“What did they hear—and see?” Skeggs asked.
“A whooing noise, and chains clanking. Some of the older ones peeked out. They say it was all white and flapped about.”
“Village lads,” Mrs Dunstable stated. “Some old chains and a sheet.”
Katy nodded. “Aye—so I suspect. But the younger ones are frightened, and some of them aren’t sleeping. We’ve a few of them still in bed, poor mites, catching up now the sun is up and everyone else is around and they feel safe.”
“A nuisance.” Skeggs frowned. “The question is how to get rid of it.”
Not an easy task. Sarah let the others discuss who they thought it might be, and if they might have a word with various elders, while she imagined…thought of the lads she knew and what might discourage them.
When the others concluded that there was precious little they could do without knowing which lads were involved—from Watchet, Taunton, Crowcombe, or any of the other villages dotted about the hills—she tapped the table. “I have an idea.”
She outlined her plan. Katy grinned. Skeggs chuckled dryly. Mrs. Dunstable nodded. “Ingenious, my dear. Just like belling a cat.”
As soon as they finished their meeting, and Skeggs and Mrs. Dun-stable departed, Sarah summoned Kennett and together with Katy they walked around the house, studying the areas where the “ghost” had been seen, examining the various approaches to the house and the trees and bushes that grew nearby.
Eventually Kennett stood back and scratched his head. “Aye. I reckon that’d work. Fishing line’d be best, and we’ve enough cowbells in the shed to hook up. Jim and I’ll get onto it. If that blighter comes back to night, he’ll get a right surprise.”
Sarah smiled; she and Katy left Kennett to it, and headed back to the house. Once she was inside, the usual pandemonium engulfed her; she was drawn into this and that, and luncheon, then the afternoon, sped by.
Charlie called in at Finley House late that afternoon. He’d spent the day trying to find something to distract him from the sensation of cold iron lodged in his chest; given the stiffness that had invested their last meeting, calling on Sinclair was a last resort.
Yet business had always been a consuming interest, and Malcolm welcomed him readily, without any sign of constraint. They sat in his study and pored over the latest news sheets, reading between the lines of numerous business announcements. But even that no longer possessed sufficient power to quell Charlie’s restlessness. While Malcolm read on, he laid down the sheet he’d been studying, rose and walked to the window.
At least the study looked onto the Quantocks rather than Crowcombe and the orphanage beyond.
Behind him he heard the muted crackle as Malcolm laid down the sheet he’d been perusing. Charlie felt Malcolm’s gaze on his back, then Malcolm asked, “How is the countess faring?”
He managed not to stiffen. The inquiry had been careful, diffident, as if Malcolm knew he was treading on uncertain ground yet felt compelled to inquire.
Charlie started to shrug but stopped; thrusting his hands into his breeches pockets, he fixed his gaze on the scene outside. “She’s well enough…but some diary of hers has gone missing. A keepsake from an aunt. She’s upset, but there’s nothing I can do about it.” Even though he wished it were otherwise. The sense of helplessness irked, prodding him where he was still sensitive. “Then this morning she wanted me to go to the orphanage with her—as if I have the time.”
Silence lengthened, then Malcolm said, “Perhaps…a new bride and all that. Spending some time with her might be in order…not that I’d know, of course, but that does seem to be the way of things.”
Again he’d spoken almost warily, choosing his words, watching his tone. Charlie grimaced. “She and I have known each other for literally all her life. We don’t need to learn about each other in the way most couples do.”
Once again silence stretched, then Malcolm cleared his throat, and murmured, “You may be right, but…I was thinking more along the lines of what we all know so often occurs when attractive and still young married ladies such as your countess are not paid sufficient, and appropriate, attention by their husbands.”
Charlie didn’t—couldn’t—move. It took every ounce of his considerable willpower to suppress his reaction—violent and instinctive—to the scenario Malcolm had painted. Sarah wouldn’t, he told himself. Was Sinclair suggesting…
But then he heard again the diffidence in Malcolm’s tone; he’d been trying, as any friend might, to make Charlie see…
Drawing his hands from his pockets, he faced Malcolm. “I’d better be going. The light will be fading soon.”
Malcolm’s expression was as inscrutable as his own. He rose and accompanied Charlie to the front door; they shook hands, then Charlie strode to where Storm was tied to the tree. Freeing the reins, he swung up to the saddle. With a curt salute to Malcolm, he turned down the road.
He clattered through Crowcombe; by a feat of will, he kept his gaze from the orphanage perched above. But he couldn’t stop himself from wondering if Sarah had already started for home. Regardless, she’d take the track across the fields. The instant the last houses fell behind, he urged Storm into a gallop. He wanted to get home, to reassure himself that she had returned, that she was there, unharmed and well, once more within his keeping.
The following day, Sarah returned to the orphanage to learn whether her trap had been sprung during the night. It had. At just before midnight, the bells had pealed; Kennett, Jim, and Joseph had rushed outside, but all they’d seen was a white-clad figure fleeing across the north field, then he’d jumped on a waiting horse and ridden away.
The children were relieved and happy; many had seen the ghost turn tail and run. Most now viewed the incident as a performance put on for their titillation; there would be no more sleepless nights.
She was back on Blacktail and riding home to the Park before she allowed her mind to refocus on what awaited her there. She wasn’t happy, yet her hours at the orphanage, both today and yesterday, had calmed her—their need of her, their appreciation of her contribution and abilities and the success of her plan, had been balm to her bruised soul.
Reaching the Park, she rode into the stable; leaving Blacktail with the stable boy, she walked to the house, turning over in her mind the one point in the recent drama that didn’t quite fit. They’d been certain the culprits would prove to be local lads, but when she’d questioned Kennett, Jim and later Joseph more closely, the figure they’d described was that of a man. An adult male, heavily built, thickset—very definitely not a youth.
Why would an adult male cavort around the orphanage pretending to be a ghost?
The others had all shrugged. Kennett had suggested the man might be “touched in his upper works.” Yet Sarah didn’t think so. The sheet, the chains, the careful approach at midnight, all suggested planning, which wasn’t a hallmark of those “touched in the upper works.”
Still puzzling, she entered the house and went to her sitting room. Stripping off her gloves, she rang for tea. It arrived promptly. To her immense surprise, Charlie came with it.
Under her openly bemused gaze, he sat in the armchair he occupied in the evenings and accepted a cup.
Taking her own cup and saucer, she sat on the chaise, sipped, and wondered.
The footman retreated. Charlie balanced his cup on his saucer. Without looking at her, he asked, “How are matters at the orphanage?”
Ah-a. Despite all, she was tempted to pour out the story of the ghost, and see what he thought of the oddity of man rather than youth, yet his words of the morning before replayed all too clearly in her head. They still stung. Eyes on her cup, she shrugged. “Well enough.”
She sipped, then drained her cup. Setting it aside, she reached for the mending basket and pulled it to her. Finding another blanket with a hole to darn, she lifted it into her lap, and gave her attention to the task.
Charlie glanced at her; she felt his gaze on her face. A minute ticked by, then
he finished his tea. He rose, set the cup and saucer on the tray, and without another word left her.
Head bent over her mending, she listened to his footsteps fade down the corridor; then the library door opened, and a second later, it shut.
On Saturday morning, Sarah had just finished arranging the week’s menus with Figgs when Crisp entered her sitting room, bearing his silver salver.
“This note arrived from the orphanage, ma’am. The young lad, Jim, is waiting in case you wish to send a reply.”
Sarah took the note, suppressing a frown and an instinctive “Oh, dear, what now?”
One glance through the few lines Katy had penned confirmed her instincts were sound. “Good Lord!”
“Is there some problem, ma’am?”
Sarah looked up into Crisp’s concerned, and willing to be helpful, face. “Some…blackguard has salted the orphanage well.”
She could think of a few other names to call him, but “blackguard” would have to do.
“Dear me.” Crisp frowned. “But why?”
“Indeed.” Sarah folded the note and slipped it into her pocket. “It appears we have someone intent on causing problems for the orphanage. I’ll have to go and see how bad it is. Please tell Jim to wait until I change into my riding habit.”
Crisp bowed as she left the room. Ten minutes later, on Blacktail’s back with Jim on a stout cob keeping pace, she headed north. By the time she reached the orphanage, she’d thought of how to meet the most immediate requirement.
“We’ll have Wilson bring up water in barrels,” she said to Katy as she tied Blacktail’s reins to the rail outside the orphanage’s front door. Wilson was the carter in Crowcombe. “I’ll stop in on my way home. I’ll tell him he can draw from the well at the manor, then I’ll stop in there and see my parents—I’m sure they won’t mind, and there’s barrels there aplenty, so at least we’ll have water to see us through.”
Katy nodded. “Aye—you’d best come and see. Kennett says it’s not as bad as it might have been, yet bad enough.”
Walking through the house, smiling reassuringly at the children she passed, Sarah followed Katy to the stonewalled well that lay beyond the back of the northernmost wing.
Kennett was standing over it, glumly staring into the black mouth of the deep shaft. He looked up as Sarah joined him. “Poured a ten-pound bag of salt in, he did.” He pointed at a jute bag lying beside the well. “Left it for us to find, the so-and-so.” He kicked it. “Luckily, with the weather so cold we’ve got snow still on the hills. Water table’s already rising, but once the thaw hits, this well’ll flush—we’re high, so although the well is cut deep, there’s a lot of seepage from the sides. See?”
He pointed at the inner wall of the well. Sarah saw that the stones were indeed wet, even though at present the water level was fathoms lower. “So the salt will wash away?”
“Bit by bit. The water should be drinkable after a month or so.”
She kept her sigh of relief to herself. “We can manage until then.” She explained her idea of supplying drinking water from the manor.
Kennett nodded. “That would be the closest good source.”
And they wouldn’t have to pay for the water. Sarah turned for the house. “I’ll get onto organizing it right away. As for who did this…”
“It’ll be that idiot we chased off Monday night,” Kennett said. “Didn’t like being made a fool of, I’ll be bound.”
Katy nodded. “Aye—that’ll be it, right enough. Tit for tat. Still, after this bit of maliciousness, he’ll have had his revenge. I doubt he’ll bother us again.”
Sarah frowned. She wished she could feel so confident, but salting a well seemed a very deliberate act, rather than a simple lashing out. Yet what else could it be?
The question niggled, but she had more than enough to occupy her for the rest of the morning organizing the supply of water to the orphanage; by the time she headed home for luncheon, the niggle had slid to the back of her mind.
On Monday morning she rode up to the orphanage, and saw Doctor Caliburn’s gig outside. She tied up Blacktail, telling herself it was surely just one of the usual illnesses or accidents associated with a large group of children…she strode inside and pounced on the first member of staff she met.
“What’s happened?”
Jeannie grimaced. “Quince.” She spoke softly, trying to hide her worry from the children about them. “You’d best go up and see.”
Eyes widening—Jeannie’s worry very effectively conveyed—Sarah walked quickly to the stairs, and hurried up them.
She rushed into the attic and found Doctor Caliburn repacking his bag. And Quince sitting in her armchair with her arm in a paisley sling.
Katy, hovering over Quince, looked up, and grimaced. “Iced steps. That blackguard must have slunk close during the night and poured water over the back steps.”
“I went out first thing, like I always do, to fetch the milk for the babies.” Quince’s voice was gruff. “My feet went sailing from under me.” She pointed at her cradled arm. “I cracked this on the way down.”
Doctor Caliburn shut his black bag. “It’s a clean break, but it’ll be slow to mend. You mustn’t put any stress on that arm until it’s fully healed.”
Although he spoke to Quince, his eyes meaningfully touched Sarah’s. She turned to Quince. “You’ll have to take care, Quince. You’re the best with the babies—they need you healthy and well. Lily can come up and be your hands for you until your arm heals.”
“Aye, well, she’s already had to feed them this morning, and they do sleep for hours, but there’s the preparation and cleaning—the poor girl can’t do everything.”
“I’ll get someone from the village to come up and help. We’ll sort something out.” Exchanging a glance with Katy, Sarah turned to see the doctor out. “I’ll come back in a moment and we’ll plan.”
Doctor Caliburn waited until they were on the stairs to say, “I’m quite serious about her being extra careful. She’s not young, and old bones knit slowly.”
Ahead of him, Sarah asked, “How is she otherwise?”
“Badly shaken, I’d say, and she must be bruised, although she’d have none of the laudanum I suggested. Said she had to wake at the first cry from one of her charges.”
Sarah nodded. “I’ll have them move another bed up there for Lily, so Quince won’t have to cope alone, even at night.”
“Good.” Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Caliburn bowed over her hand. “And if you want someone extra who’s reliable, you might try Mrs. Cothercombe’s Lizzie. She’s a steady soul and good with children.”
“Thank you. I’ll stop by at the Cothercombes’ and ask if she can help.”
Sarah did, then rode slowly home. She was starting to feel like the Dutch boy plugging leaks in the dike; where and what would their next “leak” be?
More importantly, who was behind this? Could it really be a deranged simpleton now bent on revenge? Regardless, had they seen the last of the accidents, or were there more to come?
Those questions revolved in her head, following her through the rest of the day and into the evening.
Charlie couldn’t help but notice her absorption, her concern. Yet what it was over, what was so troubling her, he didn’t know; he didn’t even know if it involved the orphanage or something else. But the impulse to aid her, to ask and do and set things right, was eating him alive.
It was, quite literally, like a beast burrowing under his skin; he couldn’t ignore it.
But after his so-unwise words about certain aspects of her life not being of any interest to him—undoubtedly the most stupid remark he’d made in his life; how could he cherish and protect her if he didn’t know what was happening in her life?—he could do nothing to soothe the burning, incessant itch. On such matters, he could no longer ask and expect to be answered; he had to wait for her to tell him—if she ever did.
He’d lied, but he couldn’t take back the words, any more than he cou
ld admit the falsehood. If he did, he’d open the floodgates…and he was very sure he couldn’t handle what would ensue.
One thing she’d demonstrated over and over again was that their love was stronger than he was. Stronger than his will, powerful enough to override his determination. It could and assuredly would control him, and that he could never risk.
So…as the evening closed around them, he stared at the pages of his book, and tried to keep his attention on it, rather than on his wife, sitting on the chaise mending some threadbare towel, a frown deeply etched on her face.
By Friday morning Sarah was close to biting her nails, both anxious and frustrated, wondering when the next message from the orphanage would arrive and what news of disaster it would bring.
On Wednesday had come the news that the fences keeping the animals from the fields and the kitchen garden had been broken, and their small band of livestock had spent enough of the night trampling through the crops and vegetable plots to have ruined much of what was in the ground. Luckily, it was winter, and other than some early plantings in the kichen garden, they’d lost little more than cabbages, easy enough to replace.
Nevertheless she’d ridden north again, and spent most of the day soothing and calming, getting both the staff and children involved in redesigning the kitchen garden prior to replanting, then organizing with Kennett and Jim to have the fences repaired.
The unbudgeted expenditure wasn’t her primary worry. What would happen next was. Fences and wells were one thing; after Quince’s broken arm, she lived in dread that someone else would be hurt.
She’d spent the hours since wrestling with the question of what to do, if there even was anything they could do. She’d consulted with Skeggs and Mrs. Duncliffe, but no more than she could they imagine the constable in Watchet taking much notice of this sort of “crime,” let alone being of any practical help.
Sitting at her escritoire, she tapped a pencil on the blotter and grimaced. Meekly waiting for the next blow to fall went very much against her grain.
The Taste of Innocence Page 30
