But no, she could not depend on finding a husband for herself. Such thoughts were foolish, however friendly Charles Leatham had become.
One day, when Caroline was in the still room with Susie and Molly, agitated voices could be heard in the kitchen — a woman’s, high with distress, and a man’s, loud and angry. Martin, remonstrating with someone. Then a baby’s cry.
“Ruby!” Molly said. “She’s here again.”
“Ruby? And what do you mean, again?” Caroline said.
“She came here two or three times while you were off with your grand friends,” Molly said. “Looking for Poppy.”
“That baby won’t stop crying, poor little mite,” Susie said. “Where is Poppy, anyway?”
“Feedin’ the chickens,” Molly said. “I’ll fetch her.”
In the kitchen, Ruby was crying, the baby was crying and Martin was yelling at her. “You can’t stay here, girl. You got to go back to the farm where you belong.”
“Oh Susie! Miss Milburn!” Ruby cried. “Is Poppy here? Where is she?”
Susie lifted the wailing baby from her mother’s arms. “In the garden, Mrs Neilson. Molly’s gone to find her. Let me hold Mary for a while and you sit down and have a cup of tea. That’ll make you feel better. There now, little one, hush your noise, for Susie’s here now. Sshh, now, there’s a good girl, for you’re making your poor mama all upset. Sshhh… Martin, shoo, you’re not needed here. Miss Milburn, would you mind? Just while I make the tea.”
She held the baby out, a red-faced bundle of waving arms and kicking legs. Gingerly, Caroline took hold of it.
“Rock her a bit and talk to her. That’ll soothe her.”
Gently, Caroline rocked and murmured, “Hush, hush…” while Susie bustled around with the kettle and some mugs, and by some miracle, the child did indeed quieten down a little, although still weeping. Susie made tea and produced some cakes not long out of the oven.
The kitchen door flew open and there was Poppy. “Oh, the poor little mite!” she cried, whisking her out of Caroline’s arms. “There now, little one, Poppy’s here.”
To Caroline’s astonishment, the child instantly stopped crying.
“There now, that’s better,” Susie said, pouring tea. “Drink that, Mrs Neilson, and have a cake.”
Obediently, Ruby sat at the big kitchen table and sipped and nibbled, and in between each mouthful she sobbed piteously.
“It’s no good, I just can’t make her stop cryin’,” she wailed. “She cries all night and then I’m so tired I’m fit for nothin’ the next day and Davy’s mother shouts at me and says I’m useless, and I’m sure there’s somethin’ wrong with her. Davy says I fuss too much but how can I help it when she cries all the time? There must be somethin’ wrong, mustn’t there?”
“She’s a fine healthy baby,” Susie said firmly. “I’ve seen a few babes in my time, and your Mary’s as fine and plump as any I’ve seen. When Miss Poppy were a babe, she were so thin you could see all her little ribs, and look how strong she turned out, and your Mary’s a lot stouter than she was.”
“That’s what everyone tells me, but…”
“And everyone’s right,” Susie said firmly. “Now drink your tea, and eat a currant cake or two, and then we’ll take you back to the farm.”
Ruby seemed to shrivel into herself. “Don’t want to go back.”
“I’m sure you don’t, but your husband’s there so that’s where your place is.”
“I wish… I wish we could have a little place of our own, not livin’ at the farm,” Ruby said wistfully. “A cottage, be it ever so small, or even a couple of rooms somewhere, but out from Mrs Neilson’s eye. I’d do better if she wasn’t always watchin’ me.”
“Why can’t you?” Caroline said, absentmindedly reaching for a currant cake.
“No cottages to be had, not that we could afford,” Ruby said. “Davy’s savin’ up, but his pa don’t give him much money. Bein’ the eldest, he’ll have the whole farm in time, but his pa says that means he don’t get wages like his brothers.”
“Well, there’s something in that,” Caroline said thoughtfully, “but if someone were to offer you accommodation elsewhere, rent-free, no one would mind that, would they? Somewhere close enough that your husband could easily get to the farm.”
Ruby gaped at her, her expression such a mixture of hope and disbelief that Caroline wanted to cry. Stretching across the table, she took Ruby’s hand in hers. “We have rooms above the stables. One end is the hay store, but the other end is fitted out for a coachman to live in. Just a couple of rooms, and some cupboards, but—”
Ruby burst into fresh tears. “You never would! Would you? Do that for us?”
“I believe I would,” Caroline said. “You’d have Poppy here to help with the baby, and you can give Susie a hand with her work. I was wondering how we were to manage when we have Mr Stratton living here, and John Christopher as well. We’ll need an extra servant. We could pay you ten pounds a year, to start with.”
“You’d pay me?” she whispered. “My own money? Oh, Miss Milburn!”
~~~~~
Charles felt that his suit was progressing satisfactorily now that the threat of a rival had been removed. He could not have been more pleased about Will’s betrothal to Mildred, for it removed two thorns from his side in one stroke. He continued to visit Caroline each morning, and was confident that she was now firmly his friend. But how to progress from friendship to something more was a question that puzzled him. His book was annoyingly silent on the subject. He now knew all about cleanliness of person, absence of mind and sundry little accomplishments, but on the question of love and marriage not a word was said. He had resorted, in odd moments, to flicking through the pages of novels in case a proposal should be described therein, but so far he had had no luck. So he called on Caroline, and occasionally had the pleasure of meeting her over dinner, but was no nearer to a betrothal.
One morning before breakfast, he was in the parlour at Bursham Cottage, as usual. He had reached the last but one chapter of his book, on dignity of manners, and was finding it distressingly apt. ‘If you discover any hastiness in your temper, and find it apt to break out into rough and unguarded expressions, watch it narrowly and endeavour to curb it,’ the book said uncompromisingly.
“I do endeavour to curb it,” he said miserably, “but it is my greatest failing.”
“Do you think so?” she said, looking up from her work with quick interest. “It seems to me that your temper is a great deal less hasty than it was. We have not quarrelled for weeks and weeks.”
She smiled at him with such warmth that he was suddenly breathless. Oh, those treacle eyes, and the smooth, dark hair and creamy skin that he so badly wanted to touch. And her lips… such red lips, warm and mobile and oh so enticing…
He would speak. Here, now, when love for her flooded his veins and gave him the courage to brave even her disdainful refusal. He must speak, the need to touch her, to hold her was too powerful to be borne.
“Caroline—”
A knock on the door. The moment was lost. Perhaps it was just as well, because if she refused him again… all these delightful hours in her company could not be continued. She would be lost to him for ever, no more than a common acquaintance. Yes, just as well to be interrupted. A refusal would be too hard to bear.
It was Stratton, the attorney.
“Sorry to disturb you, Caro, but I plan to take Richmond to the farrier, and Martin wishes to take the cob along, too, but he thinks the fellow will want his bill paying.”
“It is not Michaelmas yet, but we do owe him quite a large amount, what with your mama’s carriage horses,” Caroline said. “I’ll have to get some money from the safe. Wait here a moment.”
She returned in a very short time with a pile of coins, which Lester accepted before disappearing back to the stables. He did not know her well enough to notice anything amiss, but Charles did.
“Whatever is the matter?” he said quietl
y. “You are as white as chalk.”
She turned wide, fearful eyes on him. “Come, and I will show you.”
In the study, she led him to a corner and opened a cupboard door. Hidden behind it was the safe.
“Do you see?” she said, pointing at it.
“I see nothing untoward.”
“Scratch marks, all round the key hole. Someone has tried to break into the safe.”
28: The Silver Box
Charles stared at the safe. Now that Caroline had pointed them out, the scratches were obvious, and there were many of them. Not deep gouges, for the safe was constructed of the most solid type of metal, but enough to show that someone had laboured here with some determination.
“Is anything missing?” he said quietly, not wanting to alert the servants to the situation and create an alarm.
She shook her head. “The money box contains the exact amount it should hold, and apart from that, there is only the silver box.”
“The silver box?”
“One of several dug up from the kitchen garden, each containing five hundred pounds of notes drawn on a London bank. The contents of the others are in the bank, but the silver box is locked, so it’s stayed in the safe until I remember to take it to the locksmith.”
“Curious. And who would know of this silver box? You and your sisters, John Christopher, the servants… anyone else?”
“Mr Stratton. And you, now,” she added with a little smile.
Once again he was mesmerised. She was so lovely when she smiled, with a warmth in those dark eyes that quite unmanned him. He had to force himself to concentrate. “Hmpf. If the servants know, you may be sure that everyone in the parish knows, too. When did you last open the safe?”
“Not since before we went to Narfield Lodge. This is the first time I’ve needed more money than I had in my reticule. There were no scratches on the safe then, I’m sure. They’re so obvious I would have noticed, and what worries me most…” She paused, chewing her lip anxiously. “The previous time someone tried to break into the safe, there were—”
“This is not the first such occasion?” he said, anxiety making his voice sharp.
“No. The first time, someone just walked in while we were at church and the kitchen door was left unlocked. They searched the desk drawers and cupboards but nothing was taken. The second time, he broke in at night and found the safe, but again nothing was taken. We had all the locks changed, and the shutters made secure, and this is the first time he’s been able to get in since then. Mr Leatham, here’s what worries me… he must have been here for some time, working away at the lock with some kind of metal tools, yet there’s no sign of candle wax anywhere.”
“Your maid is very thorough, perhaps,” he said. “But you think he was here during the day?”
“Yes, and how could he do so without the servants knowing about it?”
“Ah.” He considered all the implications of that, and none of them were good. “Is it possible they forgot to lock up when they went to church, and someone got in then?”
“And how would anyone know to try the door on that particular day?” she said at once. “No, either the would-be thief was admitted by one or other of the servants, or…” She heaved a breath. “…or it was one of the servants who did this. And I think it could only be Martin,” she added miserably. “Susie has been with us for years, since before Poppy was born, and Molly… I don’t see Molly sitting here trying to break open a safe.”
“Well, let us find out,” he said grimly.
It took some determined searching to find Martin, who was fast asleep in the hayloft, but as soon as he was accused, the explanation came tumbling out.
“I never let no one in, ’onest, but… but I like to pop down to the Wheatsheaf of an evenin’, just to ’ave a bit of a natter with the lads, and… and maybe a jug of ale, and Molly weren’t ’appy to wait up to let me back in and I weren’t ’appy to leave the kitchen door unlocked, so I took the spare key and… and I must ’ave dropped it somewhere, cos one time I ’ad it when I left ’ere and it were gone when I got back. I think someone must ’ave found it.”
There was enough honesty in his face, as well as fear, for Charles to believe him, and Molly confirmed the story.
“Aye, ’e’s that daft, an’ so I told ’im, ’e’d lose ’is ’ead if it weren’t screwed on,” she said. “Lost the flamin’ key, the daft fella, and too terrified to say a word about it.”
“Any idea who might have taken it?” Charles said, but seemingly half the male population of Bursham St Matthew had been in the Wheatsheaf on that particular evening.
“I’ll wager it was Grison,” Caroline said darkly.
“Whoever it was, they did not succeed,” Charles said. “We must give them no reason to try again. As much money as possible must be taken to the bank for safety. I am sure Stratton will be happy to undertake such a commission as soon as he returns from the farrier. Then we need only make it known that there is nothing left in the safe and you will not be troubled again.”
Caroline agreed to it, so as soon as Stratton returned, she opened the safe and removed the silver box.
“I can deposit this directly into the bank’s vaults,” Stratton said. “There is no need to break it open.”
“It is a delicate thing, though,” Charles said. “Such a tiny lock! We might take a leaf from our thief’s notebook, and try some tools to open it. Miss Milburn, may I borrow one of your hairpins?”
To his amusement, she blushed scarlet. “Not unless you wish to see my hair tumbled all down my back, sir,” she said indignantly.
“While that would indeed be delightful, I shall not so embarrass you. One of your lacemaking pins would do perfectly well.”
Still blushing, she scuttled away to fetch one, returning in a few moments rather more composed. How charming she was! And how much he longed to see her hair tumbled down her back and run his hands through it…
Breathing a little faster than normal, he sat down at the desk with the box and carefully jiggled the pin in the lock. It took some time, but he was patient and eventually the little lock yielded to his probing with a soft click.
“There you are, Miss Milburn.”
“How clever you are! Thank you!” She raised the lid. Inside was a well-wrapped package, with several layers of oiled cloth to be peeled away. But then…
“Oh. It is not money at all, just papers. Letters… no… I don’t know what these are. I can’t read them.”
Charles picked up a couple. “Latin, I think. Legal documents. Stratton? Can you make anything of them?”
“Not Latin,” he said. “Italian.”
“Oh!” Caroline cried. “Lord Elland’s documents! That’s what they must be. Something to show that he wasn’t entitled to be the baron. He asked me for them, but I told him, quite truthfully, that I hadn’t seen them. Apparently, my grandfather tried to get money from him with them but he refused to pay. He told me he would never submit to blackmail.”
“Fine words,” Stratton said grimly, raising his head from the documents he had been perusing. “But that is all they were — words. I cannot make out all of it, but these documents do indeed cast doubt on Lord Elland’s parentage. It is very clear now what has happened here. Wishaw found these papers, and Lord Elland has been paying for his silence at the rate of five hundred pounds a year. That is what all those buried purses were about. And now that Wishaw is dead, his lordship is trying to recover the papers by whatever means he can.”
“Lord Elland didn’t try to break open my safe!” Caroline cried.
“No, but someone did so on his orders,” Stratton said. “Grison would be my guess. Martin has doubtless told everyone at the Wheatsheaf about the interesting silver box in the safe. Grison drinks there too, so he would have heard the tale and reported it to Lord Elland. No doubt he spotted the key Martin had dropped and pocketed it. Caro, it is for you and your sisters to decide what to do with these. Everything in the house and grounds is your
s, in law.”
“But the documents belong to Lord Elland.”
“Not so. These are only copies of register entries in Italy. You may choose whether to give them to Lord Elland, to send them to the House of Lords or… or to burn them.”
“There is a fourth option,” Charles said pensively. “There is a crime here — someone tried to break open the safe, and I should very much like to see that person caught and dealt with under the law. We could let it be known that the documents have been found, and entice Caroline’s burglar into a last attempt—”
“No,” Caroline said.
“—to retrieve them.
“But we will be waiting,” Stratton said, with a sudden grin.
“No!”
“This is going to be so much fun,” Charles said, grinning back.
Caroline threw up her hands with a sigh of resignation. “Men!”
~~~~~
They spent two days working out the details. Caroline left them to it, wanting no part of such foolishness. She had two weddings to prepare for, the coach house rooms to be cleaned up and furnished, Ruby, Davy and the baby to be settled in, and her own turbulent feelings to be ruthlessly suppressed. She veered each day between spikes of delirious hope and utter despondency, depending entirely on whether Charles smiled at her or not. Sometimes she was sure she saw something in his eyes that must be admiration or even love, yet at other times he was coolly polite to her and she decided miserably that she must be mistaken.
The day arrived when the plan would be put into execution. The story they had come up with was that they had found some papers in a foreign language which they could not interpret. Lester had arranged for a linguist to call the next morning to determine what the papers were and advise what should be done with them. That would give the thief only that night to make a final attempt to steal the papers. Since it would defeat the object if the box were to be locked away in the safe, they put it about that the lock was damaged and until it could be repaired, the valuables would be kept in the bottom drawer of the desk. Martin was to tell everyone he met, including his friends at the Wheatsheaf, so that the story would be sure to reach the thief’s ears.
The Lacemaker (Silver Linings Mysteries Book 2) Page 29
