The Bones in the Orchard, page 4
Patience lost her tongue watching masculine muscles beneath thin linen and a silk waistcoat. She’d thought the Frenchman slender compared to the other men at the manor, but. . . She gulped. His shoulders must be twice the size of his hips.
She glanced down at herself. It wasn’t her shoulders that were twice the size of her hips. She hastily attempted to fluff up the torn muslin scarf and tuck it in securely, but it was quite destroyed.
“You should not be ruining. . .” she finally dared to speak, but he waved her to silence, holding a finger to his lips.
She could hear her father speaking on the other side of the hedge. Could she simply evaporate now? Could she be any more mortified?
She took the coat off and held it out in hopes that he would climb down. She would have flung it at him, but she feared he’d fall while catching it, and that would be her fault too.
Looking down on her, Mister Lavigne’s eyes danced with amusement. Not lust, she noted. Amusement. He dropped back to the ground to don his coat. In a hushed voice, he asked, “Is that how your father persuades his parishioners to their duties? Extortion?”
“Persuasion,” she said through gritted teeth. “People do not voluntarily contribute to the betterment of all. To be fair, when the church is prosperous, he gives his largesse to the needy.”
“A different form of trade.” He nodded his understanding. “Do you know this Blackstone he argues with?”
She shook her head. “I remember few people here from my childhood.”
He tugged his short-tailed country coat into place and indicated the pails of flowers she’d gathered. “I have come to ask what I might trade for some of your bouquets. The ladies admired their beauty yesterday. The manor grounds are somewhat. . . neglected.”
“Oh.” He actually had a purpose here besides embarrassing her. Naturally. “They might have them for nothing. I hate seeing them go to waste, but the chapel is scarcely ready for adornment, and these bushes simply had to be cut back. I thought perhaps I could make some sachets with the blooms.”
“Sachets?” His dark eyes lit with interest. “The pretty things ladies put with their clothes to always smell of spring?”
She watched him warily. He did not seem to be poking fun at her. He even lifted a lilac bloom to sniff it appreciatively. What manner of man was this? “Yes. I save scraps from our sewing to make pouches for the dried petals, add a few herbs and things to preserve them. . .”
He beamed as if she’d just given him sunshine and roses. “Most excellent! I shall trade you my services as an incompetent gardener shearing back these bushes, if you will provide me with sachets I might sell to my customers.”
Too shocked to be shy, she gaped at him. The gentleman did not seem to be the least abashed by offering physical labor in return for her meager pouches of dead blooms. “Customers?” was all she managed to ask.
“I am a peddler,” he said proudly, testing the rickety ladder and moving it to the next bush. “I will sell your sachets for coins that will allow me to buy other trinkets and pocket the profit for my humble bank account.”
“But. . .” Gentlemen did not work for a living! A peddler? Patience shook her head, ridding herself of the cobwebs her brainpan must have accumulated in cleaning. “You are the son of a French count, the ladies said.”
He shrugged his impressive shoulders and removed half a foot of vine and bramble. “There are no more counts or kings, just death and poverty. Someday, perhaps, France will emerge from ruin to become a new frontier like the Americas. But for now, we must eat.”
She had never properly given thought to how French refugees must survive after fleeing their homes. Her father’s parishes were very small and isolated. She had never met anyone from outside the country. People struggled to survive everywhere. How did one do so without a home? At least, Mr. Lavigne spoke English. How would one survive without knowing the language, having no home. . . ?
The handsome gentleman became a little more real. “But surely, if you are related to Captain Huntley, you need not worry about food on the table?” She could not stand here watching him work. She picked up her buckets.
“They cannot put clothes on my back. A man must contribute his share, as you say, to the benefit of all. I am not very good at much except trading. I am very good at that. How many sachets will trimming this hedge be worth to you?”
This was the most unusual conversation she’d ever had with a gentleman. She completely forgot to be shy or miserable while trying to work the numbers in her head. She had only sold sachets at village fairs to support the church. She supposed this was not much different. She named a number.
He nodded agreement. “Eminently fair. We will see how much ladies will pay for them and perhaps come to a different agreement later. I will set on my journey on Monday, if you can have a few samples prepared by then?”
“It takes time to dry the petals, but I should be able to do that. You really mustn’t do too much from that ladder. I’ll ask Paul if you might borrow the one he is using to reach the roof.” Which was where her father ought to be, not bilking poor people of their meager possessions.
Sweat dampening his neck, Henri loosened his linen, not daring to discard his neckcloth with the jacket he’d long since cast aside. The demoiselle had not returned with a new ladder, but he did not want to embarrass her more if she should.
A parson’s daughter had fallen into his arms like an angel from heaven to shatter his simple life.
Towns were filled with willing women. Suddenly, none of their charms compared to those of the lovely Miss Upton. Mon Dieu, beneath that diffident demeanor and virginal innocence, she hid a bounteous beauty most women would have displayed proudly. Insanely, her modesty appealed to him.
This woman deserved a respect he could not afford.
Parson’s daughter, he reminded himself. Proud and proper female who probably quoted scripture and was very dull indeed. He’d recover soon enough.
He whacked the bushes with frustration. It wasn’t as if any decent woman would look twice at a homeless, itinerant peddler. Not that he was looking for a decent woman, he reminded himself. A convenient woman would be useful about now.
Speaking of women. . . The angry one on the other side of the hedge did not shout, but she conveyed a level of repressed fury none of the curate’s other parishioners had exhibited. Even the curate kept his voice down so Henri could not make out the words. A personal problem, perhaps?
“Leave, ye old fool, stay away as ye were paid to do.” Her last words carried as a black bonnet and shawl stalked away.
Interesting.
It wasn’t many minutes later that angry voices again rose from beyond the hedge. This time, the curate spoke rather sharply for a man of peace. Unashamed of eavesdropping, Henri continued trimming. After all, he was being paid in sachets. A man had to perform his duties.
“I told you, I don’t have anything to give, you old bastard!” a deep bass shouted.
Henri couldn’t place the voice. Perhaps one of the farmers Hunt had lured back with promises of work?
“Then give your time,” the curate advised, using a paternalistic voice now. “Everyone must pay a penance for their sins. They are uncovering the bones as we speak. Both the church and the parsonage are in need of repairs. If you will lend a hand for an hour each day, the world shall be a better place.”
Henri’s ears sharpened. This was the man who knew about the bones?
“Better for you, mayhap!” the man roared. “My time pays for a roof over my own head!”
“Would you like me to explain the danger your soul is in?” Upton asked in a decidedly unctuous manner.
“No, damn your hide, you know I don’t believe in such! You’re no better than a thief. I don’t have to take this. Go ahead. Prove it.” The unseen man didn’t appear around the hedge but apparently stormed off in a different direction.
That was a considerable amount of ill will with which to start a new position. Well, return to an old one, as it were. How did the old curate know the sins of others? As far as Henri was aware, the Anglican church did not hold confession. He now had a new perspective on the priests of his youth. Had they used this sort of extortion?
He should have a word with Hunt about their potential new curate—before someone decided it would be easier to rid the village of the old man rather than bend to his will.
And then they needed to learn more about the bones.
FIVE
“I’ve finally found a matched pair,” Jack told the men lingering over whiskey after dinner. “The mare is already breeding. I should have more time to work on that map now.”
Hunt grimaced and studied the odd collection of lines and notes that didn’t constitute any kind of map with which he was familiar.
From one of his journeys, Henri had brought back a unique adjustable eyeglass Hunt could use for his one eye, one that magnified at different sizes. He was still learning its uses, but being able to read the fine print on a map was a relief after these past months of fearing he’d never read one again.
Not that the earl’s eccentric map had any print. The bumpy square resembled a child’s drawing.
“We cannot tell from this whether we’re looking at the attic over the new wings or the old or if it is even this manor,” Hunt argued. “All we can tell is that there is a great deal of space instead of rooms and that there is an X outside of the wall. It doesn’t make sense.”
“All the attics have a great deal of open space,” Arnaud pointed out. “If the map maker was the earl, he might have been too old to remember how servants’ rooms or schoolrooms are situated and just left them out. The X could be in one of the undrawn chambers. What is to our benefit is that the viscountess did not make any changes to the manor’s interior, so we don’t have to beware of new walls or anything of the sort.”
“It’s either that or we have necklaces dangling in the vines outside the house,” Jack complained. “Where are the windows?”
“The earl might have not been in full possession of his faculties when he drew this,” Walker reminded them.
Hunt grunted at his friend’s admonition. “I’m persuaded the old man simply meant to taunt his heirs. I am more interested in what we are to do about our new curate and the church. The women will chew off our ankles until we decide.”
He would start gnawing off his own body parts if they did not settle this marriage business soon. He spent too much time imagining Clare in his bed as it was. Once he’d bedded her, then perhaps he could have his mind back. He wondered if Walker felt the same, or if he was simply making a marriage of convenience.
Henri cut up an old apple and ignored the map. “I have learned we are in the Bishop of Hereford’s district. We might have to write there to verify Mr. Upton has the curacy to this parish.”
“Hereford?” Hunt groaned. “Learning church districts is as bad as learning county ones. Hereford is way down in another county. We can’t expect to take up residency there for a month!”
“Visiting the archbishop for a special license might be easier,” Henri agreed. “From what I’ve heard, Mr. Upton has most likely lost every position he ever had for extortion.”
“Extortion? Whom is he extorting and why?” Hunt wasn’t entirely certain he wanted to know. He’d agreed to act as magistrate for this tiny exclave, but he hated being judge and jury.
Henri shrugged. “The curate threatened a man with bones being uncovered and his soul being in danger.”
Hunt groaned. “The man could have been a lazy gravedigger.”
Henri nodded but continued, “His victim told him to prove it, so he doesn’t sound too concerned. I cannot precisely blame Upton for not waiting until people volunteer their aid. He has a family to house, after all. But it’s odd that he’s returned after all these years, provided he is who he says he is.”
“Clare would say that he is here to claim any inheritance due to his wife. I’m more inclined to believe the bones have left someone ripe for extortion.” Not wanting to hear more, Hunt stood. “Unless you can identify his victim, we should join the ladies to work this out. Or forget the entire matter and enjoy the evening.”
“Play charades?” Arnaud asked cynically, standing. “I shall leave you to it. I have an actual commission and would like to finish before Henri leaves on Monday.”
To Hunt’s dismay, the ladies had not lingered in the parlor. He strode down the main corridor, checking various workplaces for the women, finding nothing.
Walker joined him on the marble stairs, looking equally puzzled. “Blue salon?”
“We’d hear them, but perhaps they’re all reading.” Hunt strode up the stairs with only a twinge from his injured knee. These months of exercise had greatly improved the torn muscles. At least Clare wouldn’t be marrying a cripple, for what little that might be worth.
He noticed Walker didn’t offer to return to his office to write the rector. Did that mean he wasn’t eager for a clergyman or that he was more eager to see Meera? This courting business was awkward.
They found Oliver’s tutor reading a volume on mathematics in the blue salon. At Hunt’s question, Mr. Birdwhistle nodded toward the ceiling. “I believe the ladies are on a treasure hunt. I said I would sit here until Miss Knightley returns so I might see that Master Oliver remains in bed.”
Given her nephew’s tendency to roam, Hunt appreciated the tutor’s willingness to help outside the schoolroom. He thanked the young man and returned to the hall where he hoped one day to install additional lighting. The flickering oil lamps did not suit his limited vision.
“Upstairs or back to work?” he asked Walker in resignation.
“Upstairs. It is always entertaining to hear what new theory they’ve developed. And we have yet to take a good look at the new wings. If only the village had more visitors, we could turn the east wing into an inn. It’s useless otherwise.” Walker started for the attic stairs.
“Unless one populates the manor with children and staff,” Hunt reminded him. “They tend to demand rooms other than the nursery.”
“Meera will need a nursery come autumn,” Walker reminded him. “The manor will be its own village should we hire everyone we need.”
“Or the bank will own it by winter,” Hunt corrected. “I think we can win any lawsuit over the fraudulent deeds and erroneous mortgage documents, but it will drag on forever and legal fees must be paid out of our empty pockets.”
Walker didn’t reply. It was a weight they both carried. The treasure hunt wasn’t entirely purposeless.
Clare finally managed to separate Meera from the others so they might talk privately, as they once had when it had been just them. Her friend was enceinte and really shouldn’t be climbing stairs or around attics, but curiosity won out.
“Do you have something you would like to tell me?” she whispered as Meera helped her measure a room using an old pole Hunt had marked up. “Like why you and Walker want a church?” She examined the copy of the map they’d made and tried to determine if the shape matched the storage room where they worked.
Meera noted the measurement and did the calculations to compare it to the map’s dimensions. She didn’t look up—a certain sign that she feared disapproval. “Walker has asked me to marry him so the babe will have a name. I have agreed. We don’t want a child to feel unwanted as Lavender does.”
“Your child will never be unwanted!” Clare protested. “Marriage is for a lifetime. Can you come to love Walker? What happens if he wishes to return to America?”
“It’s not as if I haven’t asked myself those same questions,” her friend replied defensively. “And given that I thought I loved a scoundrel, I cannot think I’m a proper judge of emotion. But Walker is a good partner. He has no interest in stealing from me.”
The father of Meera’s child had turned out to be a blackguard who only wanted her pharmacopeia and had turned violent when she’d run away with it. Meera had reason to be cautious.
Clare pounded a little harder against the wall, seeking a hollow place. How did one ask the hard questions that Meera and Walker surely had asked themselves? “Do you think the curate will consent to marrying a Jew and an African?”
Meera looked up and beamed. “Walker researched the law in a book from the library. If he claims to be Jewish, we do not even have to have banns read, since we do not belong to your church. We just need the registry and the certificate.”
“It might be a little hard to convince anyone that Walker is Jewish,” Clare said dryly. “But then, I cannot feature how they could argue either. It’s not as if we could produce a rabbi.”
“Exactly.” With satisfaction, Meera began measuring the next wall. “All we want is to have the marriage registered so the baby has a name.”
“And you don’t anticipate a marriage bed?” Clare daringly asked, knowing her friend’s passionate nature.
Meera cleared her throat. “That will not be a problem. He is quite good.”
Oh dear. Clare didn’t know what to say to that. It wasn’t as if Meera could get with child again. And if she was already a fallen woman in the eyes of society. . . “Just don’t let Lavender know,” she finally said. “She mimics everything we do.”
From across the dormitory area, Elsa cried in frustration, “None of these measurements match the drawing, Whoever drew it did not measure anything, I’m quite convinced.”
Heavy boots on the stairs warned that the men had discovered them. Clare stood and dusted herself off. Meera finished her calculations and waved the page at Walker when he entered. “Elsa is right. The dimensions do not match here or in the wings.”
“You don’t think we’ve already checked that?” Hunt asked in exasperation.
“The earl must have been soft in the head,” Jack declared. “Or the map is for one of the manors he sold.”
