His gravelly tone, his meaning, startled her, but she kept her expression even, pretending not to hear the desire in his voice.
She said, “But you must be in Bagshot, and the Quicksilver in London by tomorrow, and so off you go.” She forced a smile. “In fact, you had better hurry. Here comes your guard now.”
Charlie leaned near. “Are you sure I can’na have that kiss? You know I’ve been longing for one from the angel of The Angel for years . . .”
“That angel has been gone as long as Lightning Lefty has, I’m afraid.” She held out her hand instead. “Good night, Charlie. Safe journey. And thank you for a . . . memorable evening.”
From the lodge window, Jane watched Charlie and Thora return. She hoped they’d had a pleasant evening and managed to improve The Bell’s chances in the bargain.
A few minutes later, when the Quicksilver rumbled back out of the yard after delivering Thora, Jane let the curtain drop and turned away. Something skittered past her feet on the floor.
Jane screamed. She leapt onto a chair, even as she realized doing so was a foolish reaction. She couldn’t help it—nor a second scream when the mouse darted from beneath the cupboard into her bedchamber.
Now what should she do? Stay trapped up there like a frozen statue of feminine fear? Well, she was certainly not getting down. The thought of that scratchy, burrowing creature scurrying up her skirts? She shivered. She was fine where she was.
Suddenly her front door burst open with a pop and bang as it hit the opposite wall.
There crouched Gabriel Locke, eyes alert and hands forward in fighting posture. He swiveled, searching the room. “What is it?”
Slowly, he took in her posture atop the chair. The wary light in his eyes faded and he straightened.
“Don’t tell me . . .”
She nodded. “A mouse. A live one this time.”
He shook his head, hands on narrow hips. “Thought you were being murdered, woman. What a scream.”
“My door was locked. How did you . . . ?”
He turned to it and bent to survey the damage. “Broken.” He jiggled the latch. “I can fix it. Not much good as it was. You ought to have a better lock anyway.”
At the moment, Jane was glad she had not. She pointed toward the bedchamber. “Please find it.”
“How did it get in?”
She nodded toward Kipper, who was sitting on his haunches near the small stove. He looked with casual interest from one to the other, then leisurely licked a paw. “I suppose the cat carried it in.”
“Then he can dashed well drag it out.” Locke crossed his arms and leaned back against the doorframe.
“Are you just going to stand there?”
“You scared the life out of me. Give me a minute to recuperate.”
“You were scared? What about me?”
“Of a mouse? Then I wouldn’t advise spending much time in the stables. The ostlers and I are on a first-name basis with several.”
She shivered again. “I shan’t.” But his words reminded her of something. . . .
The mouse scurried across the room again, and Jane clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle another scream. Kipper gave it a playful swat as it passed but didn’t pursue it as it disappeared beneath the desk.
Gabriel shook his head, lips pursed. “Playing with his food. I told you not to feed that cat. Now he’s useless as a mouser.”
“Just catch it. Please.”
He sighed and straightened. “Very well. Do you have a broom?”
“Yes, there in the corner. But . . . don’t kill it, all right?”
“Then what do you want me to do with it? Tie a ribbon around it and make it a pet?”
“No, of course not.” Not you. She pointed to a box made of papier-mâché. “There’s an old glove box. Put it in there.”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s much more difficult to catch a mouse without harming it.”
“I know. But I have a particular reason. Please?”
He sighed again. “You’re the boss.”
Jane did not sleep well that night, the occasional scratching of the boxed mouse waking her at intervals. “You should be glad to be alive,” she muttered irritably, then turned over yet again and pulled a pillow over her head.
In the morning, Jane arose early and dressed herself, making do with less-supportive wraparound short stays, and a gown with a front-fastening bodice, pinning it herself. She donned a long mantle, cap, and bonnet, and set off while the High Street was quiet and many windows still shuttered.
Reaching the churchyard a short while later, she pushed open the swinging gate, walked to the work shed, and left her small offering where it wouldn’t be missed.
Her strange errand completed, Jane returned to the inn to have breakfast with Thora and learn how her evening at the Hightowers had gone.
Thora’s report was even worse than Jane could have imagined.
“Charlie punched the deputy postmaster?” Jane echoed, incredulous.
Thora nodded.
“That’s bad.” Jane’s mind whirled, grasping at hope. “But certainly he won’t hold Charlie’s behavior against us. The Bell doesn’t belong to Mr. Frazer, it belongs to us, the Bells . . .”
“He doesn’t think highly of us either. He referred to me as a ‘dour little widow’ and to John and Patrick as ‘a pair of ne’er-do-wells.’”
“He didn’t . . .” Jane breathed.
“He did indeed,” Thora said, eyes flashing. “I was tempted to punch the man myself.”
“I don’t blame you.” Jane sighed. “Now what?”
“I don’t know. I have to go to the almshouse after church—I promised Mrs. Mennell I would help serve Sunday dinner. But after that I suppose I’ll go and talk to Talbot again. See if he has any advice.”
Jane noticed reluctance in Thora’s voice at the prospect of visiting Talbot again, and wondered why.
“Good idea,” Jane encouraged. “While you’re there, ask him when he might be able to come back for another meeting in the next few days—as soon as he can. And I’ll talk to Mr. Locke. If we all put our minds to it, there must be something we can do to keep the Royal Mail.”
“I hope you’re right,” Thora said. “But in the meantime, I wouldn’t get too attached to that expensive new horse if I were you.”
After church, Jane and Thora walked home together. How jarring it had been to see strangers in what Jane had always considered Rachel’s family pew. Granted, its new occupants were still Ashfords—a Mr. Ashford and his mother—but Jane found it disconcerting even so. Rachel had sat with Mercy and Matilda Grove. Jane wondered if that had been Rachel’s choice, or the preference of Thornvale’s new occupants.
Jane and Thora parted ways near The Bell sign, Thora entering the inn to gather a few things to take to the almshouse, and Jane returning to the lodge. Inside, she set aside her prayer book and reticule, and found her thoughts shifting to her horse.
Athena had been at The Bell for one week and was slowly growing accustomed to her new environment—and to Jane, who stopped in often to groom her, lead her around the paddock, or bring her an apple or carrot from the larder. Jane’s heart sank at the possibility of having to sell Athena, not to mention the entire inn.
She walked out to the stables, eager to spend time with Athena again while she could. And perhaps even to ride, if Gabriel Locke didn’t object.
Mr. Locke had no objections, though he asked Jane to begin in the fenced paddock, as she had with Sultan, and wait before riding the untested horse in the open countryside. Jane agreed, went and asked Cadi to help her change into her habit, and then returned.
While Gabriel saddled Athena with a quilted sidesaddle, Jane attempted to insert the bit between the horse’s teeth. Athena jigged and jerked her chin out of reach, but a low command from Gabriel stilled her again, and Jane was able to fit the bridle straps over the mare’s head and ears.
Then she gently framed the horse’s head in her hands and solemnly addr
essed her. “Your mamma and I were good friends. And I hope we shall be as well.”
The big dark eyes regarded her warily, nostrils flaring. Jane reached into her pocket, then opened her palm flat, exposing a lump of sugar she’d broken off the sugar loaf herself. Athena sniffed it, then nibbled it eagerly. Jane reached up and patted the short nap of Athena’s shiny coat and stroked her wiry mane.
When the horse was ready, Jane stepped atop the mounting block, and from there Gabriel assisted her up onto the sidesaddle. She hooked her right knee over the pommel, while Gabriel guided her left boot into the single stirrup. Then she adjusted the reins.
When Gabriel unfastened the lead, Athena shied and danced, then submitted to his firm, gentle assurance. “Easy. Easy, girl.”
Jane clicked Athena forward in a walk around the paddock, then signaled her into a trot. How much less jarring her gait than old Ruby’s! Jane found her seat and settled into a rhythm.
A few minutes later, since all was going well, she urged Athena into a canter, rising and falling with the smooth, rolling gait. A smile tickled her stomach. How she had missed having a fine, fleet horse like this.
After her ride, Mr. Locke helped her dismount and walked alongside her as she led Athena back into the stables. A stagecoach arrived, and the ostlers crossed the courtyard to greet it. Mr. Locke unsaddled Athena for her, but then she shooed him off, saying she would groom the horse herself.
The sound of hooves announced the arrival of a second vehicle. Through the broad stable door she saw a postillion mounted on one of four post horses, followed by a pristine private chaise. The ostlers were still busy with the stagecoach, so Gabriel walked over to the chaise himself. He grasped the leader’s rein as the postillion dismounted.
“That’s it for me,” the young man said, stretching his neck one way, then the other. He jerked a thumb toward the chaise behind him. “This gent’s bound for Epsom. Word to the wise: Give him your best horses and best postboy, or you’ll get an earful.”
“Thanks. Will do.”
Curious, Jane let herself from the stall and stood in the threshold for a better look. A well-dressed gentleman alighted. Seeing the man, Mr. Locke hesitated, then turned away.
The man looked at him, then looked again. “Well, I’ll be . . . It’s Locke, isn’t it?”
Gabriel reluctantly turned back. “Yes, who’s asking?”
“Jeremy Ford. You sold me a fine pair of Thoroughbreds two years ago. Matched greys. Excellent bit of blood, the both of them. But I say, what are you doing here? You don’t work for the place, surely.”
Sold . . . Thoroughbreds? Confusion rippled through Jane.
“I am helping out a friend.”
“Ah. Going up to the Doncaster meeting in September?”
“No, I’m out of racing. But still working with horses, as you see.”
The man nodded, though his brow furrowed. “I had planned to look you up soon. I am in the market for a new hunter, but—”
Mr. Locke pulled a card from his coat pocket and handed it to the gentleman. “See this man. He taught me everything I know.”
The gentleman glanced at it. “Thank you. I shall.” He tucked it into his waistcoat pocket, started toward the inn, then turned back. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“Thank you, no. Too much to do.”
“How long have you been . . . helping out here?”
“About a year. Why?”
“Then you may not have heard about the carriage they found—”
Gabriel glanced over and noticed her standing there. He said abruptly, “Uh . . . yes. Excuse me. I have to go. A good day to you, sir.”
He walked away, and the gentleman continued inside.
Jane followed Mr. Locke. “What’s this about you selling Thoroughbreds?”
Gabriel blew out a breath and shrugged. “I told you I’ve worked with horses for years.”
“But working with horses and selling them are two different things.”
“Perhaps, but they are related. My uncle raises horses.”
She studied his face. “Why do I get the feeling there is more you are not telling me?”
His lips parted as though to reply. Instead he turned on his heel and started toward the carriage house.
“Where are you going?”
“I have a great deal of work to do, Mrs. Bell.”
She winced at his abupt tone. “About that. We need to have another meeting . . .”
Chapter
Thirty-Six
Jane returned to the lodge with the hope of a few quiet minutes to rest and think about recent revelations: the probable and troubling loss of the Royal Mail, and now, learning that their humble farrier had sold Thoroughbreds? His owning Sultan suddenly made more sense. Had the horse really been a gift from his uncle?
Jane took off her jacket and sat down at the pianoforte. But she had played only a few soothing measures when a knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts.
Cadi let herself in, her face stretched in panic. “Mrs. Bell, come quick!”
What now? Jane thought in exasperation. “What is it, Cadi?”
“A lady guest has locked herself in her room and won’t come out. Won’t open the door or answer it either. We heard crying, then a big thump like something—or someone—fell. Alwena’s awful scared something bad has happened.”
Jane’s stomach tightened. “Mrs. North?”
Cadi nodded vigorously.
Jane rose and followed Cadi across the courtyard and into the inn.
As they climbed the stairs, Cadi said, “I tried to find Thora first, but Dotty says she’s gone to help at the almshouse.”
Jane felt a flash of irritation that the maid had sought out Thora first instead of her. But in the next moment, Jane wished her mother-in-law were on hand as well. Thora was notoriously level-headed in difficult situations and always seemed to know what to do.
They reached number three and found Mrs. Rooke knocking repeatedly, but receiving no response. Seeing Jane, she threw up her hands. “I’ve tried. It’s your turn. I’d unlock it, but Mrs. Bell has my chatelaine—well, hers I suppose, as it was before.”
“I believe Patrick has the master keys,” Jane said.
Mrs. Rooke shook her head. “Master Patrick would never enter the room of a female guest without her permission.”
Jane was relieved to hear Patrick had some moral standards after all.
Jane knocked on the door. “Mrs. North? It’s me, Jane Bell. We met yesterday?”
No response. No sound of any kind. “Cadi,” Jane whispered. “Go and get the master keys from Mr. Bell.”
“He won’t give them to me.”
“Then tell him I said to bring them here himself. And sharp-like.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Cadi rushed off, and Jane noticed Alwena huddled in the passage.
“She were crying something awful before,” the skittish maid said. “And now it’s so ghostly quiet. I’m afeared something terrible has happened. You don’t think she done herself in, do you? Or a highwayman come in through the window and attacked her?”
“No, Alwena, I do not,” Jane said sternly. “And I don’t want to hear you spreading such rumors. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Patrick came clomping up the stairs. “What the devil is going on?”
Alwena told him with every expression of woe and doom in her arsenal.
“Thunder and turf.” He handed Jane the keys. “Shall I fetch Mamma from the almshouse?”
Jane was tempted to say she could handle it—whatever it was—herself. But she dreaded what she might find on the other side of that door. “Yes, please.”
Then she turned back to number three. “Mrs. North? I am going to use the master key and let myself in. It’s only me, all right? Here I come . . .”
Please, God, give me strength.
She opened the door and peered in. Seeing nothing right away, she slipped inside and closed the door behind her, in
case the woman wasn’t fully dressed. Jane surveyed the room, lit by sunlight coming in through partially open shutters. At first glance, it seemed empty.
“Mrs. North?”
Jane stepped forward, and at the foot of the bed stopped abruptly, sucking in a breath. There on the floor lay Mrs. North . . . in a bloodstained nightdress. The chamber pot on the floor overflowed with blood as well. Jane’s stomach seized and her chest shrank to a walnut husk. She couldn’t breathe. The scene took her back, back, to scenes gruesomely, hauntingly familiar, played over in the lodge. Not once. Not twice . . .
“Mrs. North!” Jane shoved aside the foul churning memories and hurried forward, kneeling on the floor near the fallen woman. She felt for a pulse.
Thank God.
Jane hurried back to the door and cracked it open. “Cadi, send Colin for Dr. Burton and Mrs. Henning. Alwena, bring hot water and rags.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Cadi said. She turned down the passage, tugging Alwena by the arm behind her.
Jane returned to the woman’s side where she lay curled on the floor. Her eyes were closed. Insensible from blood loss, or had she hit her head when she fell? Perhaps both.
“Mrs. North, can you hear me?” Jane asked, patting her cheek. “Hang on. I’ve sent for a doctor.”
The woman’s face crumpled. “There’s nothing he can do. It’s too late. I’ve lost it, haven’t I? Again! I should never have allowed myself to hope.” Her mouth parted, lips stretched in a mask of pain. “Why . . . ?” She rolled to her back and covered her face with both hands. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have traveled. Oh, what have I done? What have I done?”
“It isn’t your fault, Mrs. North. It isn’t. Shh. . . .” Jane sat on the floor, out of the way of the worst of the mess, but resigned to soiling her skirts. She lifted the woman’s head gently onto her lap. “There now, Mrs. North. You will be all right. Hush now. . . .”
And that was how Thora found her ten minutes later when she came in with water and cloths in Alwena’s stead. She stared, mouth ajar, looking from the blood, to Mrs. North, to Jane sitting amidst it all, stroking the woman’s hair and cooing words of solace over the lump in her throat.