Ellis was enjoying himself immensely. This was far better than tramping about the cobwebs in his father’s hunting lodge and carving unrecognizable animals.
“All Chiddon’s wheat must go to Overton to be ground because there’s no mill. Not here. Or rather there is,” he whispered. “But it is not in use.”
Odd. Having grown up in the country, Ellis was well aware of the importance of a mill to a community. His father had often taken Ellis to the mill near Larchmont to watch the steady turn of the wheel as it ground the wheat.
“Because of themurders.” Gates dared a peek at the table in the corner as if he didn’t want to be overheard. “Terrible thing. The Mandrell family. A lover’s quarrel is how it started. Mandrell killed his wife’s lover beneath the grist stone of the mill. Lots of folks left Chiddon after that. Who wants their wheat ground on the same stone that…” His words trailed off.
“Understandable,” Ellis agreed.
“Years went by, and Chiddon became quite deserted, milord. My wife and I nearly had to close The Pickled Duck. But then Her Grace came to Chiddon. Grieving her husband and the like. Terrible thing. She wanted privacy, and we gave it to her.” He poked a thumb at his chest. “Vicar Farthing followed her about, helping her mourn, you see, and Her Grace fixed the church for his kindness. And the vicarage. Both had fallen into ruin after the last vicar got himself killed.”
Chiddon. Hotbed of intrigue. Ellis never would have guessed. “How did the previous vicar perish, if I may ask?”
“The grist stone. He was Mrs. Mandrell’s lover.” The thick eyebrows above Gates’s eyes raised into the line of his nonexistent hair. “Mandrell drowned the missus in the mill pond after grinding up the vicar. Her body stuck on the wheel, turning round and round. I suppose Mandrell was sorry after murdering them both, for he hung himself after, at the mill.”
Intrigue andmurder. Chiddon was no sleepy hamlet.
“I can see why the mill would have become abandoned after such tragedy. But surely—”
“Been nearly ten years. No one will take it up. The mill, I mean. When Farthing arrived and saw the state of the church and vicarage, we all thought he’d go back the way he’d come. Had to give sermons in the square.” Gates jerked his chin to an unseen location outside The Pickled Duck. “Because the church wasn’t safe. Pews rotted. Roof falling in. The vicarage had rats the size of dogs living in it.”
Ellis tried not to grin at the exaggeration.
“But the duchess fixed it all. Hired the stonemasons herself. One of the stone masons tried to cheat her, and she fired him on the spot. Snapped her riding crop at him after he threatened her.”
Now thatdidsound like Beatrice, but nothing else. Saving a church? Restoring a vicarage? Brewing with Mr. Gates?
“She’s had four of the abandoned shops down the street fixed up nice, and now Chiddon has an apothecary, a proper butcher, a cheesemonger, and a grocer.”
“Her Grace is quite busy.”
“Have you heard about the festival, milord? Last year was our first, but it won’t be our last. Held right outside The Pickled Duck. Her Grace said we must draw folks back to Chiddon. I provide the ale and cider. There’s meat cooked on giant spits. Peddlers and their wagons. Had a fiddler all the way from Babbington last year. Lots of dancing and trysting. There’s a big feast set up on the lawn, free to all who wish to share a meal. Lots of pies. Courtesy of the Duchess of Castlemare.”
“The dowager duchess,” Ellis said absently, wondering how on earth he and Gates were both speaking of the same woman.
“I did tell you Her Grace don’t care to be referred to as a dowager,” Gates said with a pointed look.
“I’d forgotten.” Lady Beatrice Howard had single-handedly become the patron saint of Chiddon, breathing life into a village struggling to survive. Perhaps doing so had kept her grief at bay after the death of Castlemare, but that reasoning didn’t sit right with Ellis. Castlemare had hardly been the sort to inspire such emotion in a woman. From what Ellis recalled, the duke had been a demanding, demeaning man. Coldly superior. Cruel. The woman Gates described with such reverence bore no resemblance to the spiteful, gossiping harpy Ellis had once known. When Gates mentioned that Beatrice and the vicar’s wife were thick as thieves, Ellis nearly spit out his ale.
Thanking Gates for the conversation, the excellent ale, and the stew, Ellis tossed him several coins and headed outside to Dante. He wanted to see Beatrice’s handiwork himself. The church and vicarage were an excellent place to start.
6
“More tea, Your Grace?”
“I wish you’d call me by name, Melinda.” Beatrice pushed her teacup across the table. “Seems ridiculous to address me so properly.” She barely recalled she was a duchess at times, which was strange given how long she’d sought to become one. From the time she was a child, Lord and Lady Foxwood had groomed Beatrice for nothing else.
A sigh left her at the thought of her parents.
“It isn’t proper.” Melinda Farthing shot Beatrice a scandalized look. “Vicar Farthing would have a fit of apoplexy if he overheard me address you so informally. I suppose that wouldn’t be entirely unfortunate, but then who would lead the flock in Chiddon, hmm?”
Vicar Farthing wasalwaysabout to have a fit of apoplexy. He was so staid, so washed of any sort of humor, Beatrice couldn’t fathom how the droll, slightly brazen woman before her had wed him. She suspected it was quite a tale, but as close as they were, her friend had so far refused to reveal anything about what had brought her to Vicar Farthing and Chiddon.
Beatrice didn’t push. Everyone was entitled to their secrets.
“Mrs. Farthing,” Beatrice admonished, the amusement bubbling between her lips. “The good vicar would rally, I’m sure. He wouldn’t dare disappoint a duchess.”
“No, indeed. The slightest distress from you lobbed in his direction, and the good vicar finds himself quite despondent.”
