Once Upon a Wallflower

by Wendy Lyn Watson

  The walk from the manor house to the village had gone exactly as one would have expected. Jeremy seemed to take great delight in flirting outrageously with Bella and watching Aunt Kitty draw herself up in righteous indignation, her nostrils pinching closed in fury. For her part, Bella was so obviously smitten with Jeremy that she paid scant attention to her mother’s mounting ire, focusing all her energy on batting her eyelashes and simpering coquettishly.

  As Mira and Nicholas strolled in companionable silence, Mira found that she enjoyed the walk. Simply being in Nicholas’s presence making her feel more complete, more sure of herself.

  But now, as their party ran the gauntlet of grim Upper Bidwellians, even Nicholas’s presence was not enough to reassure her. Keeping her smile firmly in place, Mira whispered from the corner of her mouth to Nicholas. “Why do all of these people look as though they would just as soon spit on us as say ‘good morning’?”

  Nicholas ducked his head to whisper back. “It is not a question of ‘us,’ so much as ‘me.’ Given the rumors, I am persona non grata in the village. Much as I am in London, but the simple people of Upper Bidwell are more forthcoming with their opinions.”

  Mira nodded to yet another glaring woman, stretching her smile wider still. “Ah. I see. Given your current lack of popularity, perhaps I should make our inquiries. Somehow I do not think anyone will say anything useful with you hovering about.”

  From the corner of her eye, Mira noted the weary smile that crossed Nicholas’s face. “I suppose you are correct. And I suppose that means I shall bear the responsibility for keeping our, um, troops occupied?”

  She flashed him a sympathetic look. “Yes, I suppose it does. Best of luck to you, my lord general,” she concluded with a small salute, her face drawn into an expression of mock solemnity.

  “Imp. I would suggest you begin your investigation with Mrs. Thomas, the vicar’s wife. Both she and the Reverend Mr. Thomas are the font of all local knowledge, and enjoy being right in the thick of things. A mouse cannot sneeze in Upper Bidwell without one or the other of them offering a tonic.”

  “An excellent idea,” Mira responded. “I believe Ellie Thomas actually found Bridget Collins, so Mrs. Thomas might also have learned something from her daughter that did not become more widely known.”

  Nicholas looked down at Mira, and she thought she saw a shadow of unease flit across his expression.

  “Mira, you never cease to surprise me with your insights and information.” His voice dropped to an intimate timbre. “Should I ever need another matter investigated, I shall look no further than across my bed.”

  Heat suffused Mira’s face in a dizzying rush. “Nicholas! What a thing to say.”

  He laughed. Mira had grown to enjoy his laugh immensely. When Nicholas laughed, Mira felt like they were alone, sharing something private even out in blazing daylight surrounded by a score of people. And, her scolding aside, she had grown to enjoy Nicholas’s bold teasing. She still blushed when he said such outrageous and provocative things, but the blush was as much of pleasure as of embarrassment.

  Nicholas stealthily raised one hand to point out a stone house next to the church, at the far edge of the village. “That,” he said, “is where the vicar and his wife live.”

  He slid his hand over to grasp hers, the brief clasp concealed by the folds of her skirt. “Good luck,” he whispered with a tiny waggle of his eyebrows.

  Then, in a louder voice, he said, “Mrs. Fitzhenry, perhaps you would care to visit our small millinery? The selection is quite limited, I’m afraid, but the wares are of excellent quality.”

  Bella cast her mother an imploring look. Kitty raised a hand to her head, self-consciously stroking the brim of her rather plain bonnet, and her face took on a wistful, almost girlish expression. Even the insipid Lady Phoebe perked up at the mention of a milliner.

  Nicholas looked down to catch Mira’s eye. “Magic,” he mouthed.

  He then moved forward to take Kitty by the arm, leaving Bella free for Jeremy’s attentions. With Phoebe trailing in their wake like the tail of a kite, they set off for the small shop in the center of town.

  Seemingly forgotten, Mira walked the rest of the way through Upper Bidwell to the vicar’s house at her usual brisk pace.

  She strode purposefully up the garden walkway to the vicar’s cottage and knocked sharply on the door. It was immediately opened by a small round woman, neat as a pin, her mud-brown hair swept up in a simple chignon to reveal streaks of white beneath the lacy edge of her linen cap. Behind a pair of tiny round spectacles, she wore an eager expression that suggested she had been waiting anxiously by the door all day in the hopes of receiving a visitor. The little woman took one look at the vibrant red curls peeping out from under Mira’s cap and began talking.

  “Welcome, welcome,” she chirped. “You can be none other than the Miss Fitzhenry what’s engaged to his lordship. I am Eloise Thomas, and my husband’s the vicar, whom you’ve met. He told me all about you, I’m afraid. Quite an impression you made on him the other evening. All favorable, I assure you. Yes, quite taken with you, he was. ‘Such a sweet girl,’ he said, and ‘lovely as the day is long.’ Oh, do come in, dear, and let me get you some tea. You do care for tea, don’t you? Of course you do. My, now, you must tell me all about yourself, dear. Why, good gracious, my own husband will be marrying you, won’t he?” She chuckled. “Not getting married to you, of course, but performing the service. Such a goose I am sometimes. Oh, you must come in!”

  Dazed by the barrage of chatter, Mira allowed herself to be swept along to a small parlor, where she was seated on a velvet settee and offered tea and cakes and a variety of sweetmeats by Mrs. Thomas, who never once seemed to pause for breath as she filled Mira’s ears with descriptions of all the people in town, what they did, where they came from, and what kind of people they were. Mira thought that, if she could ever squeeze in a word of her own, Mrs. Thomas would be sure to provide her with every detail about the murders. She might even volunteer the information without Mira ever saying a word.

  “Here, now,” Mrs. Thomas said, as she plopped herself down on a small wing chair, setting her feet—which did not reach the ground—upon an embroidered footstool and folding her hands in her lap, “I have been doing all the talking and haven’t learned a thing about you. Where are my manners?”

  And suddenly the parlor fell deathly silent. Mrs. Thomas blinked owlishly, waiting for Mira to spill forth her life story in a cataclysm of words. But Mira was still trying to remember how she came to have a cup of tea—just as she liked it, with a smidge of milk and plenty of sugar—and an iced cake in her hands.

  Mrs. Thomas gave a tiny sniff, as though she had suddenly caught the scent of something odd and promptly began talking again. “Reverend Mr. Thomas told me that you reside primarily in London. How exciting! It must be positively grand to attend all of those soirées and balls and such. Oh, and the public amusements! Have you been often to the performances at Astley’s? I have always thought I should like to go there myself. Acrobats and sword-fighters and magicians…it all sounds just splendidly exciting. Of course, we hardly ever manage to get away from Upper Bidwell, and then just to visit my people in Devon or to take the waters at Bath. The Reverend Mr. Thomas suffers from the gout, you know. Dreadful affliction, the gout. But then you are too young to be troubled by such things yet, aren’t you? Why you cannot be more than twenty-one? Twenty-two?”

  Mrs. Thomas paused again, and this time Mira was prepared. “I am actually twenty-three. Mrs. Thomas, I was…”

  “Twenty-three! Just a child you are. Oh dear,” Mrs. Thomas crooned, her hand rising to cup her cheek as her eyes took on a faraway look of fond remembrance. “I remember twenty-three. Of course, at twenty-three I was already married to the Reverend Mr. Thomas and was expecting our second child. We have five, you know. Stephen is the oldest, he’s twenty-two, almost your age. Good heavens! I could be your mother. What a thought. Anyway, Stephen is a journeyman printer in Bath
. We stay with him and his wife Sarah when we go to take the waters. Charles is the second. He’s twenty. Studying to be a minister, just like his father. A fine boy. Then there’s Mary and Elizabeth. Twins! Lovely girls, but my confinement with them was a misery, I don’t have to tell you. Oof. May you never bear twins, my dear. Then there’s little Ellie, our baby. Short for Eleanor, my own mother’s name. Only eleven, she is. Pretty as a picture…”

  As Mrs. Thomas continued her dissertation on the attributes of her various children, Mira decided that she would simply have to take the bull by the horns and force her way into the conversation. Mrs. Thomas had given her one chance, which she had missed, so now she must make another.

  “Speaking of Ellie, Mrs. Thomas,” Mira said, her voice raised slightly to be sure that Mrs. Thomas would hear her over her own chatter. “Speaking of Ellie, I hear tell she had a bit of a scare a few years ago.”

  Mrs. Thomas’s mouth snapped shut, a look of confusion on her face. “A scare? My Ellie? When was this?”

  “A few years ago. I hear that she was out gathering berries and found poor Bridget Collins. That must have been quite a trauma for Ellie.”

  Mrs. Thomas’s eyes lit up and she leaned forward, eagerly latching onto this new thread of conversation. “Heavens, yes. Poor child had nightmares for weeks. Who could blame her? I had a few bad dreams myself, and it was hardly the first time I had seen a dead body… I generally prepare our dead for burial, you know. Of course, it was the first time I had seen anyone quite so, oh dear, well, abused. Mmmm.” Mrs. Thomas paused to nod solemnly, underscoring the gravity of Bridget’s injuries.

  Then, quick as a wink, Mrs. Thomas’s expression changed, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “How did you come to know about Bridget Collins? Surely the news of the death of a girl from Upper Bidwell did not make its way to London, did it?”

  Mira thought carefully before she answered, taking a sip of tea to hide her hesitation. She was counting on Mrs. Thomas being eager to warn Mira away from Nicholas, more than happy to fill Mira’s head with gruesome pictures to send her fleeing in the other direction. But if she knew that Mira was investigating the murders, hoping to clear Nicholas’s name, she might not be so forthcoming.

  “My lady’s maid is Nan Collins, Bridget’s sister,” Mira said, hoping that she could be forgiven for using Nan so shamelessly. “She mentioned her sister’s death, and she seemed so upset by it. I did not wish to pry. But without knowing more, I felt at a loss as to how to provide comfort to her.”

  Mira’s explanation seemed to satisfy Mrs. Thomas. “What a sweet, considerate girl you are, my dear. I am sure Lord Ashfield,” she said his name with a pained expression, “is a lucky, lucky man to be marrying such a lovely woman.”

  Mrs. Thomas sighed heavily before picking up her story. “Poor little Bridget Collins. She was such a good girl, always offering to help tidy the chapel after services and to help the Reverend and me with the alms. She was just a wee mite of a thing, and so pretty. Lovely blond curls and the most enormous blue eyes, just the color of periwinkles in the sunlight, they were.”

  “Yes,” Mira said, “I heard that she had a suitor, that she was in love when she died.”

  “Hmmph. I should say so.” Mrs. Thomas grew uncharacteristically quiet, her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed as she appeared to weigh the propriety of saying any more.

  “Why do you say that?” Mira prodded. “Did you ever meet her suitor?”

  “No, I did not.”

  Whatever she knew, it was obviously significant enough that even this blithe gossipmonger was unwilling to spread the tale.

  Mira sat quietly, letting the silence in the parlor grow, stretch out, make itself at home.

  Mrs. Thomas looked decidedly uncomfortable. The corner of her lip twitched just slightly. She took in a deep breath, as though to say something, but then exhaled in a sigh. One hand drifted up to flutter aimlessly by her throat before dropping heavily back to her lap.

  Finally, the dreadful quiet overcame her discretion, and Mrs. Thomas blurted out her secret.

  Leaning farther forward, and spearing Mira with a meaningful look, she whispered, “Bridget Collins was with child when she died.”

  Mira stifled a gasp. A baby?

  Mrs. Thomas nodded sagely, as though she had heard Mira’s thought. “I would say she was five, maybe even six months gone. She was just a tiny thing, and she wore hand-me-down dresses that were always too large for her. Had I not tended her body and dressed her for her funeral, I never would have known, myself.” Mrs. Thomas tsked softly. “I don’t think her poor mother knew. And I hadn’t the heart to say anything. You mustn’t let it get back to her mother, you hear. I’ve kept that secret for so long. It just wouldn’t do to ruin the girl’s memory. Girls make mistakes sometimes, when they are in love. It doesn’t make her a bad girl, now does it?” Mrs. Thomas looked at Mira with a troubled gaze.

  “No, Mrs. Thomas, it does not make her a bad girl. Love has a way of making us all a bit foolish, I fear.”

  “Indeed.” Mrs. Thomas fixed Mira with another stare, heavy with meaning. “Love can make us foolish. So we must all, we women, be alert to the dangers around us. Some men have no honor, they do not deserve our love, and turning a blind eye to their faults, well, it can be dangerous.”

  Mira had no doubt now that Mrs. Thomas saw herself as Mira’s personal oracle, bent on providing her dire prophesies, but couching her warnings in clever generalizations. Mrs. Thomas obviously believed Nicholas had been Bridget’s lover and had killed her, but she would not come right out and accuse him.

  Keeping her voice low and her gaze firmly on Mrs. Thomas, Mira broached the subject of Tegen Quick. “Nan mentioned that another girl was murdered here, just a year after Bridget. So much sorrow for such a little town. That must have been difficult for you all.”

  Mrs. Thomas nodded solemnly. “Oh, mercy yes. Little Tegen Quick. Of course she wasn’t so little when she met her end. She was becoming quite the striking young woman, then. But I remember when she was born, you know, the same year as my Charles. Hmm. I always thought she fancied my Charles. She was forever hanging about the churchyard, staying after services to ask questions, dropping in with mushrooms or herbs or other small gifts. But then, that spring, right before she died, she seemed to disappear. Oh, she still came to church every Sunday, sat with the whole brood of Quicks, but her eyes were far away, and she didn’t come to visit us anymore.”

  Mrs. Thomas’s expression soured. “She found someone else to fancy, other than my Charles. Wounded Charles’s pride, she did. I heard them after one Sunday service, out in the garden. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help hearing them. Charles told Tegen that he was worried about her, because she had been so scarce. And, that little Tegen Quick told my Charles she had found someone who could take care of her, an older man with the means to keep her in style.” Mrs. Thomas gave an angry little shake of her head, but then she sighed.

  “But it’s like I told my Charles, we cannot judge Tegen Quick too harshly. She grew up in that tiny little hovel, with six brothers and sisters, all having to fight for whatever scraps of food they could afford after their father got done drinking almost every farthing he made. It is no great surprise that she longed for the creature comforts, for the security of a wealthy protector. If only she had realized that there is more security in a loving marriage than any illicit affair. But, alas, she did not.”

  Mira shook her head sadly. She would not have expected the vicar’s wife to show such empathy for these two wayward girls. There was such sadness in the woman’s voice as she talked about the two lost girls that a lump formed in Mira’s throat.

  She cleared her throat as she composed herself. She could think of no other way to extract information from Mrs. Thomas than to ask for it outright. Such a bold move made her nervous, but she comforted herself by noting the worst that could happen was that Mrs. Thomas would decline to answer and be so offended she would throw Mira out of the
house and refuse to receive her ever again—and Mira had been scorned by far more intimidating women than the tiny Mrs. Thomas.

  Steeling herself, Mira inquired, “Mrs. Thomas, you do not happen to know who Tegen Quick had found as a protector, do you?”

  Mrs. Thomas raised one eyebrow in a look of knowing amusement. “No, dear, I do not. Wouldn’t that be handy if she had confided in me? I am afraid all I know is the man in question was older than Tegen and my Charles, and he had more money than we did. Now, Tegen Quick had never been beyond Upper Bidwell, to the best of my knowledge. And, well, I do not mean to be boastful, but the only people in this area with more money than we have, well, that would be Lord Blackwell and his family. But that just makes no sense at all, now does it?”

  Mira shook her head in polite agreement, even though she knew it was a lie. It made perfect sense to Mrs. Thomas, just as it made perfect sense to Mira. Whoever Tegen Quick had been involved with was a denizen of Blackwell Hall.

  The relative quiet of the parlor was shattered by the sound of a door slamming followed by the tromp of feet and the loud, excited voices of young girls. It seemed Mary, Elizabeth, and Ellie had returned home, and, if the laughter punctuating their clamor was any indication, they were in high spirits indeed.

  “If you will excuse me, Mrs. Thomas,” Mira said with a smile, “I believe I have imposed upon your hospitality too much already, and it sounds as though you have other matters to attend to now. It has been a pleasure meeting you. Most enlightening. But I should really be going now.” She stood and pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders.

  Mrs. Thomas also stood, coming barely to Mira’s shoulder when she did so. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, as well, Miss Fitzhenry.” She cocked her head back to give Mira one final weighty look. “You be certain not to be a stranger, and, remember, should you ever need a sympathetic ear or some motherly advice, I am just a short walk away.”