We can scrub the stones but the water should be fine. It is a very nice house, once we bring in our own linens and things. We’ll have servants. It should be quite fun.”
She lied, but she’d overcome her squeamishness if it meant her twin eventually finding happiness. In the city, every day had been a scramble to survive. Here, they might make choices in comfort.
That the village contained cold-blooded killers shook her, but they’d met many agreeable people too.
If they could catch the culprit. . . They might have a nice home again.
Her salary as Grey’s assistant had barely covered the rent of their two-room hovel in the city but surely would not be so high here.
Ever since they’d lost their parents, they’d had to be practical, not sentimental, moving to ever cheaper housing and struggling to keep food on the table while Andrew completed university.
El had taught French to wealthy young ladies.
She’d done Andrew’s lessons in the evening.
He’d brought home work from other students like him, ones who could afford to pay her to write their papers.
She’d first worn men’s clothes and pretended to be her brother to access the university’s library.
He learned a little tailoring to help. By the time she’d taken Grey’s position, they’d moved so many times that the neighbors had no idea they weren’t two brothers.
Plain, self-effacing, keeping her head down, she didn’t possess the kind of looks that caught the eye.
It had been a struggle, but now Andrew had a degree that qualified him—or her—for good situations, like working for Greybourne. Returning to male clothes in a village where everyone now knew she was female was not feasible but having choices was progress, wasn’t it?
As if drawn by her hope, Lord Greybourne strolled into the pub, removing his elegant top hat, looking for all the world like a gentleman content with his world.
Although he’d supposedly eaten dinner at the manor with his cousin, he hadn’t bothered dressing in a formal frockcoat.
El wondered if he even owned one. Surely, he must. He wasn’t a poor man.
His embroidered waistcoat and tailored, box-pleated tweed most likely cost a year of her wages.
Did his air of ease mean they’d solved the mystery over dinner? She hoped so. Greybourne was not a man to share his thoughts—at least not with lowly assistants.
He threw the hat down on the table, releasing his untamed lion’s mane, pulled a chair over, and straddled it impolitely. “Well, if the bank allows, have we decided to stay? Or shall we set out for Bath in the morning?”
Interesting. He was leaving the choice to them? Was he drunk?
“Will they let us leave?” Andrew asked. “Are we not suspects?”
Grey barked a laugh. “Can’t make us stay. Captain Huntley is a Puritan intent on ridding the world of evil, but he has no power beyond the estate, and even that’s questionable. I like the man, but I don’t let the wishes of others hamper me.”
“Then why are you asking our wishes?” El asked, not deterred by his sense of privilege. Grey was a decent man, but living alone, he tended to be self-absorbed.
“Because I am undecided. I was hoping for an anonymous, peaceful setting to finish my work. Bath isn’t it, but appallingly, neither is Gravesyde.
Even though the manor has a rather tempting library—the inhabitants have bats in their belfries.
And the art gallery has attracted a wrong crowd. Entertaining but not peaceful.”
“You would be bored beyond redemption with peaceful,” El corrected. “You enjoy exercising your wits against others. Without students, you need other challenges. . . and that is not Andrew and me. How will you like living in a house with a ghost-haunted well?”
He folded his arms over the back of the chair and regarded her with a frown.
“Do not invite my cousin to sprinkle herbs and chant over ghosts. She’s lunatic enough already.
If we stay, I’ll hire people to scrub the place, top to bottom, inside and out.
I have a place in Bath. I can have decent furnishings sent up.
Bradford House, as it stands, is execrable.
And the sum the bank is asking for the hovel, outrageous. ”
El hid her smile. His saber was already rattling. “I’ve been told Miss Talbot is paying a ridiculous rent for the gallery, and that the bank is asking intolerable sums for all their properties. You could take up arms against them.”
“I shall, if we stay. Why leave perfectly good properties abandoned because the bank does not wish to maintain them?” He ordered cider.
The village had apple orchards, El had learned, and their cider was well known.
The dark-haired bartender with the convict tattoo eagerly pulled a mug. The pub wasn’t booming. The village wasn’t exactly on a well-traveled highway.
“It seems the manor occupants have already enlisted you in their cause. And the fact that there appears to be a killer roaming the streets?” El prodded him into a decision.
Eleanor knew she was mad to encourage him, but she had to make a stand somewhere. She really liked this quaint village that had survived time nearly intact.
“Gravesyde apparently has a fairly good record of catching miscreants.” Grey sipped his drink. “If we put our most excellent heads together, the villain should be found in no time.”
As if they had any clue how to find cold-blooded killers. Or corpse defilers. But that ought to keep Greybourne busy long enough to settle in, if the bank let them the house. A village struggling to revive should provide him with any number of outlets for his excessive energy and brilliant brain.
Even as she was congratulating herself on her perceptivity, a band of the ruffian artists stumbled into the tavern, shouting for pitchers of ale. At sight of the professor, several of them staggered toward their table.
Greybourne instantly stood, just as the convict behind the bar vanished into the kitchen. Uneasily, El prepared to slip away. She may have become accustomed to male habits, but that did not mean she appreciated all of them. Drunken brawling was childish.
Andrew also braced for confrontation.
“Heard you murdered a banker, Greybourne,” the squat artist who’d been thrown out of the gallery earlier crowed. “Congratulations! Let’s buy you a round!”
El doubted they had the funds to buy their own drink. She’d lived on the poorer end of town and recognized bullies when she saw them.
“We’ve any number of other people you might murder.” Hat apparently lost, linen unfastened, the dirty-blond reporter swaggered over to join them. “You aristocrats regularly get away with murder, might as well steer you in the right direction.”
Grey picked up his fashionable topper and offered his arm to Eleanor. “Gentlemen, and I use that term loosely, it’s a pleasure, but we’re calling it an evening.”
Before he could shove his way past the gathering ruffians, a ginger-haired giant arrived in the doorway and roared, “Pub closed, gents! When Henri tosses you out, you can’t roll in here to irritate my guests. Out!”
Apparently bearing some grudge El did not comprehend, the drunks did not immediately retreat but bunched their fingers.
Grey tensed. Andrew clenched his fists and Mr. Russell stormed toward the miscreants. They might resolve the matter, but not without considerable damage.
“Oh, fiddlesticks,” she muttered. Holding the back of her hand to her brow, she clung to Grey’s arm with the other and gracefully proceeded to fold into a faint.