The Lady Fan Series: Books 1-3 (Sapere Books Boxset Editions)

by Elizabeth Bailey

  “The man’s besotted.”

  “He is no such thing. Why, only the other day he was telling me how sorry he is for her with the horrid way the villagers go on.”

  “Sorry enough to put a ring on her finger, I don’t doubt.” Mrs. Radlett’s cheeks suffused once more under the concealing paint, and the suspicion could not but obtrude that there was more than one jealous heart at work in this scenario. Mr. Netherburn had passed out of sight, and Ottilia eagerly awaited his arrival in the coffee room.

  Francis downed the remainder of his tankard and slipped quickly out. He caught the parson up as the man started across the green.

  “Reverend Kinnerton!”

  The vicar halted and turned, a faint frown between his brows. As he came up to the man, Francis saw in the full daylight that his features were pallid and taut. Francis held out his hand.

  “Bravo, sir! I have seldom seen a more telling performance.” A tiny smile flickered in Kinnerton’s eyes as they shook hands. He looked a trifle bemused.

  “I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir. Are you of the village?”

  Francis smiled. “I’m a stranger to the place. But I gather you are newly arrived yourself?”

  “Indeed. I took office only yesterday.”

  “Baptism by fire?”

  Kinnerton laughed, and the dark that had been in his face was swept away.

  “You may well say so. But, forgive me. Your name, if you please?”

  “I am Fanshawe. Lord Francis Fanshawe, to be precise. And I am here by the veriest accident.”

  He related the story of the breakdown of his coach, reflecting that it was not perhaps the moment for the exact truth. Besides, how in the world did one explain the extreme oddity of Tillie’s insatiable curiosity in affairs of this kind?

  “Unfortunate,” commented the vicar. “I hope you may not be seriously incommoded by recent events.”

  Francis refrained from pointing out that it was his wife’s antics that would incommode him rather than the peculiar circumstances in the village.

  “Tell me, if you do not object,” he said instead, gesturing ahead and turning to walk at Kinnerton’s side, “a little more of this female who has been so badly treated. Do they really believe she is a witch?”

  “Mrs. Dale is her name. I have little knowledge of her beyond the fact that she sought sanctuary at the vicarage last night. I am glad her maid saw fit to bring her to me. The mood was ugly, and I dread to think what may have happened.”

  “You believe the villagers might have harmed her?”

  Kinnerton halted abruptly. “Did you not hear that fellow? I wish the villagers had not the habit of indulgence in the tavern. There is nothing like a meeting of like minds to whip up this sort of dangerous frenzy.”

  It was plain the man’s mind was too strongly on the potential fate of Mrs. Dale to be readily shifted to Francis’s whim — to wit, the blacksmith’s corpse. He bided his moment.

  “I rather think we ran into your protégée this morning.”

  Kinnerton’s blue gaze settled on Francis with a disconcerting suddenness. “Where?”

  “In the smithy.”

  The vicar’s lips tightened. “I wish she had not gone there. Indeed, I would have much preferred her to remain safely in my house.”

  Francis wished fervently for his wife’s intuitive powers, having no idea himself of how to direct the conversation into channels which might prove helpful. If forthrightness could serve him, he had best use it.

  “I gathered from Pakefield, our landlord at the Blue Pig there, that general opinion did not favour such a course.”

  He received another penetrating stare as Kinnerton frowned. “What does that mean? Be plain with me, if you please, sir.” As Francis hesitated, the parson reached out a hand, palm up in an oddly inviting gesture. “We are unacquainted, my lord, but these circumstances are unusual, to say the least. Besides, it is the burden of my profession that I must frequently dispense with formality.”

  Only faintly aware of an inner impulse, Francis gave his hand to the man and felt it shaken strongly. He nodded.

  “It is a bargain, sir.”

  “Then?”

  Despite his consent, Francis gave way with reluctance. “Not to put too fine a point on it, Pakefield says the villagers think it is the devil’s work in tempting a man of God from the path of virtue.”

  To his surprise, this caused an unexpected change in Kinnerton’s features. He grinned, and his whole countenance lightened.

  “Do you say so indeed? How very edifying to be freed from blame! It must amuse me if it were not an obvious excuse to heap up the evidence in Mrs. Dale’s disfavour.” Abruptly he frowned again. “What did you think of her?”

  Acutely assailable, Francis found himself in a quandary. It was evident the vicar had espoused the cause of the village witch. But was it wholly a matter of the compassion of his calling? A red-blooded male himself, Francis could not but suspect there might be another aspect involved. In which case, discretion dictated he moderate his real views on the subject of Mrs. Dale.

  “She seemed a trifle distraught,” he temporised. “Unsurprising, I would guess.”

  Kinnerton’s eyes darkened a little. “Yes. She blames herself, poor tortured soul.”

  Francis noted tautness about the man’s cheeks. He tried for a lighter note. “She is fortunate, perhaps, in your friendship. I am told Mrs. Pakefield heartily approves of you in the role of champion.”

  A faint smile touched the vicar’s lips. “I am glad. This persecution must cease. Not least because I suspect it deepens already livid scars.”

  Light dawned in Francis’s mind. “That is what you mean by saying she is tortured?”

  “Oh yes. I do not know if I am capable of the necessary succour, but such demons I can understand.”

  Francis could readily believe it. There was that in Kinnerton’s personality that hinted at unspoken sorrows. He wished fervently for Tillie’s insight.

  “Well, at least you may scotch these rumours of witchery,” he said, feeling the words to be of little value.

  The vicar’s eyes flashed. “I will do my damnedest, believe me. By God, I thought I had left such superstition behind me in darkest Africa!”

  Francis was struck by a sudden access of shadow in the fellow’s face, and he realised that despite his own lack, he had inadvertently stumbled upon a depth hitherto concealed. Intrigued, he prompted for more.

  “Africa?”

  Kinnerton nodded. “I chose to do God’s mission work, but my flesh proved unequal to the task.”

  “How so?”

  “I fell victim to a local disease, a form of fever.”

  Both amazed and shocked, Francis stared at him. “You appear to be remarkably brave, Mr. Kinnerton.”

  The parson laughed, a hollow sound. “I wish I were. I fear I am at heart a sad coward.”

  “That seems hardly credible.”

  “I assure you. When I recovered, I was too weak to remain in that continent and had perforce to return to England. But I am strong again, and I cannot find the courage to go back.” Thoroughly caught by these extraordinary revelations of the fellow’s character, Francis was conscious of a wave of sympathy. “Why should you feel it incumbent upon you to do so?”

  Kinnerton sighed. “Because my flock became lost to me while I lay helpless in my sickness. I would have had to begin all over again, and I could not face that.”

  “I understand you, I believe.”

  Kinnerton looked keenly at him. “Do you?”

  Francis smiled. “I think so. We all have our demons, Mr. Kinnerton. I am fortunate in my wife, who has laid most of mine to rest.”

  The vicar’s blue gaze rested on Francis, and he bore the scrutiny without comment. It was an odd encounter, and despite his inadequacies, he felt as if something of Tillie’s art had insinuated itself into him. She was the one with the knack of dropping into intimacy with strangers.

  Kinnerton s
miled. “I should like to meet your wife.”

  Francis seized opportunity. “Have you time now? She is waiting for me in the Blue Pig.”

  The arrival of Horace Netherburn in the coffee room was rapidly productive of a mood of frivolity in Ottilia that she found hard to contain. It was not so much his air of old-world gallantry, which she found quite touching, but rather the reactions he produced in the two women already present.

  He began by holding the door for Mrs. Pakefield as she came in with a laden tray, meanwhile doffing his hat and waving it expansively at the inhabitants of the parlour.

  “Ladies, dear ladies, forgive my unmannerly conduct and allow me to make my bow presently. But I could not reconcile it with my conscience to allow poor dear Hannah to struggle with the door while I paid my compliments to you.”

  An instant change in demeanour overcame Mrs. Radlett. Wreathed in smiles, she fluttered expressive hands.

  “Dear Mr. Netherburn, you need never stand on ceremony with us, as you know too well.” Then, to the landlady, waving a hand towards the table. “There now, Hannah, put it down, dear. Here, let me help you set it all out.”

  Rising, the widow proceeded to set the cups on saucers and place them appropriately, what time Mr. Netherburn busily closed the door and began his approach towards the table. Miss Beeleigh, who made no move to rise or to assist with the operation of setting out the accoutrements for the coffee, held up her hand to halt him.

  “Stay, Horace. Best make your bow to Lady Francis Fanshawe before you do the pretty to us.”

  A pair of pale eyes goggled at Ottilia out of features unremarkable save for sagging jowls and the stamp of years cutting deep creases into sallow skin.

  “Lady Francis Fanshawe? My dear ma’am, forgive me, pray. My manners, alas. I did not see you there.”

  An elegant leg accompanied this effusion, and Ottilia had the opportunity to take in the bagginess of the fellow’s very correct attire that signalled the wastage of flesh in the onset of age. At first glance, she had taken him for close on sixty, but she rapidly revised this estimate, placing him a good ten years beyond it. Which, if he was indeed hankering after the youthful Mrs. Dale, must set him in his dotage. She held out her hand as he rose from his bow.

  “How do you do, Mr. Netherburn?”

  Not much to Ottilia’s surprise, he bent again from the waist and kissed her hand.

  “Too kind, my lady, I am in excellent health. But to what,” he continued, releasing her, “do we owe the pleasure? A rare event in our uneventful lives.”

  “They seem to be excessively eventful today,” remarked Ottilia drily.

  “Yes, Horace, don’t be more of a fool than you can help,” snapped Miss Beeleigh. “Sit down, man.”

  “Alethea!” The widow threw a frown at her friend and immediately turned on smiles as she addressed the gentleman. “Sit by me, Mr. Netherburn, do. You must not take it amiss.”

  Mr. Netherburn had looked a trifle disconcerted, but he recovered swiftly as he manoeuvred himself around the back of Mrs. Radlett’s chair.

  “I think I know Miss Beeleigh well enough not to take offence.” He glanced at Ottilia. “You will find us very free, ma’am. Oh yes, very free. One cannot be standing upon one’s dignity in a village, you know. And my dependency is all upon my two dear friends, for we are few, so very few.”

  “True enough,” commented Miss Beeleigh. “Once you’ve counted Lady Ferrensby and Henbury, there’s only Meldreth. That’s the lot.”

  Mr. Netherburn threw up a hand. “How can you say so, dear Miss Beeleigh? Are you forgetting poor Mrs. Dale?”

  “I don’t count Cassie Dale,” returned the other. “She don’t add to the social round. Girl’s a recluse.”

  “No, no, I will not have you say so,” protested Mr. Netherburn. “She mourns still, poor creature. Mark my words, she will come out of her shell in due time.”

  “Not if the whole village insists she’s responsible for Duggleby’s death.”

  Mrs. Radlett, who had busied herself pouring the coffee, looked up at this.

  “Oh dear, Alethea, I had near forgot all the upset. Cannot we talk of something else?”

  “Dear Mrs. Radlett,” broke in Mr. Netherburn, seizing her free hand and giving it a squeeze. “Always so sensitive, so sympathetic.”

  Ottilia did not miss the glance that flickered from the pale eyes towards Miss Beeleigh, as if to emphasise the lack of sensitivity in that quarter. Trusting she would not be similarly stigmatised, she thrust the talk back in the direction that suited her.

  “Have you any opinion on this business, Mr. Netherburn?”

  He looked flattered and preened a little. “Who has not, Lady Francis? I cannot remember a blacker day in the village, not even when poor Mr. Uddington lost his wife.”

  “She died?”

  “Ran away,” said Miss Beeleigh succinctly. “And took the boy with her.”

  Mrs. Radlett’s evident love of gossip overcame her, and she set down her cup, leaning eagerly towards Ottilia.

  “It was years ago. Five or six at least.”

  “Seven,” stated Miss Beeleigh.

  “Is it so long? I remember it was just after I came here, when dear Alethea took me in. A shocking thing!”

  Ottilia could not resist. “What, that Miss Beeleigh took you in? It sounds a most charitable proceeding.”

  “No, no, I don’t mean that.”

  “Nothing in it,” said Miss Beeleigh in a flat tone that gave the lie to an odd expression of intensity in the almond eyes. “We were schoolfellows. When I heard how things had been left when Radlett died, seemed sense to pool our resources. We deal well together.”

  “Indeed we do,” agreed the widow, but with a darting look of doubt at Mr. Netherburn that caught Ottilia’s attention.

  “I understand,” she said, “but what of this Mrs. Uddington? Why did she run away?”

  Although Miss Beeleigh threw in another of her habitual snorts and Mr. Netherburn shook a grave head, Mrs. Radlett’s attention focused instantly.

  “It was said she’d betrayed her husband. And who do you think was the culprit?” Ottilia guessed from the portentous pause just what was coming but forbore from stealing the woman’s thunder. “Duggleby.”

  Chapter 5

  Mrs. Radlett sat back with an air of satisfaction. Ottilia knew her duty.

  “Dear me, you don’t say so? The blacksmith himself?”

  “Pah! None knows the truth of it, of course.” Thus Miss Beeleigh.

  Mr. Netherburn leaned in, excitement throwing pink into his cheeks.

  “I had forgot it. But don’t you see how this changes everything? How may anyone blame poor Mrs. Dale when there is Uddington with the strongest of grudges against the dead man?”

  “But why should he wait seven years to take his revenge?” objected Ottilia.

  Her auditors looked struck; all but Miss Beeleigh, who nodded.

  “True. Don’t make sense.”

  “It is a consideration,” agreed Mr. Netherburn, sitting back again, but with disappointment in his face.

  “Well, but he might bide his time, waiting for an opportunity,” offered the widow, patently unwilling to relinquish this promising avenue.

  Ottilia smiled. “Perhaps Mr. Uddington is not the only man to hold a grudge against this Duggleby. He does not seem to have been a popular fellow. Who were his friends, do you know?”

  “Always been thick as thieves with Tisbury,” stated Miss Beeleigh.

  “Not forgetting Staxton,” put in Mr. Netherburn. “One could not take oneself into the Cock without finding the three together.”

  “Yes, and Bertha Duggleby said she’d had comfort from Molly Tisbury last night,” added Mrs. Radlett.

  Ottilia put up a finger. “I would not set too much store by settled friendships. I have had occasion to observe that broken friendships produce the greatest enmity.”

  Miss Beeleigh was nodding. “You are very right, Lady Francis. Horace, had
you noticed of late any reduction in amity among those three men?”

  Mr. Netherburn sipped his coffee, evidently subjecting the question to examination. At last he shook his head.

  “I cannot say I have noticed anything of the kind. But I am bound to state that all three were apt to exhibit an ill-tempered manner on occasion.”

  “It would be unlikely to manifest at this present,” Ottilia said, “for people tend to band together in times of trouble, do you not think?”

  “They are certainly banding together against poor Mrs. Dale,” said Mr. Netherburn, a peevish note entering his voice.

  “Indeed yes,” agreed Mrs. Radlett. “Had the vicar not intervened last night, I must say I dread to think of the consequences.”

  Miss Beeleigh set down her cup with a snap. “I’d forgot the new vicar. His arrival should content you, Horace. Another face to add to the social circle. Young, too. Daresay he might winkle Cassie Dale out of her shell.”

  Ottilia watched Horace Netherburn colour up and noted the dagger look cast upon her friend by Mrs. Radlett. By good fortune, she caught motion through the window in the periphery of her vision and looked out.

  “Oh, there is my husband. Dear me, is that perhaps the vicar with him?”

  As one, the three visitors turned to look out of the window.

  “Is it?”

  “Not met the fellow yet, so we can’t know.”

  “Ah yes,” came from Netherburn. “He’s the fellow on the right. I caught a sight of him earlier and thought it must be Kinnerton.”

  This was enough for Ottilia. She rose swiftly. “Pray excuse me for a moment. I must speak to my husband.”

  Without pausing for a response, she darted to the door and was into the hall and outside before any could think of accompanying her. She had no wish to make the vicar’s acquaintance in the company of the village gossips, who would undoubtedly hamper her in a bid to discover all she might of the witch’s champion.

  She waved to Francis as she sped down the path through the cobbles and was relieved to see him halt on the green to wait for her.

  “We were just on our way in to find you, my love,” he said and turned to his companion. “Allow me to present my wife, Lady Francis Fanshawe. This is the Reverend Mr. Kinnerton, who has only just taken up his living at the vicarage.”