“Not me; a member of my staff has volunteered. If I tried to sew, I’d have the material all stained from blood due to pinpricks. Do you have any plain, light-colored muslin or lawn that we can consider?”
Mrs. Sandiford laughed. “Let’s see what we have left.”
She guided Cecilia and Sarah to a far wall where fabric lay folded. She ran a finger up and down the shelves until she spotted a thin fold of white. She pulled it out. “Och, I thought I’d found what you desire; however, this one has small embroidered flowers. Not what I suspect you want for a baby boy.”
Cecilia touched the cloth. “It is very pretty, and the weight is good, but you are correct. Not for my Hugh. You have nothing else?”
Mrs. Sandiford looked back at her shelves. “Not at the moment. The plain fabric sells quickly. I am expecting twenty ells of white, pale-blue, and a cream-colored fabric, amongst other fabrics, late today when the local carter returns from his London pickups. I can set some aside for you if you tell me how much you want and tomorrow have Gussie bring it to you at the Park.”
“Who is Gussie?”
“Augusta—Gussie, as everyone addresses her—is our eldest daughter. She is over there,” Mrs. Sandiford said, pointing to a neatly dressed young woman wearing a blue dress and a pale gray full dress covering apron. She appeared to be assisting a bent old woman with getting an item off a shelf.
Perfect!Cecilia thought. To Mrs. Sandiford, she ticked off on her fingers what she would like in fabric. “An infant’s dress doesn’t take much fabric. I’d like an ell of pale blue, an ell of the cream you mentioned, and four ells of white—if taking that much won’t leave you too short for other customers and their orders.”
Mrs. Sandiford shook her head. “It shan’t,” she assured Cecilia. “…Lady Branstoke,” she began tentatively, “might I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” Cecilia returned.
“Mrs. Jones,” she began, “did she suffer much?”
Her question surprised and pleased Cecilia. Hers was not a ghoulish rumor-mongering question.
“I’m afraid I can’t say with certainty; however, judging by the position I saw her in, and what my husband has told me—for he was next to her when she passed—I would have to say yes, she did.”
“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Sandiford softly, her expression shifting to sadness. “I was afraid that would be the case. Thank you for being honest and not offering me a sugar-dusted answer.” She compressed her lips tightly together for a moment, then shook off the sadness. “You know, there are those who believe she provided the pennyroyal tea, which undoubtedly killed Miss Inglewood—not that story of iliac passion,” she declared, standing straighter. “Only one person ordered pennyroyal tea through us, and that was Mrs. Hester.”
“The housekeeper for the Inglewood family?”
“The very same, and naught but three days before the Inglewood girl died.”
CHAPTER 8
MISS GEORGIA’S COTERIE
“You were gone a long while in the village today,” observed Sir James as he handed his wife her preprandial later that day as they gathered in the morning room to await dinner.
Cecilia nodded. “Yes. It was a most instructive day. Though we have lived here at Summerworth Park for the past two years, we have not taken the opportunity to get to know the village as we might.”
“I should say we have been rather busy,” James observed as he sat down on the couch with her. He casually crossed his legs and leaned back into the corner of the couch to make it easier to converse.
“I suppose so; however, even our staff is not as well-known in the village.”
James inclined his head in acknowledgement. “We tend to send our people directly to the market towns for what we need rather than use the services we might find in our own village.”
“I don’t imagine even our footmen or grooms visit the village pub regularly, as we have ale readily available here for free. We need to make a better effort to be part of the community.”
“There is merit in what you say. If we were more visible, it might make it easier for us to investigate what happened to Mrs. Jones.”
“Hmmm. Perhaps, however, I can use the village not knowing us to our advantage. The village thrives on gossip, as you may have found out.”
James snorted a laugh. “Yes. And people are quick to make up what they don’t know.”
“And they don’t know us. I saw a certain avarice in the baker’s attention to me to learn more about my history that she might be the first to let fall of it to others. I might use that desire to my advantage.”
James frowned. “I don’t like the idea of you calling down gossip upon yourself.”
“Do not be concerned. I will not dwell on Mr. Waddley. I’m trying to decide when and to whom I should reveal my grandfather’s identity.”
