Chapter Three
Fenwick on Sea, Suffolk, That same morning
Meg perused the bolts of fine cloth on offer in the shop. At present, the owner, Mr. Alfred Beuth, was in his storeroom searching out his newest trims for her perusal.
Most of the cloth was of sturdy, practical wool or cotton.
However, Beuth always stocked a few bolts of higher quality fabrics and lace.
She was in search of material and trim to replace the curtains in Father’s office.
He complained of how inadequate those draperies were and ordered her to purchase materials for better.
Relieved that his earlier anger had faded to mild surliness, Meg had rushed to comply before he could change his mind and send a servant.
Her hand hovered between a bolt of dark blue velvet and a brighter green taffeta. Behind her, the bell over the shop door jingled.
“The shop’s small, but it serves the needs of local folk well enough.”
Meg recognized George Brewster’s enthusiastic tenor.
“Do you think he’ll share any information about local smuggling?”
That mellow voice could only belong to the gentleman from yesterday’s encounter in the Queen’s Barque. At that time, the dulcet tones had stroked over her, and she’d been unable to forget the feeling. What was his interest in illegal trade?
She lived in Fenwick and thus was aware of the smuggling. This man didn’t reside nearby, nor had he any apparent reason to make inquiries.
“Perhaps not today,” George said. “Might be best just to let him become used to you. Fenwickians can be prickly.”
“I’d not call your father prickly.”
“Da’s a bit of an exception. He believes strangers are more comfortable if treated like friends. A comfortable customer’s more likely to return or tell others of the pleasures of the Queen’s Barque.”
“Your father’s cannier than he pretends to be.”
“’Tis all a piece of what he calls first-class service.”
Uncomfortably aware she’d been eavesdropping, Meg selected the bolt of blue velvet and one of creamy lace. Marching to the counter, she set down her items then turned slightly. “Gentlemen.” She gave a small nod. “I pray your morning’s been pleasant?”
“Good morning, Miss Fenneman. “’Tis a pleasant enough day now the rain’s ceased.” George replied.
“Indeed,” she smiled at the stranger. “Thank you again for your assistance, Mr…?”
“Allow me to introduce to you Mr. Christian Copefort, Miss Fenneman,” George said. “Mr. Copefort, may I present Miss Margaret Fenneman?”
“A pleasure to meet you, sir.” She stroked her palms across the velvet, the plush, dense texture much like the sensation she felt on hearing Copefort speak. “I’d no opportunity yesterday to ask what brought you to Fenwick on Sea?”
“I’m recently retired from the army and looking for a place to settle. When George became my valet, he expressed a wish to visit his family. I agreed, since no pressing matters required my attention.”
She knew few men who’d even consider a servant’s wishes. “Fascinating, and what do you think of our village?”
“I’ve seen too little of Fenwick to form much of an opinion. At my request, George’s showing me about.”
A good enough explanation for wanting to know about local activities, legal and otherwise. She lifted her eyebrows. “What might persuade you to settle here, sir?”
Copefort gave a slight shrug. “That would depend on what I learn.”
“Quite wise,” she murmured.
“Here’s all the trim I could find, Miss Fenneman.” Beuth, a tall spare man with sparse gray hair, stepped from behind the curtain separating his storage from the public area of the shop. He laid several bundles on the countertop beside the bolts of cloth and lace.
“Thank you, Mr. Beuth. I’d like a moment to examine these.”
“Certainly, Miss Fenneman. Meanwhile, I’ll help George and this other gentleman, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” She turned her attention to the spools of trim.
“How may I help you, sir?” Beuth queried.
“Mr. Copefort,” George said, “is my employer. He’s interested in learning about Fenwick on Sea.
You’ve lived here longer than most and could suggest places he should visit.
” Turning to Copefort, George continued.
“Mr. Copefort, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Alfred Beuth, Fenwick’s greengrocer, mercer, and apothecary. ”
“I’m happy to help you, Mr. Copefort. Are you looking to amuse yourself, or are you perhaps thinking to settle near Fenwick?”
“A little of both. If property is available, I would be pleased to look at it. However, I don’t wish to spend every minute in pursuit of a small manor.”
From the corner of her eye, Meg watched Beuth study Copefort.
“Hmm.” The shopkeeper stroked his chin. “A small manor, you say. How small?”
“I think that would depend on the condition of the property.”
“Aye,” Beuth nodded. “I can make up a list for you. A few estates have gone abandoned and are known to be for sale. Also, I know of other owners who might be open to selling, if the price is right.”
“Thank you. George will return to pick up the list this afternoon. Is that satisfactory?”
“Aye, should be ready by then. What are you thinking to show Mr. Copefort in the meantime, young George?”
“I promised to show him the countryside and introduce him to some of the other residents.”
“You should take Mr. Copefort up Trout Creek way,” Beuth suggested.
“You once said there was good fishing near your home, George,” Copefort said.
“There is, though nothing to compare with the salmon and trout streams I’ve heard of in the north.”
“Regardless, I do enjoy a relaxing hour or two with a line in the water.”
A man who enjoys fishing and lacks snobbery is an unusual man. Perhaps there is more to Mr. Copefort than a pleasing appearance and an intriguing voice.
“Ahem, I beg pardon,” Meg interrupted. “I must disagree with George on this matter.”
“Oh?” Brow raised, Copefort tilted his head.
“Trout Creek is fine fishing ground. I’ve not been able to visit some of the more notable streams. However, I’ve spent many a pleasant hour at Trout Creek procuring enough fish to feed my entire household.”
“Truly? I know no ladies who enjoy fishing.”
“Now, you’ve met one.”
“Speaking of Trout Creek,” Beuth contributed. “Has George told you about the Wishing Trout?”
The gentleman looked at George. “You never mentioned any fish by name.”
“I admit I forgot.” The young man’s face reddened.
“So why does this particular trout have a name?” Copefort asked.
“He’s decades old, and wily as a fox,” Meg explained. “Every fisherman in Fenwick has tried to catch him, but all have failed. He’s a brown trout and lives in our river year-round. Steals bait right off the hook but never gets caught.”
“How does a man recognize this fish?”
“You ever seen a ten-pound trout?” Beuth smiled, puffing out his chest.
“How long is this monster?”
“Last person to see him estimated close on thirty inches,” Meg offered.
“A thirty-inch trout?” Mr. Copefort’s brows rose higher.
“Might be more by now,” Beuth boasted.
“’Tis not impossible, sir.” George leaned in.
“Henry Brewster and I plan to let the world know about our brown trout,” Beuth said. “We’re the best kept secret in British sport fishing. We’re even discussing how Fenwick might sponsor a competition.”
“You’ll need a number of people to claim to have seen this legendary fish,” Copefort remarked.
“We have that, as most folks in the village have seen him,” Meg informed. “However,” she grinned at Copefort. “If a man with a reputation for adventure—a military fellow perhaps—spoke up about the Wishing Trout, some might come to Fenwick just to attempt to catch him.”
“An interesting idea, Miss Fenneman.” Copefort evaded her implied question.
“It is.” She nodded. “However, we shan’t impose on your good nature for an endorsement, sir.”
“Why not, Miss?” Beuth protested. “Mr. Copefort says he likes to fish. I’ve yet to meet a fisherman who doesn’t like to talk of the ones he caught… and the ones that got away.”
***
Kit looked from shopkeeper to lady to George then back to the lady. The gleam in those light-sparked blue eyes trapped his gaze. He’d never seen…. “I do like to fish, but I’ve no tackle with me.”
“You can get everything you need right here,” Beuth announced. “I’ve supplied the village since I took over this shop as a young man. However, I’ll have competition soon. I know a man planning to move his chandler’s business to Fenwick.”
Kit cocked a brow. “Is this village large enough to need a chandler?”
“Oh, we won’t be small for long, not if my father has his way.” George’s eyes lit up.
“Indeed, sir,” Beuth added. “Fenwick’s on the way up. We’ve even been mentioned in The Teatime Tattler. Many investment opportunities. Brewster and other merchants give superior service. Now we can also advertise the possibility of falling in love here.”
Meg rolled her eyes. “Mr. Beuth speaks of a legend about a faery lady who fell in love with a human man near Brewster’s well. Out of gratitude the lady blessed the well water. Supposedly any who drink of this blessed water will find their truest love.”
“Some say the blessing affected all the waters around the village,” Beuth added.
“Superior services, a legendary well, and a mythic fish. Fenwick could attract the interest of many people,” Kit remarked. “Tell me, Miss Fenneman, do you believe this legend?”
Her gaze lowered. A charming blush decorated her cheeks.
He shouldn’t have put her in such a spot, but he’d been unable to resist teasing.
Kit and his companions ignored the jangling of the shop bell.
When she raised her head, her gaze was steady and serious. “I’ve frequently suggested to Brewster that he stop spreading these nonsensical stories. Wanting to improve Fenwick’s all well and good. However, my father believes the proposed changes will go too far and destroy the charm of our village.”
“Do you agree with him?” Kit asked her.
“I do not involve myself in such matters, sir.”