by Decca Price
“One. On the desk here.” Claire indicated the double-globed lamp still standing on the corner of Josiah’s desk. “This floor of the house has gas for the wall lamps, but this is better for close reading and writing.”
“Are you suggesting this wasn’t an accident, Mr. Carey?” Reid looked shocked.
It was Claire who replied. “I extinguished the lamp and raked the fire over hours before Harry Tressel noticed the flames,” she said, ticking off two fingers. “The fire seems to have begun in the draperies, which as you can see are several yards from the lamp and the fireplace.” A third finger.
“Worse,” she said, her voice rising, “Harry Tressel told me that when he first ran into the room, he saw glass on the carpet near the window.” The fourth finger. “Inside the room, Constable Reid, inside the room.”
Reid cottoned on immediately. “Someone broke in and set the fire,” he said. “But why?”
“That’s why you are here, constable,” Carey responded.
“Right oh.” Reid drew himself up and placed his helmet back on his head. “I must go to the village immediately and notify my superiors. If you please, sir, if you could lock the library doors and keep people away from the other side until I return. I’ll want to talk to Harry Tressel then as well.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me who would want to do this?” Claire asked.
“Well, miss, I wouldn’t think it was personal, like. There’ve been problems, like, in the neighborhood...”
“Don’t say that!” she said sharply, startling him. “I’ve heard all about the gypsies and such prowling the farms hereabouts. But what common thief would break into a house, set fire to it and not steal anything? Nothing is missing. And Harry Tressel told me something I’ve asked him not to share with anyone.”
She drew a deep breath and spoke with a calm she did not feel.
“When Harry Tressel ran into the library, the gas was full on but the sconces weren’t lit. All of them. Thank God he had the presence of mind to close the valves once the drapes were down. How he managed with his injured hands, I’ll never know. The whole house would have been blown to bits if the fire had reached them! What mere house breaker would do that?”
As the ashen-faced Constable Reid peddled down the drive on his bicycle, she spied a horseman posting up the drive. She stepped back into the hall intending to run up to her bedchamber only to see Dr. Bevans crossing the hall toward her.
“Young Tressel should be fine, though he will be in some pain for a while,” he said. “I’ve left medicine and instructions with your Miss Simms. If you need anything else, just send for me.”
“Won’t you stay for some refreshment?” she asked, suddenly conscious of her disheveled appearance. “It should be waiting for you.”
“Thank you, no. I have calls to pay this morning and need to stop at home first regardless.” On the drive, he stopped to speak to the newcomer and Claire saw then that it was Edward Latimer.
The house appeared to be unscathed, Latimer noted as he mounted the steps, but its lady did not. As she stood in the doorway watching him approach, she looked tired and frightened. In her ruined bedclothes, she resembled a London drab after a particularly rough night, and the dark circles under her eyes suggested passion and too much wine rather than the ordeal she had just experienced. A smudge of soot on her left cheek added to the impression.
She looked vulnerable and he felt a sudden stab of pity for her. She needed him, he could see, and if he could just persuade her to accept his protection, she need never suffer through her own fault again.
“Mr. Latimer!” she said with genuine pleasure in her voice. “This is far too early for a call, so you must have heard of our near-disaster this morning.” She extended a bare hand but he did not take it. “Please, come in. There is plenty of breakfast in the morning room and no one to eat it.”
“Miss Burton, I came the moment I heard—the news is all over the village already, of course. But to find you in this way is most distressing!” He half-turned his body away from hers, eyes averted, and waited.
“Oh!” she exclaimed softly. “Oh, I do apologize. Everything this morning has been such a mess. For a moment when you came up the drive, I saw only a friend and forgot your position. I hope you aren’t offended.”
“No, not offended, Miss Burton. Only concerned that others who see you may not understand. I’m only thinking of you.”
That much was true, at any rate, as he turned back to see her retreating toward the stairs. His eyes followed the sway of her uncorsetted body as she crossed the hall and began to climb the broad steps. He stirred and his hands ached to seize the long hair that rippled down her back and press her yielding flesh closer to him. Instead, as she disappeared around the landing and he found his way to the morning room, he imagined what it would be like to command her through right as a husband, to have her sole concern be his comforts and his needs because he took care of all other things.
He had warned Montfort he wouldn’t take on damaged goods, but that was more to exercise his influence over the man than because of any serious thought of claiming Claire Burton for himself. It amused him to play on his friend’s insecurities and stoke his secret guilts. But now, as he waited for her, the thought struck him that having her as a wife could be a very good thing indeed.
Clearly, she could manage a household. He had arrived at Oak Grove expecting to find cinders, tears and chaos. But here he was, enjoying an excellent coffee and breakfast as though nothing more serious than a chimney fire had occurred.
Carrying his cup to the window, he examined the garden and land beyond with an appraising eye. Joss had built well if not felicitously. The house had all the modern conveniences, the grounds were moderately tasteful and the farms productive. With the parish living and her money, he could afford to install a curate in his drafty residence and take up a more decisive role in county affairs than Montfort ever would recover. The right word in the right ears would quell any whispers about the rector’s wife.
Aside from her obvious charms, Claire possessed all the qualities a gentleman desired in a life mate—health, good family, fortune, loyalty, compassion, a loving nature. And he wanted to be loved. The rectory was lonely without Lucy. His heart twisted in in his chest.
A little serious wooing could bring him nearly everything he desired, and if he managed it well this morning, they’d soon be together nearly every day. Claire, he presumed, was reaching that time in life where, if she didn’t receive an offer, she’d lose all chance of a respectable home and children. Without conjugal relations, besides, as every medical man knew, her health would suffer and her beauty fade more quickly. A marriage would be good for both of them. And whatever Claire had been to Joss Carter, that mistake could be buried just as surely as the man himself.
When Claire returned nearly three-quarters of an hour later, he was sitting near the window with a volume of Arnold’s sermons that she had left lying on a table several days before.
She was fully dressed down to an elaborate bustle and overskirt, heavily pleated underskirt and whale-boned bodice. Simple pearl drops trembled at her ears and a pearl brooch pinned together the points of a creamy lace collar. Her hair firmly fastened in a chignon, not a tendril escaped to soften her drawn face. She hoped to erase the impression she had made when he arrived.
Despite her efforts, soap and water couldn’t erase the shadows beneath her eyes, though, and she was conscious that the dark gray and maroon ensemble did nothing to brighten her complexion.
She watched him for a moment before speaking. He seemed absorbed in his reading, quite at home in fact, and she wished she didn’t have to disturb him. But there was much she needed to discuss with him.
“I am so sorry to have kept you waiting,” she said as she rustled softly into the room.
“Not at all.” He rose to assist her with her chair and had filled a plate of food for her before she could protest. “I am pleased to see not all your reading consists of pop
ular novels.”
“Papa taught us always to start and end the day with something edifying,” Claire said without irony. “Poetry and literature were reserved for the evening with the family, though I do admit my sisters and I managed to slip a few hours of pleasure reading into the afternoon if we didn’t have callers or other duties to attend to.”
“I think I should like your Papa,” Latimer said, seating himself next to her at the table.
He offered her the toast rack. “You must eat before you tell me what happened. The shock of being pulled out of a sound sleep by the shouts of your servants must have been terrible!”
“I was awake, fortunately,” Claire said, feeling herself flush. “I couldn’t sleep.”
Dropping her fork to the plate, she turned to him abruptly. “Oh, Mr. Latimer, I don’t know what to think. Josiah’s journals are so different than I expected. I wanted to talk to you yesterday, but my thoughts are confused and I didn’t know what to say.”
His brow furrowed. “Different in what way?”
“I... he... well, his life was so, so...”
“Profligate?”
She flushed. Impulsively, she leaned toward him and placed her hand on his where it rested on the table between them. “You were his friend—what was he really like then? Please tell me!”
Deliberately, Latimer turned his hand palm up and clasped hers lightly.
“Josiah Carter was like many young men, my dear,” he said. “He had a little too much money, a little too much regard for himself and too little regard for the friends who tried to caution him about the habits he was forming.”
Latimer’s thick lashes veiled his green eyes and Claire sensed he was uncomfortable. But he twined his fingers with hers and looked up again into her eyes. The contact reassured her as he spoke.
“Not for the world would I distress you, Miss Burton. I’m sure Josiah was perfect in your eyes or you would not have given yourself to him so fully. But no man is perfect.” Now both his hands enfolded hers. “I implore you, let me be the one to read these journals and decide what is fit for the public to know.”
She gently withdrew her hand. “No. No, I’ve explained to you why I can’t do that.”
Latimer jumped to his feet, nearly knocking the chair over in his haste.
Claire stood in alarm. “Please don’t be offended! I know you are only trying to help me.”
“Yes, I’m displeased,” he answered. “But it’s not that. Miss Burton, it just occurred to me—the fire in the library—have you fully inspected the damage? Are the journals intact? What about Josiah’s other papers?”
“You can rest easy,” Claire said with relief. “I’ve taken most of them to my rooms. It’s much more comfortable to work here.”
She regarded the cold sausage and eggs on her plate. “I think I’m finished here. Let’s go into the drawing room and begin planning our work. I expect the police will be back this afternoon and you must have so many other things to attend to.”
“The police!”
As they walked slowly toward the other end of the house, Claire recounted Harry Tressel’s story and told Latimer about the broken glass on the floor. For reasons she couldn’t explain to herself, she said nothing about kerosene or the gaslights.
She feigned a sneeze to hide her confusion when he suggested they turn the summerhouse into a semi-permanent work area.
“My dear Miss Burton, you’ve caught a chill!” he exclaimed as he again produced a snowy handkerchief for her use. “I should leave you to get some rest after the terrible events of last night. When you are ready to begin, just send a boy with a note.”
Reluctant to see him go, Claire walked to the door with him and halted on the top step. There would be so much to face once she was alone again. But Latimer smiled, and the rare sight burst on her like a ray of sunshine amid the morning’s clouds.
He raised her hand in a courtly manner and was about to touch it with his lips when he froze.
“What is he doing here?” he growled.
Claire followed his gaze and saw Mr. Carey and Lord Montfort coming around the corner of the house, accompanied by a man hanging onto the leads of two massive brindled dogs.
“I heard about your trouble,” Montfort said, taking the steps in two long strides and ignoring Latimer.
“What are you doing here?” Latimer said to him. The savagery of his address took Claire aback.
“I came to offer Miss Burton my assistance,” Montfort said coolly. “And you?”
“I came as soon as I heard to lend her my support. And to persuade her to move into the village until these miscreants are caught.”
“What!” Claire exclaimed.
“I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner, Miss Burton,” Latimer said to her. “Clearly, it’s not safe here and there’s plenty of room at the rectory—it’s meant for a large family, after all. The presence of my housekeeper and Miss Simms would make everything proper.”
Claire’s consternation showed.
“Or I could move temporarily to The Dragon for propriety’s sake,” Latimer added.
“You call that help, Latimer? I’ve brought help,” Montfort said, indicating the dogs, now sitting placidly on the gravel drive. “Mars and Jupiter are two of the best from my kennel. I’ve just been explaining their training to Carey. Set them loose at night in the grounds and no one will be breaking into this house again.”
“They are... enormous,” Claire said weakly. Other than Kip, her entire experience with dogs consisted of foxhounds and Aunt Maud’s pug. “They seem very dangerous. I must decline—what if they attacked the gamekeeper’s lad or one of the children hereabouts?”
“These are disciplined animals, Miss Burton. Tell her, Carey.”
“Lord Montfort neglected to mention that one of his kennel men would be with them at night,” Carey said. “And their training is most intriguing. With anyone who knows the proper phrase to control them, they are docile as lambs.”
“And you know this personally, Carey?” Latimer asked.
“No sir, but Lord Montfort says—”
“He would,” Latimer cut in. “Miss Burton, don’t let them persuade you into a false sense of security. Come into the village.”
“If Miss Burton intends to be a landowner,” Montfort cut in, “she needs to learn how to act like one and defend her land. You don’t run away.”
Latimer stepped closer to Montfort and Claire thrust herself between them, fearing they would come to blows. She was angry and embarrassed.
“Please! Stop!”
Montfort stood his ground while Latimer spun on his heels and stepped back a pace, fists clenched.
“Mr. Latimer, I appreciate your concern. Yours as well, Lord Montfort. Yes, I am uneasy and will be until the police discover who broke into Oak Grove last night. But I cannot go and leave the servants here alone. That would be cowardly.” She appealed to Latimer. “Surely you see that?”
“She’s right. You know it,” Montfort said.
“Please don’t be angry with me,” Claire said softly, just touching Latimer’s sleeve.
“Very well then. But I ask you to discuss this with Miss Simms. You endanger her, too, you know. If you change your mind, just come. I’ll be waiting.” He stalked over to his horse, untied the reins, mounted and rode away without a backward glance.
“Buck up, Miss Burton,” Montfort said. “You’re making the right decision. Do you want the dogs or not?”
“Yes. Yes, I do,” she said, attempting a smile. “If Mr. Carey trusts them, I will, too.”
“No question, ma’am,” Carey said. “Lord Montfort and I have taken them over the area to familiarize them. I’ll just find them a place in the stable until nightfall.”
Claire shivered. “What a horrible day. I wish I could wake up and find this was all a nightmare! Even to see the sun would be an improvement.”
In lieu of the reply she expected, she heard the crunch of boots on gravel as Montfort ca
ught up to Carey and the man with the dogs. If he didn’t want to come in, that was fine with her.
Chapter 11
May’s hedge blossom melted into leafy June, and that spring’s lambs and calves, once inseparable from their dams, dozed peacefully in groups under the trees while their mothers grazed placidly on the summer grasses of Herefordshire’s rolling hills
Here and there, the broad serrated leaves of hops vines fluttered in the breeze as the curling bines twined up their wirework supports. But on nearly every acre of the county, the apple reigned supreme. On thousands of trees, in the orchards of every farm and small holding, millions of small, bright yellow-green globes clung to their calyxes and swelled a little more each day. Bittersweet, bittersharp, sweet and sharp—when they ripened they would be blended with as much skill by the cider masters as French vintners brought to their grapes. Day by day, Claire learned their names. Cowarne Red and Foxwhelp, Collingtons, Kingston Black and a dozen others, the varieties looked back to a time before memory and each master jealously guarded his favorites.
The nine-day’s wonder of the fire at Oak Grove was soon capped by the news that two vagrants had been arrested in Leominster after trying to sell a pair of brass candlesticks stolen from a farm seven miles east of Abbot Pyon. Thinking them made of gold, the thieves accused the pawnbroker of cheating them. Their quarrel brought the constable, who clapped them into jail to await the next criminal court sessions.
A farmer near to Oak Grove remembered hiring one of them as casual labor the day before the fire, so the pair bore the blame for that as well. Much to everyone’s dismay, however, no one contrived a way to pin the murder on them. It was unfortunate, Constable Reid remarked to Jane at the Dragon, but the men had been enjoying the queen’s hospitality in Worcester at the critical time after being taken up in a brawl.
The inquest into Mary Collins’ death concluded with a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown, her few belongings were packed up and consigned to the sheriff’s keeping and the young constable’s rounds resumed their daily monotony.
