Cynthia Bailey Pratt (17 page)

“Jocelyn, my dear! We’ve only just heard!” Miriam Swann poked her pretty face around the jamb. Seeing Jocelyn, she swung the door open and walked in, followed by the white-clad figure of her mother-in-law. The ladies entered, good-naturedly not letting on how rare it was for them to enter any kitchen, even their own.

Granville sat upright, his reddened eyes blinking in amazement and horror. Only in his worse nightmares was he ever placed in such a position. He looked dazedly down at his burn-spotted, smoky clothes and winced. What would His Highness do? he thought. Instantly the answer came.

He stood. He bowed. “Mrs. Swann. An honor, ma’am.” From the cupboard he removed a white tablecloth and spread it elegantly over his chair. The black marks left by his hands hung over the back where they could not mar the purity of Mrs. Swann’s pristine gown. He said, “Won’t you take this chair, ma’am?”

Arnold sniggered. Jocelyn gave him a sharp look. He stood and bowed with as much grace as his brother.

Mrs. Swann, with regal appreciation of a grand gesture, seated herself on the draped chair. “Thank you, Mr. Luckem.”

She turned her eyes on Jocelyn, genuine anxiety in their depths. “Miss Burnwell, we have only just this hour heard of the catastrophe at the vicarage. The wildest rumors are flying, as you may well imagine. Pray, can you tell me what has become of dear Mr. Fain and his poor dear sister?”

Jocelyn said, “Miss Fain is upstairs . . .”

The Swanns exclaimed with joy, raising their hands. The older lady said, “This
is
news. We’d heard that both Mr. and Miss Fain were at home when the fire began. At least, that is what Lydia Danforth said when she called on us early this morning with the news. I should have known she’d get it wrong. A more ditty-headed female never lived.”

“Mother Swann!” Miriam said, pleased and scandalized. “That’s . . . vernacular,” she whispered.

Mrs. Swann sniffed. “Do I not know it? You should be aware that there is a difference, Miriam, when a mature lady chooses to lapse into more common speech and when a young girl like you throws her reputation away with her words. But this is not the time to teach you.”

With a return to civility, she said to Jocelyn, “I am so pleased dear Miss Helena survived. How did she manage it?”

Gathering her wits, Jocelyn said, “Don’t you recall my asking Miss Fain to stay? Her brother gave permission.” She offered no details. Whatever she told the Swanns would be repeated in every household before the day was out. It must be a tale she and Helena could support. Surely, half the truth would be enough to satisfy curiosity.

Jocelyn continued. “As for Mr. Fain, I cannot say where he is.” She recalled Hammond speculating on that very question, and her brows drew together in a frown.

Mrs. Alastair Swann misread Jocelyn’s expression. She touched a lace-lavished handkerchief delicately to each eye. “Well,” she said with a sigh. “It is at least a comfort to know that vicars and such are assured a place at their Master’s hand. Were it true for all of us here below.” She drooped her head like a dying plant. A short, somewhat respectful silence fell.

Feeling that the atmosphere was becoming a touch maudlin, she coughed and raised her head. “On to other matters. Dear Miss Burnwell, you and I are in a position to exchange favors.”

“Ma’am?” Jocelyn said, her sleepy wits startled by the change of subject.

“Come in, Hargreaves,” Mrs. Swann called.

A sturdily built woman of approximately forty years of age, dressed from feather to boots in unrelieved black as though in intentional opposition to Mrs. Swann, entered through the back door. She spared no glance for the grimy family at the table but looked up at the ceiling, hung with the remains of the winter store, then down at the floor, sniffed, and at last deigned to cast her amber eye upon Jocelyn.

“This,” Mrs. Swann said while the inspection went on, “is Miss Hargreaves, sister to my own cook. She recently came on a visit, and finding the neighborhood of Libermore to be so agreeable, has decided to stop in the vicinity. If no employment is offered her, she is resolved to open a school for young females to teach them the fundamentals of good housekeeping. Though I am firmly in favor of such enterprises, my cook wishes to join this school so as to be closer to her sister. That, as you may well understand, is impossible.”

Seeing that Jocelyn did not yet grasp her part in this, Mrs. Swann elaborated. “Miss Burnwell, I should be greatly in your debt if you could employ Miss Hargreaves as your housekeeper. By finding her an employment, I shall retain my cook, who is the most splendid hand.”

Jocelyn licked her dry lips. Though so tired she felt befogged, she realized that this was an opportunity too good to miss. She said, “Miss Hargreaves, as you have heard, I require a housekeeper immediately. Will you take the position, if only until I can find a more permanent employee?”

Miss Hargreaves unclosed her lips. “You and you!” she said, pointing to the boys. “There is a pump in the yard. Out to it, instantly. I won’t have your dirty personages mucking up clean sheets. Then to bed with both of you.”

To Granville, she said, “If you’ll give me your cravats, sir, I’ll starch them. And I’ll have currant duff ready to follow your supper,” she said, with a tolerant glance at Arnold.

As though enchanted, the boys walked past the table, made their best bows on the doorstep, and went out, where Granville actually helped Arnold with the pump and where Arnold did not throw mud on his brother when clean, as had been his unvarying custom.

Miss Hargreaves crossed to the pantry, jerked open the door, threw an inscrutable look over her shoulder at the ladies, and vanished in the depths. Every now and then a snort or grunt would be heard, depending on what she discovered.

The two ladies saw how difficult Jocelyn found it to listen to their chatter and being, after all, kind-hearted, began to take their leave. Suddenly a further knock sounded on the kitchen door. Miriam looked out the window. “It’s Sir Edgar,” she said excitedly. “With Constable Regin.”

“Who?” Jocelyn gasped, suddenly not at all tired. She stood up. Her face tingled as if encased in ice that cracked when she smiled and bade the two men outside to enter. If she faced arrest and scandal, at least she could try to meet it with grace and what humor she could muster.

Squire and magistrate Sir Edgar Baintree’s round face, reddened by years of hunting, was grave enough for a funeral. He removed his tall hat upon entering and bowed to the ladies, his eyes lightening as they fell upon Mrs. Alastair Swann. “Ma’am,” he said, his voice rumbling inside his wide chest, clad in a green poacher’s coat. “It is like your ready heart to come at once to offer your help and support to Miss Burnwell, friend to the late Miss Helena.”

Mrs. Swann, her cheeks flooded with a sallow blush, told the magistrate of their joy at discovering Helena Fain did not die in the fire as assumed.

His somberness gone on the instant. Sir Edgar gathered Jocelyn’s hands into his. “Yet another debt we of Libermore owe to Miss Burnwell! I have heard already of your selfless efforts last night in supporting those who came to fight the fire.”

Mrs. Swann said, “I’m certain Miss Burnwell did no less than her duty. How I regret Marlbridge’s remoteness from town. I did not even hear of the disaster until this morning.”

Though she’d given most of her attention to Sir Edgar, Jocelyn was aware every moment of Constable Regin’s presence. Cautiously she looked around. The constable edged himself into a corner between the door and the cupboard. It was a poor fit. He seemed ill at ease, staring at her with a puzzled frown as he turned his hat around and around in his hands.

“I only wish,” said Sir Edgar, “that my thanks to Miss Burnwell could be my only reason for visiting you now. How it grieves me to execute the office of my duty at such a time.”

Lent speed by a guilty conscience, Jocelyn’s thoughts flew once to Arnold and the escape from Constable Regin she had abetted. “Please, Sir Edgar, what do you mean?”

The magistrate and Regin exchanged glances. Sir Edgar tugged his waistcoat more securely over his large stomach. “Miss Burnwell, the churchwarden has told me a man named Hammond has been staying here in your uncle’s absence. May I speak to him?”

Skirts rustled as the two Swann women leaned forward, their eyes round with speculation. Mild little Jocelyn accused of harboring a
man!
Impossible. Unthinkable. What would she say?

“Yes, Mr. Hammond stayed here but as Mr. Fletcher’s guest, not as mine. Would you care to speak with Mr. Fletcher?” She heard plainly the whistling as the Swanns drew breaths in horror. How she wished the magistrate would summon Mr. Fletcher and question him rather than her. He was a liar by profession and should be able to answer questions without this uncomfortable sensation of wrongdoing.

“This Hammond fellow is gone, then?”

“Yes, he left last night, feeling we had enough to do without him here. I was alone ... I mean, I had then no housekeeper . . . that is ... Miss Fain was with me.” She saw she was only getting in further trouble and retained wit enough to close her mouth.

Sir Edgar, aware his interview had witnesses, suddenly realized that he’d not been tactful. Mrs. Alastair Swann might well resent imputations laid against Miss Burnwell, a childhood friend of her daughter-in-law. Sir Edgar did not want Mrs. Swann to be in any way prejudiced against him. He had long cherished a desire to be the lady’s second husband but believed he understood it might take years of dedicated wooing to win her away from the pleasures of independent widowhood.

Regin stepped up to whisper urgently to Sir Edgar. Jocelyn stood by, avoiding the eyes of Mesdames Swann while straining to hear what the constable said. She was nevertheless vividly aware of their scrutiny. She could almost hear their thoughts, spinning along like wheels.

They at first assumed that Sir Edgar erred. Then they considered the idea that Jocelyn had, indeed, fallen. Within an instant it was fact.

Jocelyn knew if she looked at them now, she would see them goggling at her as if she were some new species brought in from the Caribbean Islands. Her lips twitched as she thought. Once the Swanns leave the house, I might as well move there as I won’t be able to stay here.

Mrs. Alastair Swann now accepted that she had been grievously deceived in Miss Burnwell’s character; at the same instant, however, she thought about her plan to marry Sir Edgar. Mrs. Swann would cheerfully consign widowhood to the devil the moment Sir Edgar expressed his intentions. To encourage him overtly would be a shock to the conventional man. She hoped in time, however, to abbreviate his years of wooing to one or two and would, in the meantime, spare no effort to hurry the slow workings of his mind.

She walked around the kitchen table and put her arm about Jocelyn’s waist, surprising her as well as Miriam. “Sir Edgar Baintree, if you are imputing any shame to Miss Burnwell, I shall never speak to you again.”

“No, er, I . . .” Sir Edgar winced under Mrs. Alastair Swann’s stony gaze and chose a scapegoat, fortunately not present. “That is to say ... John Arlen tells a queer story about this Hammond fellow . . . and then with Cocker found trussed like a chicken in the chancery ...”

“Explain yourself clearly. Sir Edgar,” Mrs. Swann demanded, implying she had no hope of his ever managing it.

Ignoring caution, Sir Edgar said, “Well, then, last night during the fire . . .”He quickly described the story he’d heard of the stranger. “They found Cocker there, right enough,” the magistrate said. “I’ve heard his story. Cocker said he saw the fire lit by this Hammond fellow ... the man in black, he called him, and he was dressed like that when Arlen saw him . . . and that Hammond attacked and immobilized him, leaving him to burn with the church.”

“But the church didn’t burn,” Miriam Swann said.

“No, thank the Lord! It has been too wet the last several weeks. Perhaps Providence took a hand, though t’was a near thing, once or twice.” This wandering into philosophy plainly unnerved the magistrate. He tugged down his rising waistcoat once more, a quick nervous gesture. It seemed to restore his attention to the dignity of his office. “Therefore, Miss Burnwell, it’s a pity this Hammond fellow . . .”

“Would you kindly not refer to him as ‘this Hammond fellow’?” Jocelyn said, impatiently and unwisely. Mrs. Swann stepped away from her. Jocelyn saw two pairs of Swann eyebrows go up.

“Er, yes,” Sir Edgar said. “As I said, it’s a pity he has gone away just as we’d want to have a word with him to clear this matter away. Mind you”—he chuckled—”nobody in his senses would believe a word Cocker says. A rotter through and through and so I’ve always said. If it weren’t for the vicar . . .” He blushed, his weather-reddened face flooded with a bloodlike tinge. He had nearly spoken ill of the dead, and he glanced sheepishly at Mrs. Alastair Swann to see if she noticed.

“Then why,” Jocelyn asked, her tone defensive, “if that is what you think of Cocker, do you want to talk to Mr. Hammond?”

The Swanns’ censorious eyebrows were waggling like semaphore flags.

Sir Edgar spread his large hands in what a Frenchman would have called a shrug. “Because, my dear young lady, he’s a witness. I think. And we can’t hold Cocker on the charge of burning down the vicarage without his witnessing!”

“Oh,” said Jocelyn lamely. “Of course.” Why had she thought for one moment that Hammond might be in some danger from this large and bumbling representative of England’s king and England’s law? She had known Sir Edgar from her childhood and knew she need fear nothing from his cheerful visage or uncomplicated mind.

“It is only your roundabout way of asking questions that made me nervous. Sir Edgar. I’m sorry if I was impertinent.”

“Never you mind, my dear Miss Burnwell,” the magistrate said, patting her shoulder. He winked over her head at the constable, not realizing or perhaps not caring that Jocelyn could see him. After all, she was only a female and a young one at that. His duty was to protect her from the silly ideas she’d get if she knew this Hammond fellow was wanted by the law for the murder of Matt Hodges.