Chapter Three #2
Mrs. Wells always favored for the ointment she made herself and claimed cured all sorts of ailments. “But I’m glad to be home
early.”
With a warm hand on Tess’s cheek, Mrs. Wells assessed her, both silver brows arched. “Always pleased to see you, dear girl,
but you’re not unwell, are you?”
“Not a bit. I simply . . . finished my work for Lady Goddard early.”
“Mm-hmm.” Viola Wells didn’t miss much, and the thoughtful sound indicated she knew there was more to the story, but, bless
her, she asked no further questions.
“Where’s Tristan?” Tess asked, noting that the cottage was quiet. Her brother was rarely present without making noise.
Mrs. Wells lifted a hand to pat at her hair, then checked the buttons on her high-necked day dress. A stalling tactic that
sent a little shiver down Tess’s spine.
“What has he done?”
“It’s really the Bromley brothers you should be vexed with.”
Tess closed her eyes for a moment and tried to temper what she truly wanted to say to their beloved housekeeper.
“So he’s back to toying with Justine Bromley’s heart again, is he?”
Mrs. Wells frowned at that. “Now, now, she might be his heart’s true mate.”
Tess scoffed. “Where is he?”
“I can only guess he’s—”
“At the pub.”
Mrs. Wells gave her the tiniest of nods as if she didn’t truly wish to admit as much.
“Don’t be too cross with him,” she called to Tess as she headed out toward The Black Swan.
Tess offered a wave and a smile and then gritted her teeth the whole march to the village public house. She’d had this talk
with Tristan many a time. Young ladies were drawn to him like bees to a field of wildflowers, caught up by his effortless
charm and handsome face. Their protective brothers and fathers weren’t nearly as susceptible to his charm.
Music wafted on the breeze the closer she got to The Black Swan, and when she strode inside, heads turned her way.
“Miss Hawthorne!” Mr. Cardwell shouted, cutting short whatever he’d been playing on a battered piano in the corner and then
starting into a rousing little ditty, as if to please her.
“Tess,” Old Tom the publican called, “we’ve missed that pretty face of yours.”
“There’s my girl.” Alice, the barmaid who Tess had known since girlhood, gave her a wink and a grin. “Thought London might
snap you up and not give you back.”
“Not a chance.” Tess returned her wink. Then she spotted Tristan and groaned.
Her brother was, to put it mildly, in his cups. He was sitting at his favorite table and yet swaying as if on a ship at sea. A smile spread across his lips, and he lifted bleary green eyes and a tankard toward her.
“Sishter dearest, what a sweet shurprise.” He waved her over, his arm swinging wildly.
“Aren’t you even curious why I’m back early?”
He frowned as if just realizing that was the case.
“I was dismissed, Tris, and you’ll love hearing why.”
His eyes lit. “Oh, I do love a good story.” He held up a finger as if to bid her to wait. Then he shoved his hand in every
pocket—shirt, waistcoat, trousers—and finally frowned as if he’d failed to find some lost treasure. “I’ve something to tell
you about too. Must have left it at home.”
“Well tell me about it anyway.” When he lifted his cup, Tess reached for his hand. “Tell me before you drink yourself into
a stupor.”
“A letter came. For Father, actually.” Tristan eyed his beer longingly. “The great American titan did not hear of his death,
it seems.”
“American titan?” There was only one American they ever discussed in such terms. “Gordon Van Arsdale?”
Tristan tapped the tip of his nose. “The very one. He’s asked for Father’s aid on a dig. Hoping for a hoard for his museum
in New York.”
“So we find it, and he takes it. Lovely,” Tess said bitterly.
Tristan shrugged. “He who pays keeps the loot.”
“Whatever’s in those mounds should remain in Norfolk. In England, at least.”
“By that logic, someone should let Elgin and Petrie know there are a few items in England that need returning.”
“Perhaps they should be.” Never mind that Elgin was long dead.
“Good luck with that, Tessie.”
“Let’s say one of those mounds on Fenbridge land gives up its treasures. Imagine how people would flock to Wiggenstow if a
museum could be established here.”
“I think it would take a bit more than a few bits and bobs to put our village on the map.” He nudged her elbow where it rested
on the table. “We could use the funds Van Arsdale’s offering.”
“Offering to our late father.”
“You know as much as Father did.” He caught her gaze and looked momentarily clearheaded. “And you’ve long wanted to be part
of a dig like this. Write him. Offer your services in lieu of Pater’s. Don’t turn him down.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“He sent a check,” he said with a hopeful arch of his brow. The money was needed. Foxdene was let, not owned by their family.
Lord Fenbridge owned the property, much as he owned so many other acres in the county.
“I could offer my tutoring services again or teach at that school in Norwich. My friend Magda says they’re in need of more
teachers.”
“It’s a sizable check, Tess. And whatever’s found might help us finish Pater’s book.”
She sighed. “I said I’ll consider it.”
“Good. Now tell me why you got sacked.”
“In sum, Dominic Prince was the cause.” Might as well just blurt it out and not prevaricate. But even saying the man’s name
made her pulse pick up speed. She felt heat rush into her cheeks and willed Tristan not to notice.
But of course he did. Then he leaned closer. “Did you have a dalliance in the city?”
Tess’s warm cheeks went furnace-hot and she shot her twin a glare. “Don’t be daft. I’ve had my share of scandal, thank you
very much.” She crossed her arms. “The man got me dismissed.”
“Did you kiss him first?” he teased.
“I should have kicked him.” But of course, she’d thought of kissing Dominic Prince. How could she look at a man so beautiful
and not think what his lips might feel like on hers? Regardless of all her vows about becoming the most respectable spinster
in England.
“There he is,” a man barked.
“Drunk, of course,” another replied.
At the deep, angry voices, Tess stiffened. She knew those voices, and a sinking feeling told her she knew exactly who the
he in question would be.
“Ignore them,” Tristan murmured, keeping his gaze fixed on the tabletop.
Tess couldn’t ignore them. The Bromley brothers were massive, angry, and no doubt headed straight for her brother.
She let out a sigh, gave Tristan one long-suffering glower, and stood to face them.
“Gentlemen, how are you this evening?”
Even with all their bluster, their expressions softened.
“Not as well as could be, Miss Hawthorne,” the younger Bromley said with a nod and a half-smile. He was as tall and intimidating
as his brother, but he’d always seemed kinder.
“Tess,” the elder, Bill Bromley, said, his dark gaze boring into hers, “you can’t protect him forever.”
He’d been one of her father’s tutees, a childhood friend, and she empathized with him entirely.
“I don’t know exactly what he’s done, Bill,” Tess admitted. “I only just returned from London.”
“It’s Justine. As soon as he comes around, her hopes rise again,” the younger explained.
“So he’d do well to stay away.” Bill, the elder, took a step closer, and Tess laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m here to make
sure he stays away.”
“I’ll see that he does,” she vowed to him.
He narrowed dark eyes on her, but she felt no fear despite how he towered over her. Tess counted his wife a dear friend, and
Sarah would never forgive him if he did Tess harm.
“After all you do,” he said quietly, “it’s not much of a man who makes his sister his protector.”
Tess heard Tristan shift and pivoted to stop him from whatever drunken impulse had prompted him to intervene. But she was
too late.
He thrust his arm past her and it connected with a sickening thwack against Bill Bromley’s cheek.
The elder Bromley was hardly jostled by the blow, but his brother lunged forward and grabbed Tristan by the shirtfront. Tristan
wheeled an arm up again, bringing his forearm down hard.
That’s when Tess saw local bully Nigel Hardy stand to join the fray. The Bromleys were well-liked by all, but Hardy relished
a good fight.
Tess pushed Nigel back, both hands on his chest. He’d been one of her father’s tutoring students too. Most of the boys in
the village had been. She didn’t fear him, but she trusted him far less than the Bromleys. When he tried to wave off her hands
and push into the fray, she slammed her boot down on his, and he let out a roar.
Behind Hardy, two men stood from the drinks they’d been sharing with him, their matching scowls pointed in her direction.
Tess knew how quickly such tussles could get out of hand. She shot a pleading look at Old Tom. The barman had a club he kept
on hand, which he used as more of a threat than a weapon to return order at moments like this.
But before he could step out from behind the bar, Wiggenstow’s magistrate emerged from a corner where Tess hadn’t even noticed
him.
“Who threw the first punch?” he bellowed as he marched toward them, his barrel chest leading the way.
In chorus, the Bromleys shouted, “Tristan Hawthorne.”
“Might’ve known.” Magistrate Darnley waved a hand at Tristan. “Come, son. A night in the lockup will do you good.”
“Magistrate, please,” Tess cried. “I’ve only just returned and seen my brother for but ten minutes before all this.” She waved
a hand to encompass the riled men standing in an uneven circle around them.
The balding, gray-browed man, a friend of her late father’s, assessed her, and she thought she saw pity flicker behind his
spectacles. A mischievous little smile pushed up the edges of his mustache.
“You’re welcome to join him, Miss Hawthorne.”