The Scandalous Sisterhood of Prickwillow Place (18 page)

The constable nodded. “Of course. I’ll just come back when she’s here.”

Stout Alice, seeing Smooth Kitty’s look of alarm, snatched a small framed photograph off a side table. “Here you are, Constable,” she said. “Our headmistress won’t even notice this absent for a few days. You will return it straightaway when you’re done with it, won’t you?”

“’Course.” Constable Quill grinned and tipped the brim of his hat, then turned to leave. Disgraceful Mary Jane followed him toward the door.

“Should one of us accompany her?” Dear Roberta asked.

Smooth Kitty sank into a chair. “Let her go,” she said. “She might as well have her fun. We couldn’t stop her if we tried.”

Pocked Louise fanned Kitty’s face and neck with Dull Martha’s piano music. All her former pique over the scolding of young Aldous was forgotten. “Well done, Kitty, well
done
,” she whispered. “You were superb.”

Smooth Kitty held up her hand before her face and examined her fingers. “Does my shaking show?” she asked. “I’m trembling all over.”

“I don’t see it,” Dull Martha said loyally.

“Why did he have to be so nosy?” Kitty fumed. “Can’t a man leave home for two nights without attracting police attention?”

“He’s just a young pup, eager to prove himself on the police force,” Stout Alice declared. “One of these overzealous types. You handled him in just the right way.”

Kitty laughed weakly. “More likely, that’s what Mary Jane thinks she’s doing right now.”

CHAPTER 15

Wednesday morning dawned clear and bright, and Smooth Kitty announced over tea and toast that they would do laundry and housecleaning that morning.

“What would Mama say to see me operating a mangle?” Disgraceful Mary Jane muttered. “This independent living scheme has definite drawbacks.”

“I’ve mangled laundry before,” Dull Martha said. “It’s fun. I used to help our washwoman do it when Mama wasn’t watching. You crank the wheel as hard as you can, and watch all the water drip out.”

Disgraceful Mary Jane groaned, then patted Martha’s head. “Since you love it so much, I nominate you to mangle. I’ll iron our skirts and bodices for the strawberry social tonight.”

Their strawberry tablecloth lay draped in state over the dining room table. They’d all taken their toast and tea at the sideboard to keep crumbs off the embroidered linen.

“It came together so well,” Stout Alice said. “I never thought we could finish it in time.”

“All the credit’s due to our dear Roberta,” said Smooth Kitty. “She did two thirds of the stitching herself. What a lovely hand you have, dear.”

Roberta blushed. “Oh, it was nothing, really. You all made such dainty strawberries and leaves. I just joined them together.”

“And sewed half of them yourself.” Pocked Louise fingered the border. “Elinor’s vines look more like Briar Rose’s forest of thorns.”

“Strawberries are too cheerful,” Dour Elinor said. “I can’t stomach them plain.”

“Thorns add interest,” Roberta said generously. “We should stitch more throughout.”

Smooth Kitty kissed Roberta’s cheek. “You’re so good and kind, Roberta, you make us all better creatures than we would otherwise be.”

The doorbell rang.

Pocked Louise groaned. “
Now
what? Who can want to vex us this morning?”

“Come along, Elinor,” Stout Alice said with a sigh. “Let’s get ready, in case we must spring into gear and apply my costume.”

“Maybe it’s Constable Quill,” Disgraceful Mary Jane said. “How do I look?”

“Let
me
answer the door,” Kitty said. “I’ll get rid of them quickly. The rest of you, put on old frocks for housework, and meet me in the kitchen.”

Kitty opened the door to see an enormously tall, broad-shouldered man in a bowler hat and a violet waistcoat standing there, with a canary silk kerchief poking from his jacket pocket, and rather startling checkered pants. His thick blond mustache was oiled to a fine point, and pale sideburns curled around his cheekbones underneath his hat.

“Good morning,
mademoiselle
.” The word was French, but his accent was as English as treacle tart. He took a step inside. “I’m Gideon Rigby,” another large step, “and I represent the Order of Hilarion, patron saint of basket makers. By trade, I’m in the antique furniture business.”

“Oh?” Smooth Kitty was speechless in the face of his
f
lamboyance. He took another step, which afforded him a peep into the dining room. He looked about appreciatively.

“My fellow order members and I are taking a charitable collection on behalf of the retired basket weavers of the fens.” He cupped his huge hands together in a gesture of deep concern and ventured down the hall. “Basket weaving is a proud tradition in Ely, but when old weavers grow crippled, and can no longer weave, the community must rally to their support.”

He had a melodious voice that Kitty felt powerless to interrupt.

“A worthy cause, I’m sure,” she said, “but we…”

“Is your headmistress home?” Mr. Rigby asked. “I understood this to be a finishing school for young ladies. You, I presume, are one of the lovely young ladies?”

Kitty faltered. “Yes … well, not lovely, I mean, though perhaps … I am one of the…”

“Of course you are.” The charitable collector
f
lashed a warm smile at her. “I’ll only require a moment of Mrs. Plackett’s time. Ah! This must be your schoolroom.” He pushed its door aside. Kitty noticed a gold ring gleam on his finger.

“Mrs. Plackett is not at home,” she said firmly.

Mr. Rigby tsked. “I heard she was poorly. But if she’s out and about, she must be improving. I will come back another time. Ah, what a handsome parlor! A modest contribution is all we hope for, just the most nominal sum; every bit helps, you know.”

All the way to the parlor already! Kitty needed to get him
out
.

“I’m sure every bit does help,” Kitty said, “but we haven’t a single bit to spare. I must ask you to take your petitions elsewhere. I am not at liberty to admit you to the house.”

He clapped his hands together. “
Such
a delicate drawing room pianoforte! Mahogany. Exquisite! Your headmistress is a genteel woman of refined tastes, that’s plain. I’m sure she’ll have a bit tucked away, out of the goodness of her heart…”

“
Mr
. Rigby!”

Both of them were surprised by the edge to her voice.

She took a deep breath. “I ask you, please, to take your leave of us,” she said, in the sternest voice she could produce. “Consider our situation! You can scarcely think we pupils of Saint Etheldreda’s School would admit a man to the house when our headmistress is … out.”

He nodded, wide-eyed with remorse. “My dear young lady, a thousand apologies for distressing you. It is always this way with me, I mean no harm, but I’m drawn to furniture like a
f
ly to honey, can’t resist a nip and a peep. But what of that? I will take my leave this instant…”

“Please do.” Kitty spoke through gritted teeth. He’d made no movement toward the door.

“This hutch, what a treasure, and so well preserved … you’re certain your headmistress is in no position to remember the poor crippled basket weavers? Just so, just so. A pleasant day to you,
mademoiselle
. Gideon Rigby, Rare Antiques, at your service!” And, bowing, he backed down the gravel walk and hastened toward Ely with long, energetic strides.

At last, he was gone! But Kitty’s relief was short-lived. A rider passed by just then on a speckled horse, walking at a leisurely pace. Kitty caught sight of a tan coat and a gray John Bull hat and froze in her step. The rider paused to examine the house, then caught sight of Kitty, and Mr. Rigby taking his leave of her. It was the young man from the chemist’s shop.

Kitty’s senses
f
lared into high alert. She felt both mortified to be seen by him in this faded old housecleaning frock, and furious with herself for such pointless vanity. And what might he surmise from the departing presence of the garish Mr. Rigby?

The young man reined in his horse. Did he recognize her? Should she approach the road and greet him? Propriety demanded otherwise, yet Kitty felt drawn to speak to him, if only to better understand his mysterious behavior.

He doffed his hat to Kitty, this time revealing more plainly a head of thick dark curls. She hesitated, then made a small curtsey in reply. Politeness demanded some reply, did it not? He had, after all, bought her a caramel. But with the greatest of cheek! And here she was, no better than Mary Jane, curtseying to strangers by the roadside like a common strumpet!

She turned and
f
led indoors, then darted into the schoolroom where she could peep outdoors unseen through the window blinds.

The young man lingered, peering at the house for many slow seconds. Then he scratched his chin, pressed his boots against the palomino’s
f
lanks, and trotted toward Ely.

Oh, he was a perplexing case. Kitty admitted, only to herself, that he would be far less perplexing if his features were not, coincidentally, so pleasing. No matter; she had embarrassed herself utterly this time, and could only pray (without full conviction, it must be said) that she might never be so unfortunate as to encounter this strange young man again.

Kitty shook herself. First Mr. Rigby, and then the young stranger. What a morning! She wandered down the hall and down the stairs to the kitchen like a sleepwalker.

“Who was that?” asked Pocked Louise.

“Hm? Oh. A charitable solicitor.”

Dour Elinor tied an apron around herself as cheerfully as if it were a hangman’s noose. “It took you plenty long enough to get rid of him.”

Kitty’s thoughts were full of the young man’s enigmatic coloring and voice. “Hm?”

Elinor’s eyebrows arched. “It took you long enough,” she repeated, “to get rid of him.”

Kitty ignored Elinor’s jibe. “I wonder if there really is a patron saint of basket weavers.”

Elinor shrugged. “There’s a patron saint for everything.”

Stout Alice brought a load of dishes from the dining room into the kitchen. “Is he gone? We’ve got a lot to do. Let’s get started. I’ll light the fire, and then strip my bed and Mrs. Plackett’s.”

“I’ll dust the parlor and drawing room, after I’ve stripped my bed,” Elinor said.

“I’ll take dishes and kitchen cleaning,” offered Dear Roberta.

“Silver. Brasses,” announced Mary Jane, waving a polishing cloth.

Pocked Louise took a sip of tea. “Martha and I can wash and mangle.”

Smooth Kitty, still preoccupied, realized she should have paid attention. With an effort, she banished the image of the curly-haired stranger from her mind, and made a face. “I should have spoken sooner,” she said. “This leaves the ash pail to me. The stoves and the fireplace are getting frightfully clogged. Alice, let me clean out the stove before you light the scullery fire.”

Alice helped herself to another wedge of toast. “As you please, Cinderella.”

The girls dispersed to their chores. Smooth Kitty shoveled out the ashes in the scullery stove, and Stout Alice built a fire to get the wash water heating. Kitty went from room to room and from fireplace to fireplace to finish her grim, gray task. On her many trips outdoors to the ash pile, she couldn’t help noticing the twiggy-looking cherry tree sapling poking up like a finger of accusation from the hidden graves of Mr. Godding and Mrs. Plackett.

“What a heap of trouble you’ve caused us,” she told their buried bodies. “Now we’re full of toil and trouble while you lie there, peaceful as sleeping kittens.”

This, she considered upon some re
f
lection, might not be wholly just.

When she finished dumping all the ashes for the house, Kitty filled her pail with water from the outside pump and poured it over the roots of the cherry tree. It wouldn’t do for the sapling to die. They needed the tree as cover for their crimes. No, not theirs—someone else’s. She refilled her bucket and was sousing the ground again, thinking rather gruesome thoughts of water and mud and manure sopping all over Mrs. Plackett and Mr. Godding, when Stout Alice approached carrying a letter in her hands. She looked worried.

“Kitty, look at this,” she said, unfolding the paper. “I found it under Mrs. Plackett’s pillow when I stripped the bedding.”

Kitty wiped her hands on her apron and took the offered paper. Ten pounds in notes were tucked inside the fold. She recognized her headmistress’s even hand immediately, though not the ornate stationery, with scalloped edges and embossed roses around the border.

“My dear brother Aldous,” she read aloud. “Many happy returns of your birthday to you. By now my little surprise party is complete. I hope you will see the party, and this enclosure, as an olive-branch. Pray do not remain angry. It is already done; I have spoken with Mr. Wilson, the matter is now settled, so let us have no more discussion. It is for your good, and for dear young Julius’s sake. I will continue to do what I can for you, but I cannot allow my house nor my husband’s legacy to be consumed by your dissolute ways. You have accused me of being unfeeling, but if I have turned what appears to be a heart of stone to your demands, it is not for lack of concern for you. Rather, in my great concern for you, I must take the high road and refuse to support your overindulgences. Check yourself, dear brother, and let me be as proud of you as I was in your early years. You may yet make much of yourself. Self-mastery is the key. Look to our father, and to our departed brother Geoffrey, as models of rectitude and moderation. Please accept this small gift to relieve your present awkwardness. I remain as ever, your sister, Constance.”

Pocked Louise appeared, lugging a wicker laundry basket. Little Aldous followed at her heels, tugging ferociously on her skirt. She pulled wet sheets from her basket and pinned them to the clothesline, then noticed Kitty and Alice. They showed her the letter. She read it slowly.

“What does it mean?”

Kitty took the pound notes and folded them into her pocket. “This comes in handy,” she said. “We need to pay Doctor Snelling’s bill. Mr. Godding can’t enjoy his birthday present now.”