A Deception at Thornecrest

by Ashley Weaver

  I turned away from the window and took one last look in my bedroom mirror. Springtime was in full bloom, and I along with it. Despite Winnelda’s claims that I was still too thin, I felt very round and healthy.

  I had chosen a flattering pale blue silk dress for the day and my most comfortable pair of low-heeled leather shoes. I also wore a straw hat decorated with a blue ribbon and white roses.

  Though the weather promised to be fair, there was a cool breeze, so I selected a loose jacket in a complementary shade of darker blue over my dress. All the better to hide my “condition,” I supposed, though it wasn’t as if everyone didn’t already know there was a baby on the way. But I realized it was going to take some time before the sentiments of the older generations regarding impending motherhood would become more modern.

  The baby moved, apparently agreeing, and I pressed my hand to my stomach. “It’s a lovely day, little one. I’m glad you’ll be here soon to see the springtime.”

  Milo drove us from Thornecrest in his Le Mans. He had always enjoyed careening about the winding village roads, startling birds and skimming hedgerows, but I had noticed that he drove more carefully these days. I could only suppose that it was in deference to my condition, and it was yet another change to which I would have to grow accustomed.

  He parked the car in the shade of an elm tree not far from the festival grounds, and we walked along the path, which led to a slight rise of land that allowed us to look down at the festival spread before us. We paused for a moment, taking in the cheery sight.

  The tents looked bright and clean, scattered across the green in the morning sunlight. Colorful flags and banners fluttered in the wind, and flower garlands bedecked the different stalls where vendors sold their wares. The smell of sausage and popcorn and fresh pastries wafted through the air, making my mouth water. I was eager to try all of the delicacies. In addition to the items for sale, I knew the afternoon tea, hosted by the ladies of the planning committee, would offer myriad delectable treats.

  It made a pretty picture, and the sound of music and the laughter of children and adults alike floated up to us. I thought how nice it would be to bring my own child to the festival in years to come.

  “Ready for merrymaking?” Milo asked me.

  “I am indeed,” I replied, taking his arm as we began making our way toward the festival grounds.

  We were early, but the crowds were beginning to form. It seemed as though half the village had arrived already, and we exchanged greetings with several villagers as we reached the outskirts of the festival. There was a celebratory mood in the air, and everyone seemed bright-eyed and jolly.

  I noticed that the clothes of the attendees were as brightly colored as the festival flags. Several of the women had brought out their spring florals, and most of the men had shed their tweeds in favor of lighter linen and seersucker.

  Even Milo, whose sartorial choices tended toward darker colors, wore a pale blue jacket with light-colored trousers. He went hatless as he was often wont to do in fair weather, and his hair gleamed blue-black in the sunlight.

  We crossed the green and made our way into the maze of tables and tents. In addition to edible wares, there were vendors selling an impressive array of local items. I spotted finely crafted wooden furniture, whittled decorative pieces and intricately carved walking sticks, homemade soaps, and quilts and beautifully knitted blankets among the wares for sale. I made a mental note to purchase some items for the baby before we left for the day.

  A tent was set up for the competitions. As we passed by it, I saw that already a table full of a variety of pickled vegetables in gleaming jars and a table of pies and cakes were awaiting judging later in the day.

  In another section of the grounds, there were games set up where one might win a variety of prizes. Several young men in smart clothes and straw boaters were attempting to claim trophies for their ladies, who cheered and clapped their gloved hands at the antics of their suitors.

  Children ran here and there in packs, playing and laughing in delight as they spied the various amusements. I reflected again how glad I would be to share this happy tradition with our child.

  There was, amid the hubbub and gaiety, a sense of anticipation in the air. In the village, the Springtide Festival marked the symbolic beginning of spring. And today felt like spring. The air was light and warm, as though with the promise of blue skies and blooms in the days to come.

  I spotted Lady Alma in the crowd as we wandered leisurely through the grounds. It was not difficult to do, as she was dressed in tan trousers tucked into boots and a blazer of bright red tweed. As usual, one had the impression that she might leap onto the back of a horse and gallop away at any moment.

  She was talking animatedly to Mr. Yates, a local farmer, but then she looked up and spotted us. She said something to the man and then strode in our direction.

  “Ames, glad to see you,” she said without preamble when she reached us. “I’ve just acquired a mare I want to breed with that brute of yours.”

  Though this subject was a bit less-than-polite conversation, I knew the two of them were accustomed to discussing such matters whenever they were together. They played their horses against each other like other people played chess.

  “Good morning, Lady Alma,” Milo replied. “I’m afraid I’ve more pressing matters of breeding near at hand, but we can certainly discuss it in the future.”

  This uncouth reference to my pregnancy earned Milo an elbow to the ribs, and he suppressed a smile.

  “Come by anytime,” said Lady Alma. “My mare is called Medusa. She’s black as sin, twice as mean, and three times as fast. Sired by Damocles. Nearly won the Derby, you remember?”

  “Yes, he was a fine horse. I’d heard he’d sired a foal a year or two back. High-tempered, is she?”

  She nodded. “A nasty beast, to be sure. Bites and kicks with no provocation. Most of my grooms won’t go near her. But she’s a beauty and runs like the wind.”

  “There was a lot of talk about the potential sale when she was born, and then I heard nothing more about it.” Though he didn’t sound particularly interested in the matter, I suspected Milo was irritated he had missed out on the sale.

  Lady Alma seemed to have intuited as much, for she gave him a sly smile. “One has to stay on top of these things, Ames. The owner died, and I talked his heir into selling her. Cost me a pretty penny, I can tell you, but I think she’ll be worth it. Bred with your Xerxes, I can’t imagine a finer racer. I’ll pay you a handsome stud fee.”

  I blinked but hid my surprise, reminding myself that such plain speaking was common among horse breeders.

  “I’ll come by one day next week to discuss it with you,” Milo said.

  This transaction concluded to her satisfaction, Lady Alma’s gaze finally came to me. “And how are you, Mrs. Ames?”

  I was always a bit amused by the way in which the daughter of an earl was so careless of social niceties. In a way, I appreciated that she followed her own rules. I knew all too well how tedious the traditions of society could be, and there was something admirable about Lady Alma’s disregard for them.

  “I’m very well, thank you, Lady Alma. And you?”

  “Excellent, excellent. This is my favorite time of year.” She ran her eyes over me as she likely did her horses. “You look well. A bit rounder, I think, than when we last met at the vicarage. Won’t be long before there’s another fine addition to the Ames stables, eh?”

  “I … ah … I suppose so, in a manner of speaking.”

  “It’s an excellent time for offspring,” she said. “I look forward to hearing news of the new arrival at Thornecrest.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Oh, there’s old Henson,” she said suddenly. “I need to speak to him. Excuse me, will you?”

  And then she was gone.

  I looked at Milo, who smiled broadly. “If Lady Alma says this is an excellent time for offspring, you’re fortunate indeed.”

  “I’
m doubly lucky, really,” I replied as I began to walk away. “I didn’t even have to pay a stud fee.”

  He stared after me for a moment before laughing heartily and striding forward to catch up with me.

  * * *

  AS THE MORNING wore on, Milo and I continued our amble through the festival grounds, taking our time enjoying what the various booths and stalls had to offer. As we walked, we enjoyed huffkins, the dimpled pastries filled with stewed cherries and topped with a dollop of fresh cream.

  Though Milo was much more at home in the smoky confines of nightclubs and gambling parlors, he seemed to be enjoying the simple country amusements as well as the sunshine and fresh air. He looked particularly at ease this morning—his eyes bright, his smile flashing often—as we walked along, greeting the various villagers. Milo, despite his somewhat reckless reputation, was well-liked among the people of the village. The women found him handsome and charming, as women generally did, and the men found him knowledgeable and ready to converse on everything from horses to the state of their hops crop.

  I was glad that he seemed to be enjoying himself, though I knew that the matter of what to do about Darien must still be on his mind.

  I wondered if his contentment had something to do with the festival itself, and I realized suddenly that I had never thought to ask him about his early experiences here.

  “Did you look forward to the festival as a child?” I asked.

  “Before I was sent off to school, it was one of my favorite amusements. Almost as good as Christmas.”

  I smiled. “Madame Nanette would bring you here, I suppose,” I said, referring to his childhood nanny, the woman who had raised him when his mother died.

  “Yes. She would bring me and would then spend the rest of the day trying to find me, as I ran wild with the pack.”

  I could picture it very well. Milo had never been a docile sort of a person. Even in the one childhood photograph I had seen of him, there had been a spark of mischief in his eyes.

  “She always caught up with me at the races, though.”

  I knew that, for many people, the races were the highlight of the festival, and I suspected that there was still a bit of the excited boy that was waiting for the sound of the starting pistol in Milo.

  We stopped walking then, as we had reached the edge of the festival grounds. Before us, in the distance, stood Bedford Priory. As its name denoted, the manor was an Elizabethan priory that Lady Alma had purchased thirty years before.

  Despite being preceded by four brothers and the weight of entailment, she had been left a handsome inheritance by her father, the late earl, and she had set about modernizing the Priory’s interior and building the finest set of stables, excepting Milo’s, in the county.

  A copse of trees hid the stables from our view at this vantage point, but one could make out the pastureland and the neat lines of her pasture fences.

  “She’s done a fine job with the Priory,” Milo said. “It would no doubt have fallen into ruin without her, and now it’s one of the finest manors this side of London.”

  High praise indeed from my husband.

  We turned back toward the festival and began making our way through again. Though I had sampled the huffkins and a slice of Folkestone pudding pie, I was now inclined toward Canterbury tart. Whatever Winnelda said, I was eating more now than I ever had in my life. It seemed our baby had a very healthy appetite.

  A moment later we encountered the vicar and Mrs. Busby. She wore a cheery yellow dress with a lace shawl draped across her lap and he stood behind her wheelchair, his genial face beaming at us.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Ames, good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning. The festival seems to be a great success. We’re having a lovely time.”

  “Everything’s going so well,” said Mrs. Busby exultantly. “I’m so happy. It’s always such a relief when one’s plans come to fruition, isn’t it?”

  “Your hard work is seeing its rewards.”

  “And nature has decided to cooperate,” Mr. Busby said. “It seems the Almighty indeed smiled upon us.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “The weather couldn’t have been lovelier.”

  “I suppose you’re looking forward to the races, Mr. Ames?” Mr. Busby said, turning to Milo. As I had often done in the past, I admired his knack for knowing just the right way to draw people into conversation. It was a useful skill for a vicar, I imagined.

  “Indeed,” Milo agreed. “It’s always interesting to see what sort of horseflesh the locals are breeding.”

  “Mr. Yates has a young mare that looks particularly promising.”

  “I thought the same. She’s got spirit and an excellent gait.”

  The two went on talking about horses, and Mrs. Busby leaned toward me, lowering her voice. “Have you seen Marena yet this morning?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m afraid I haven’t.”

  Mrs. Busby frowned. “She said last night that she planned to be here early and was already gone from the vicarage when the vicar and I left, but I haven’t seen her either.”

  My suspicious mind wondered if she had met with Darien. I thought they would probably avoid the festival, if that was the case.

  “I do worry about her sometimes,” Mrs. Busby said. “In many ways, she has been like a daughter to me.” That sad, faraway look came into her eyes as she said it, and I knew she was thinking about the daughter she had lost. Then she shook off her melancholy and offered me a bright smile. “I’m sure she is about somewhere.”

  “Well, my dear,” said the vicar, breaking into our conversation. “Shall we take some time to investigate the pastries at that booth across the way?”

  “If you say so, Edward,” she said with a smile.

  “You must try the huffkins,” I said.

  “We shall.”

  He tipped his hat to us. “Good day, Mr. and Mrs. Ames. I’m sure our paths shall cross again before the day is out.”

  “Good day, vicar,” I answered. We stepped aside as he began to push her chair, moving it with practiced ease across the smoothest patches of ground.

  “I’m happy everything has gone well,” I said, looking after them. “Mrs. Busby puts so much effort into things.”

  “They do seem to enjoy doing all they can for the villagers,” Milo agreed. “An admirable trait in a vicar.”

  I turned to look at them again and saw that Bertie Phipps had appeared. He was hatless and dressed in riding clothes, his sleeves rolled up to reveal his brawny forearms. I thought it lucky that Darien had not suffered worse than a bloodied lip when he punched him.

  I was about to turn away, when something caught my notice. Mrs. Busby was preoccupied talking to a vendor, and the vicar stood slightly behind her. Bertie noticed and approached Mr. Busby, hesitantly at first, then with more boldness.

  Given what Winnelda had told me, I watched the exchange with interest.

  To my surprise, it seemed that there was a moment of terse conversation. Clearly, Mr. Busby and Bertie disagreed about something. I still found it difficult to believe that Bertie would’ve stolen anything; perhaps that was what he was saying now, that he was innocent.

  I glanced at Mrs. Busby. She was still talking with the huffkins woman and didn’t seem to have noticed what was going on behind her.

  My gaze moved back to the vicar just in time to see him shake his head as an envelope passed between him and Bertie. Bertie tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

  Curious.

  Mrs. Busby turned then, and I saw her expression slip as she realized Bertie was there. She nodded to him, a bit coolly, I thought. The vicar’s expression remained unreadable, though I could see that his shoulders had tensed, and his hands were holding tightly to the handles of Mrs. Busby’s wheelchair.

  Bertie mumbled something, gave a little nod, and turned away from them at last, his expression clouded. He moved quickly toward us, seemingly with no thought to where he was headed, and might have run directly into me had
Milo not held out a hand to stop his progress.

  “Be careful there, old chap.”

  Bertie stopped, looking from Milo to me and back again. “Oh, Mr. Ames, Mrs. Ames. I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  “So I noticed,” Milo said. “Is everything all right?”

  Bertie flushed, looking away. “Yes. Fine.”

  “You’re sure?” I asked softly.

  He hesitated, and I thought for a moment he was going to say something about what had happened with the Busbys. But he only nodded. “I’m sure.”

  “Ready to ride Molly in the races?” Milo asked.

  “Yes, sir. I’m looking forward to it.” I was surprised that the usual enthusiasm was lacking in his tone. Whatever was on his mind must be something serious.

  “We’ll be cheering for you, of course,” I said.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Ames. I … I suppose I’d better go make sure Molly is ready.”

  “Of course. We’ll see you later, Bertie,” I told him cheerfully.

  He walked a few steps from us and then turned back.

  “Mr. Ames, what would you do if you knew a secret, and someone would get hurt no matter what you did with it?”

  I looked at Milo, hoping he wouldn’t give one of his standard flippant replies. To my relief, he seemed to realize as well as I did the weight with which Bertie had imbued the question. “I suppose I’d have to consider the options and choose to protect what mattered most.”

  Bertie nodded. Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

  8

  “WHAT DO YOU suppose that was all about?” I asked Milo.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you suppose we ought to ask him about it?”

  “Darling,” Milo said, taking my hand in his and bringing it to his lips. “You don’t have to solve everyone’s problems.”

  I sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

  And so I determined to forget the matter and enjoy the festival.

  Bertie had not quite left my mind, however, when I encountered Marena in the crowd not an hour later. Milo had wandered away toward the racetrack as I browsed the selection of knitted and crocheted blankets available for purchase. I had chosen one in white and one in a pale yellow and turned to pay for them, when I saw Marena standing beside me. She looked very pretty today in a dress of pale rose-colored silk with leather shoes of a similar hue.