A Murder at Rosamund's Gate (9 page)

“As I would wager it is just ten in the morning, I feel none too sorry for you or your clamoring belly. Besides, you should feel lucky Cook is not here to shoo you off, with your tales of woe. Which I don’t believe, by the way.”

“Hmmm. Don’t be so sure. Cook loves me,” Lucas said. “By the by, where is dear Cook?”

“She is off visiting her son, Sam, in Leadenhall.”

“Ah, yes, the fishmonger. An’ you and Bessie did not get to go? What a shame!” Lucas grinned. He knew all about Sam’s wandering fingers.

“Yes, we do miss him terribly, but someone must tend to supper.”

“Of course. Quite noble and kind of you, to be sure.” He looked around. “And Bessie? Off today, too?”

“No, off getting thread from the seamstress. She lives not too far from here. The mistress did need her new bonnet fixed. The winds tore it something terrible when she got caught out in this morning’s rain.”

“Uh-huh.” Lucas leaned over to stir a pot. “And Adam?” he asked, idly.

Hoping the faint blush was not evident on her cheeks at the mention of Adam’s name, Lucy shook her head, chopping quickly. “Off to see Miss Embry, perhaps.”

Lucas looked at her keenly. “Now why would you assume that?” He held up his hand. “No matter. He’s just as likely at the pub. No, I jest. I’m sure he’s off somewhere studying or some such nonsense. He’s seemed a bit anxious of late to finish his legal studies.”

“How are you getting on with the good Reverend Marcus?” Lucy asked hurriedly, hoping to change the subject.

“Quite well, actually.” Lucas chuckled. “I think I may have found my calling after all.”

Lucy could not quite tell if he was teasing. There was a little glint to his smile that she had never before seen. A bit of self-mockery, a bit of hesitant pride—he reminded her of Will, trying to find his way in the world. “I’m so glad, Lucas.”

Perhaps seeing the admiration on her face, Lucas settled more comfortably on the hard bench. “Have you any more of that cakebread?” he wheedled, licking his lips. “The currants, the spices, mmm.”

Shaking her head, Lucy pulled out the last piece of cakebread from yesterday’s supper. Mistress Hargrave had given Cook a copy of
A Boke of Gode Cookery
this past Christmas, but it was Lucy who had begged her to try the recipe. Everyone had heartily enjoyed it. Indeed, she was surprised there was any left.

“I knew it!” Lucas clasped his hands to his chest. “I should marry the girl who produced this cake.”

“That would be Cook,” she teased. “I’m afraid John will not let her go.”

“But ’twas your sweet hands that produced this delight out of thin air. A wondrous feat, to be sure!”

Lucy flicked a towel at him. “Get on with you, and mind you do not spill crumbs on the floor!”

“I’ll sweep them up, I promise.” Now settled with the cakebread and a bit of mead, he continued. “So, you asked me about the good Reverend Thomas. He has the most uncanny ability to read a man’s soul, and he does not hesitate to berate a man—or woman, for that matter—about the wages of sin. Gentry and digger alike.”

“He is like to make some enemies,” Lucy said doubtfully. “I should think that people do not like to be confronted with the wages of their sins.”

“Quite wise, and so true, Lucy.” He licked his plate. “I’m starting to believe in the power of the pulpit, nonetheless, and even more so the purpose of a minister. There are a lot of sinners in this world, and it’s the Church who must help them see the error of their ways.” He seemed more resolved than she had ever seen him.

She laid a bun in front of him. “I wish I had such a purpose.”

“Women’s callings are different. You’ll find it.” Smiling, he took the bread. “Now, tell me, Lucy. How is brother Will these days?”

“He is doing very well indeed with the smithy. In a few more years, he will be a master himself. He could set up his own shop. He should even have the means to marry.” Her face clouded slightly. “He’s taken up with Bessie, you know, but I cannot make headway about his feelings for her.”

“Do you think he wishes to marry? Is he willing to wait, do you think, until he is his own master?”

Lucy smiled. “I don’t really know. I haven’t truly inquired after his heart in some time now, but Will is always a lad to have several girls after him, with not one a particular favorite. There is a girl back home, Cecily, but ’tis only Mother who favors the match. I find her sweet but a bit dull myself. I’d be happy enough to call her my sister, though, should he choose her.”

“Oh, I see,” Lucas said, pondering the last drops of mead in his cup.

“I do not think,” Lucy continued, enjoying having someone to share her thoughts with, “being truthful, that Will wishes to wed either Cecily or Bessie, at least not now. He plays among the lasses, but I think he still desires a place for himself.”

“Well, that be the way of many men, before getting married. Hopefully, he will see his sinning ways before it is too late. A good man will not string a woman along.” Seeing Lucy sniff, he added, “Oh, but you are frowning. You’re not thinking about Will, are you? My dear Lucy, is there someone you are pining after who has not been faithful to you?”

“Oh, no,” she said hastily. “No sweetheart. No one like that.”

“Good,” Lucas said, his face flushed. “I should not like to see you give your heart away, especially to some fickle lad who doesn’t deserve it. Or,” he said, leaning closer, “to someone from a family you can never marry into.”

Lucy looked up sharply, catching his troubled look.

“It is the way of the world, I’m afraid. Like marries like.” He shook his head ruefully. “Of course, that’s the good thing about someone like me,” he said, his eyes suddenly intent. “I can marry whom I please. Perhaps some charming wench who will conjure up a cakebread whenever I ask.” He stood up. Without warning, he kissed her forehead, just below her cap. “Don’t change, my sweet. I’m off now, nary a crumb to be found, so we will not face the wrath of Cook.”

The door slammed behind him, and Lucy sat on the bench Lucas had just vacated.
The way of the world, indeed,
Lucy thought. She looked around the happy kitchen in sudden distaste. Why did the walls feel like a prison?

7

Upon waking the next day, Lucy could see that Bessie had already slipped out to start her morning work, eager to finish lacing one of the mistress’s fine underskirts. The good mistress had promised her several of her old petticoats if she made haste and had these ready for spring. “I shall affix a fine braid of silver fringe that will show when my skirts part, like so,” Bessie had confided to Lucy a few days before. “When I am through, my underskirts shall be as fine as the Queen Mother’s own!” Bessie had then laughed at Lucy’s shocked face. “Oh, Lucy, don’t be such a stick. I saw Mistress Embry with her skirts like so, in church even!”

“Well, that I cannot protest,” Lucy had demurred. “For she might be doing us all a great service.”

“I did not know you had such a fondness for Mistress Embry, Lucy,” Bessie had said, giving her a sidelong glance.

Lucy had laughed, a bit wickedly. “Well, ’tis true enough. But I was thinking that perhaps the sight of her skirts would shock the good minister into silence. Surely that would be an act of benevolence itself.”

Her teeth chattering now, Lucy forced herself out of bed. She cast about for her heavy stockings before remembering she had left them in the kitchen to dry after yesterday’s shower. “I wonder if Bessie would mind if I borrowed her gray worsted stockings,” she said to herself. “They are so much heavier and warmer than my own.”

Lucy began to rummage through Bessie’s clothes chest. To her surprise, she felt something hard wrapped up in a soft summer petticoat. Removing the light muslin wrap, she found a beautiful red lacquered case that Bessie had never shown her. Kneeling on the hard wood floor, Lucy ran her finger along the red trim, enchanted by the workmanship of the meticulously painted curlicues. Only the mistress owned anything so fine.

She shook it slightly. It was heavy, but nothing rattled. Craning her ear toward the hallway, she did not hear anyone in the corridor outside their room. Making a quick decision, she flipped open the lid and stared.

Two beautifully crafted combs and a brush lay neatly within the purple satin that lined the box. A gold mirror was inlaid into the top of the box, allowing a woman to view herself easily as she dressed her hair. Intuitively, Lucy knew this was what Bessie had hoped to hide from her the night of Lady Embry’s Easter dance.

Where could Bessie have gotten such a fine piece? Such an item would surely cost dear. Who could have given it to her? Mistress Hargrave, as kind as she was on occasion, would not have given her so fine a gift. Nor would Sarah. Bessie’s family could ill afford it.

A sickening thought occurred to Lucy then. Could she have stolen it? Even as the idea flashed into her mind, she banished it as impossible. Silly for finery as Bessie was, she did not have it in her nature to steal. Thoughtfully, Lucy wrapped the fine lacquered case back in the petticoat, wondering how she could ask Bessie about it.

*   *   *

The day passed without Lucy being able to corner Bessie about the beautiful lacquered case. Slippery, she was, almost as if she did not want to speak to Lucy. Before supper, Lucy stretched to light the tall dining room tapers, one foot on a small embroidered stool, the other balancing carefully behind her.

“Don’t move!” a man shouted from behind her.

Startled, Lucy began to turn around. “What—?”

“No, don’t look at me! As you were, at the candle.”

Surprised into obeying, Lucy turned her gaze back to the hearth.

“Keep that candle up!”

Foolishly, she stared at a cobweb, thinking Mistress Hargrave would probably like that removed. From behind her, she heard the sound of someone rummaging through a bag. “Dash it all, I’ve not got my sketching pens here,” the man said. Then, exasperated, he added, “I would lose the light in a moment anyway. You may as well set the candle down.”

Doing as he demanded, Lucy stepped down and looked at the man. He was lithe and lean, with vigorous black curls falling below his shoulders. He looked exotic, his coloring Italian and perhaps African, his dress brighter than what most men wore, even in the more colorful Cavalier households. This must be Del Gado, she supposed. Cook had told her a famous painter would be dining with the family.

“And who are you, my little beauty?” he murmured, moving just an arm’s length away.

Lucy bobbed a quick curtsy. “Lucy, Master Del Gado. I am one of Mistress Hargrave’s maids.”

“Indeed. A maid.” His dark gaze traveled over her slowly. His familiarity made her freeze and then warm inexplicably. “Why is it you and I have never met before?”

“I don’t know, sir. I have been with the Hargraves for just under two years.”

“They did well to hide you from me, I think. Such a sweet little nymph you are.”

Lucy shifted impatiently. Another guest who would be too handy. Her encounter with Richard had made her even more skittish around men. She started to edge away.

Del Gado laughed. “Perhaps you might consider posing for me? I should like so much to paint you. You could even wear this sweet little apron,” he said, putting his hand on her shoulder, “although I should not like you to wear much else, I’m afraid.”

Lucy’s hand flew to her mouth.

“Ah, my little one. I have shocked you. You think I am a rogue, do you not? Oh, do not answer. You will be a great charmer in a few years, I daresay, and I should just like to capture the moment when the innocent lass knows what it means to be a woman. Perhaps I can help that moment along, if you like.” He chuckled again.

Unable to move, Lucy just stared at him. Mistress Hargrave stepped into the dining room at that instant, taking in the painter’s cheeky grin and Lucy’s flushed face. She laid a hand, almost protectively, on Lucy’s arm. Her voice tight and clipped, she said, “All right, Lucy, very good. Now, run along to help Cook with supper.”

Before the door had shut completely behind her, Lucy heard the mistress say in a low tone. “Now, Enrique, you really must behave. Lucy is a good girl, and I won’t have her spoiled by you.”

“Not when her mistress needs to be spoiled!” he responded, adding a few words that Lucy did not hear as she fled to the kitchen, her ears burning fiercely.

Supper was an odd meal. The mistress talked breathlessly and gaily with Master Del Gado, her manner unguarded. The painter, fawning over the mistress, responded courteously enough but seemed watchful and a bit tense, content to listen to his patron’s nonsense. The master, by contrast, was particularly taciturn, commenting from time to time on some aspect of the fare. Adam seemed more brooding than usual, and Lucas was nowhere to be seen.

Passing a platter of bread, Lucy heard the magistrate quietly ask Adam about Lucas. Seeming to realize her ward’s absence for the first time, Mistress Hargrave looked up.

“And where is Lucas?” she asked.

“Lucas and I”—Adam paused—“had a difference of opinion with some men at the pub.” He picked up his fork and speared a piece of meat.

Del Gado snickered behind his handkerchief. The magistrate glared at him.

The mistress just looked at Adam expectantly. “And?” she prompted.

Finishing chewing, Adam said, “I fear Lucas is a bit indisposed and is resting upstairs. He’ll not be down for supper.”

“Oh, dear,” Mistress Hargrave said. “Shall I send for the physician?”

“Nonsense,” the magistrate replied. “He’s no doubt just a little the worse for a day of tippling down. I remember my own days at Cambridge.”

Mistress Hargrave pursed her lips, perhaps not liking to remember his carefree student days before they had wed. Lucy wanted to smile but did not dare. “I should so have liked Lucas to see Enrique’s first sketches,” the mistress pouted. “He has rather good taste, you know.”

The master sniffed, ever so slightly. Adam coughed into his kerchief. The mistress looked at them sharply, but both kept their faces on their plates.

“Another time, I can show him,” Del Gado said, seeking to ward off a storm. He started to pat the mistress’s hand but withdrew his fingers just before making contact. “Do not fear, my dear.”