Mrs. Burlingame chuckled. “Sounds like Bridget. She certainly loves those cows of hers.”
Julia Featherstone lifted one of the empty ticks and studied the seam. “This stitching looks fine. Eileen McFarland’s work, is it?”
“Yes. Her son, Colin, works here and mentioned his mother does piecework, mending, whatever she can to earn extra money.”
“And hopefully she’ll buy food with that money before her husband drinks it away.”
“Shh . . . Colin might hear you.” Julia nodded toward the door.
Miss Judith sighed. “I wish we could help her somehow.”
“What can we do?” Phyllis Burlingame asked in a lower voice. “Her husband is cup-shot daily by noon and blames everyone else for his problems. And Eileen is a proud woman, for all that, and doesn’t like accepting charity.”
Charlotte sipped her tea. “Can her girls not find work to help out?”
“What can they do?” Miss Judith asked. “They’re young yet, are they not?”
Phyllis nodded. “Eileen had Colin when she was newly married. Then Liam took a stonework commission at a church—in the north, I think it was—and was barely home for years. When he returned, they had three more children. I believe the girls are sixteen, thirteen, and ten—give or take. And then there’s the baby, who’s not quite three. A surprise to them all, I imagine.”
The toddler she had seen on Mrs. McFarland’s hip. Jane was glad she had heeded Mercy’s advice several months ago and given Colin McFarland a chance.
Charlotte Cook took the matter in hand. “Well, for now let’s at least see if we can find more needlework for Mrs. McFarland.”
When the conversation began to dwindle, Jane thanked the women for their help, then said, “But no need to return tomorrow. You have done more than enough. I shall finish the others. Thanks to you, I think I have the way of it now.”
Mrs. Burlingame shook her head. “We’ll come anyway. There’s something satisfying about seeing a task through to the end.”
“Only if you allow me to give you something for your time,” Jane insisted.
“Mrs. Bell,” Charlotte Cook admonished, “we already told you we didn’t help to earn money.”
“True.” Miss Featherstone’s eyes twinkled. “But I have always wanted to dine in an inn.”
“Oh, that would be grand,” Miss Judith breathed. Around the circle, the others nodded.
Jane felt a slow smile quirk her lips. “I think that can be arranged.”
After her meal in the Red Lion, Thora thanked the proprietor, paid her bill, and then found a comfortable chair in the public parlour to wait. She flipped through a selection of newspapers and magazines left there for passengers to peruse—all with recent publication dates. Another thing The Bell lacked.
When the arrival of the sister coach was announced sometime later, Thora rose and strode into the yard. Ahead of her she saw a maroon vehicle with the name Exeter emblazoned on its side. A few outside passengers disembarked, and the coachman clambered down and pushed his way in front of his guard, holding out his hand with none of the tact or good humor she had seen Charlie display when “kicking” the passengers for the usual gratuities. This must be the Jeb Moore Charlie referred to. He scowled when the proffered coins were not as plentiful as he thought they should be and grumbled complaints loudly enough for all to hear.
While the ostlers changed the horses, the coachman disappeared into the inn instead of staying to oversee the process. He came out a short while later, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth as though he had just finished eating or drinking. He stumbled over the uneven cobbles, swore under his breath, then belched. Noticing her watching him, he tipped his hat. “Madam.”
Thora nodded curtly in reply, already dreading the return trip with this man at the reins.
Charlie had purchased a seat on the roof for her, specifically so she could observe a different coachman in action. The position felt far more precarious than the box seat had. She noticed the coachman did not inspect the harnesses as Charlie had done before taking the reins. The coach swayed under his ponderous weight as he mounted the bench, crowding the scrawny dandy who had paid for the privilege of sitting beside him.
“Like to drive, would you, young sir? Half a crown for the thrill of your life.”
“Would I ever! But shall we wait until the road straightens?”
“Where’s the fun in that? You want excitement, don’t you?”
“Well . . . Might it not be dangerous?”
“Of course it will be! That’s where the thrill lies!”
The coachman got the horses moving, then handed over the reins. The young man gripped them, shoulders bunched, head forward and alert.
Several miles passed without mishap. Then the coach approached a sharp curve in the road and swayed perilously. Thora held on to the roof bar for dear life.
The coachman seemed unconcerned, sitting there slouched on the seat, head bowed, chin against his chest. . . .
With a start Thora realized the man was sleeping! He swayed as the coach rounded the bend too fast, two wheels lifting a bit from the road. The guard on back must have realized it as well, because at that moment he blew his horn in a loud, jarring honk that wasn’t one of the standard signals Thora recognized. But it was too late. The coachman lurched to the side and toppled off onto the verge of the road, rolling twice before he stopped. The young dandy cried out in alarm, the reins fluttering slack in his hands.
“Stop the horses!” Thora called.
“I don’t know how!”
Thora heaved a sigh, then poked the elderly cleric beside her. “Give me your hand,” she ordered. He did so, and holding to his steady arm, Thora climbed from the roof to the box.
The coach swayed, and she grabbed the bench to keep her balance, then commandeered the reins from the scared-useless gentleman.
“Whoa!” she called, pulling on the reins. “Whoa now!” she boomed in her deepest, most authoritative voice.
The horses slowed and eventually halted. The roof passengers cheered. The guard hopped down and ran back to help the fallen coachman to his feet, shaken and bruised but otherwise unhurt.
Regaining his seat a few minutes later, the coachman swore at the dandy as though it were his fault, and avoided Thora’s eyes.
“You take my seat on the roof,” she told the young man. “I’ll remain here. Just in case.”
The dandy nodded and complied without a murmur of complaint.
The coachman scowled. “Now we shall have to make up for lost time.”
They started up the first hill, the horses struggling under the weight of the fully loaded vehicle. Reaching the summit at last, the coachman did not pause to allow the horses to rest or catch their breath but continued on, down the other side. The horses strained and jigged against their bits. Irritated, the coachman pulled a short whip from under his seat and slashed their hindquarters in punishment. With a sickening feeling, Thora recognized it as a short tommy, a whip forbidden by the Royal Mail for its cruelty. Reputable coachmen cracked long whips over their horses’ backs—the sound alone spurring the horses forward—without physical pain or whip marks. Short tommies inflicted both. Thora looked back and saw the guard’s mouth tighten in a disapproving frown, but seeing her looking, he diverted his gaze, pretending not to see any wrongdoing. If he would do nothing, then she would.
She said, “If you don’t stop that this instant, the deputy postmaster shall hear of this.”
“Hear of what?” the coachman glowered.
“Your diminutive friend, Tommy,” she said coldly.
“I have no idea what you are talking about, madam.”
“Oh, but I think Hugh Hightower will know very well when I describe what I saw today, Mr. Moore.”
She did not like dropping the deputy postmaster’s name but decided in this instance it might be useful.
He lowered the whip and narrowed his eyes at her. “Who are you? Besides a devil sent to torme
nt me?”
“Not a devil. An angel.”
Later, when they reached The Bell at last, Thora gratefully clutched Tall Ted’s hand and climbed down. She thanked him and started across the yard.
Stopping before the porch in surprise, she surveyed the filled ticks and the assembled women sipping tea. She looked at Jane and slowly shook her head. “What happened to ‘I can do it myself,’ hmm?”
“We offered to help, Thora,” Charlotte Cook insisted.
“Well, so did I,” Thora said. “But you are welcome to it. Now, if you will excuse me.” She walked into the inn, head held high, hoping no one could see that her legs trembled like jelly.
The ladies rose and departed. Seeing a few passengers enter the inn after Thora, Jane followed behind to see how she might help.
Two men stepped into the dining parlour for refreshment, while a third gentleman perused the few newspapers they offered for sale.
Selecting a copy of The Times, he handed Jane a coin, then looked at her again, his eyes lingering on her hair. “Quite ornamental,” he said.
“Hmm?” Jane murmured, unsure of his meaning. Cadi had dressed her hair in its usual style that morning, had she not? Jane ran a hand over her coiffure and felt nothing save pins.
The man only smiled and went on his way.
A few minutes later, Gabriel Locke opened the side door for Colin, as the porter carried in two valises.
Mr. Locke looked her way and raised a hand in greeting. Then he walked toward her, humor in his dark eyes and quirked mouth.
“What?” she asked, self-conscious under his scrutiny.
He slowly lifted a hand and reached behind her ear. She stilled, unsure of his intention. She felt something brush her hair and a moment later he brought his hand back, showing her a feather he had extracted. For a moment longer, he held her gaze.
Embarrassed, she took it from him. “Th-thank you,” she murmured.
“A souvenir from a job well done,” he said, and turned and walked away.
The next day, after Jane and Ned Winkle lugged the new feather beds up to the best rooms, Jane could not resist testing one, stretching out on a guest bed and sinking into its warm embrace. Ahh . . .
Thora stopped in the doorway, hand on her hip. “What are you doing, Jane?”
Jane patted the space beside her. “You have to try this, Thora.”
Thora hesitated, then shook her head. “One of us napping in the middle of the day is quite enough.”
Jane sighed, and then grumbled to her feet. It was time to get back to work anyway. She had already hung the freshly laundered curtains back in the hall, and today planned to start on those in the dining parlour and guest rooms. Since they were already in arrears with the laundress, Jane decided to try to wash them herself.
But when evening came, she was still scrubbing away on the dining parlour curtains and those for the bedchambers were not fully dry. Her hands felt raw and her back ached from leaning over the tubs for so many hours. Perhaps she ought to have paid Mrs. Snyder to do them after all.
As darkness fell, Thora came outside and found her by the clotheslines behind the inn. “Jane, two guests have complained. They are ready to go to bed but have no privacy to undress without curtains on their windows.”
“I’m sorry, Thora. Everything took longer than I guessed it would.” Jane wiped a stray hair from her face with the back of her hand. “Can we not . . . hang a sheet or something?”
Thora rolled her eyes. “Oh yes. That would look very smart.” She reached for a damp curtain. “Come, let’s get these up in the bedchambers at least. They will dry with fewer wrinkles that way.”
Jane trudged behind Thora, and together they hung curtains in the guest rooms, finishing the task well past their usual bedtimes. Jane’s arm shook. She had never been so exhausted in her life.
The next day, they hung the dining parlour draperies as well. Some of them had not fared well in the wash. Jane hoped she would be able to replace them eventually, as well as the inn’s shabby bedclothes and stained tablecloths.
With this in mind, Jane walked over to Prater’s and perused their fabric choices, wishing the quality were higher and prices lower. An idea struck her. She crossed the street to Mrs. Shabner’s shop and asked the dressmaker if she had any remnants she would be willing to part with at a reduced price. Mrs. Shabner seemed pleased with Jane’s humble request and offered her several yards free of charge. When Jane protested, the woman waved her away, saying her reward would be to see Jane in the lavender half-mourning dress.
Jane returned to The Bell, arms full of her new acquisitions. Patrick raised a brow when he glimpsed the colorful, feminine fabrics—so different from the plain, muted bedclothes they’d always had.
Thora fingered through the folded material with a frown. “Printed cotton, sprigged muslin, linen . . . Are these to cover the beds or be worn while sleeping in them?”
“Beggars can’t be choosers, Thora,” Jane said, an edge of defensiveness in her tone.
Her mother-in-law picked up a length of cambric. “Good heavens. Our curtains shall look like petticoats.”
Young Ned touched the sheer fabric with a dreamy grin. “Yes, they shall . . .”
Thora smacked his hand. “Close your mouth and go wash some tankards.”
Jane walked away, determined not to take the criticism to heart.
She wished she could go to the linen drapers in Salisbury and buy bolts of the best fabric. But the inn coffers would not allow it. She reminded herself that even if she’d received her settlement money, her father had intended it to provide for her future security, not to buy curtains for a coaching inn.
Chapter
Twenty-One
The next quarter day arrived—St. John’s Day, also called Midsummer Day, the 24th of June. As in many great houses and establishments, it had always been Bell tradition to gather the staff on quarter days and pay their wages. Jane had gleaned over the years that it was a day anticipated with happiness by all. But not this time.
Jane dreaded the task ahead. After discussing the situation with Thora and Patrick, she decided to return to the quiet privacy of the lodge to prepare and plan the right words to say. And to pray she did not lose every one of her staff that very day.
Gabriel Locke caught up with her as she crossed the yard. He said quietly, “Give mine to whoever needs it most. But don’t say anything. I have a bit put by, and it’s no inconvenience for me to forgo wages for a time.”
“But—”
“I am in earnest, Mrs. Bell. I am not being gallant.”
Oh, but I think you are . . . Jane thought, but said only, “Thank you, Mr. Locke.”
Jane continued to the lodge and jerked to a halt at the sight of a dead mouse on her doorstep. Kipper, the grey-and-black cat, sat there proudly with his offering, the second just such “gift” in the last few days. Jane thought of the sexton and his fondness for church mice—a fondness she did not share. Ugh. She would have to deal with the mouse later. For now, she stepped over it, retreating inside to gather a few things—including her composure.
A short while later, Patrick came to the door. “Everyone is waiting in the hall,” he told her.
“Already?”
“They know it’s quarter end. Most have been counting the days.”
Jane sighed. “Wonderful. . . .”
Patrick looked into her face, his expression full of compassion. “I’ll tell them, Jane. You should not have to.”
“Why should you do it? It wouldn’t be any easier for you than for me, I don’t imagine.”
“No, but I’m made of sterner stuff. Your heart is too soft.”
“Is it?” She was tempted. Oh, how tempted. She would love to avoid saying the dreaded words. Seeing the disappointed faces. Hearing the complaints and rebukes . . .
Jane stiffened her spine. “Thank you, Patrick. But it is my responsibility. I shan’t shirk it.”
She reached for the door latch, but he caught h
er wrist.
“Jane. Why are doing this to yourself? You know you are not cut out for this life. You never wanted this place or its burdens and demands. Let me take it off your hands. I understand you have money coming to you. A settlement, was it? What a godsend. I hate to see you slaving away here, losing your bloom. Look at your hands!” He held one up, and while it wasn’t the pruned appendage of a seasoned laundress, it was certainly not as smooth and lily-white as it had once been.
“You needn’t become a drudge, Jane,” he went on. “Or a coarse, aproned innkeeper. You are a gentlewoman. Raised for better. Let me spare you all this. I could understand if you felt you had no choice. But soon you’ll have the means to set up a household for yourself somewhere. Some genteel cottage with flower gardens to tend and peaceful hours to play your pianoforte without carriages rumbling past your door at all hours.”
For one moment Jane allowed herself to imagine it. Then she reminded herself that she had already made her decision. She blinked away the last vestiges of that dream and tugged her hand from his. “Who told you about the settlement?”
He pursed his lips. “I heard it somewhere.”
She studied him through narrowed eyes. “Only two people at The Bell knew about it. And I doubt either of them would mention it to you.” She shook her head. “I did not realize you and Mr. Blomfield were such good friends.”
“Bah. We are not friends. He sees me as a possible business partner. A means of recouping his losses.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
Was that a flicker of hesitation in his blue eyes? Was he hiding something? She hadn’t the time to find out. Her staff was waiting for her.
A few minutes later, Jane walked back across the yard with damp palms and beating heart, dread filling her top to toes.
They will understand, she told herself. They would have to.
As she entered the lion’s den, the crowd inside quieted, conversations breaking off one by one as they faced her expectantly. Solemnly. They had probably heard rumors. The Bell’s financial difficulties were not a well-kept secret. Not when everyone knew Mr. Prater and Mr. Cottle had cut back their orders, and now the greengrocer was refusing to make any more deliveries until his bill was paid in full.