“Yes,” Cecilia said, setting aside the London newspaper she’d been reading, and rose from the couch in the morning room. “I’ll be there directly,” she told the young woman.
She grabbed her shawl from the couch and wrapped it around her, then followed the maid to the kitchen, where she found Summer Rutledge standing by the heavy wood prep table, enjoying a mug of lemonade.
The young girl thrust the mug toward the cook, a look of fear in her eyes when she saw Cecilia approaching.
“Finish your drink, dearie,” the cook told her, handing the mug back to her.
“But…” began the girl, looking between the cook and Lady Branstoke.
“Please, finish your drink,” Cecilia told her. “That’s a dusty walk from the bakery to Summerworth Park. You deserve to refresh yourself.” Cecilia watched as the young girl looked again uncertainly between her and the cook, then took the mug back and gulped it down. Cecilia laughed. “Did you like it?”
Summer nodded as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Yes, milady, and thankee, milady,” she said, bobbing two quick curtsies with her answer.
“I’d like to talk with you more about the unfortunate Miss Inglewood. Come, let’s go outside to the garden to talk. You canbring your basket with you. I promise not to take up too much of your time so your mother will not fuss,” she said with a smile to the young girl.
“I never met Miss Inglewood,” Cecilia told her as they entered the garden. “It appeared yesterday that you knew her quite well. Can you tell me about her?”
“Oh, milady, she were so nice and kind to me always—except when I lost one of her messages.” Her brow furrowed. “But that’s to be expected, right?” She looked up at Cecilia like a puppy that knew it had done wrong.
“What happened?”
“I had a note to take to Mr. Vernon.”
“The brewer?” Cecilia asked.
“Yes’m. She cuffed me good when I told her, but after she were so nice and acted as if nothing had happened.”
“Did she apologize?” Cecilia asked.
“Oh, no, milady. It were my mistake. I deserved it. But she didn’t bear no grudge.”
Cecilia compressed her lips together. She had plenty to say about Miss Inglewood’s behavior and about what she’d witnessed at the bakery yesterday; however, she knew she would serve the poor girl best by simply listening to her. Time later for taking all parties to task.
“The very next day, she gave me a straw bonnet she didn’t want anymore. I fixed it up a bit, and now I wear it to church on Sunday. Even my mother likes it—even if it did come from Miss Georgia.”
“Your mother did not like Miss Inglewood.”
“No. Said she needed to keep with her own kind. Said no good came of the classes mixing like they be friends when the Lord knew they never could be. That only brought about hurt.”
“It sounds like your mother might have spoken from the place of some experience,” Cecilia observed.
Summer shrugged. “Miss Georgia, she was friends with all of us in the village. It weren’t like there were others of her sort around except for the Viscount, and he’s old and a bit stuffy.”
“Old?” countered Cecilia in surprise.
“He don’t acknowledge none of us, like we don’t exist. –La!” she said, laughing. “You should have seen his face when he realized I was trying to give him a message from Miss Georgia. I had the durndest time getting his attention so I could give him the note.”
“Who did you take notes to?” Cecilia asked.
“Oh, everyone!” She swung one arm wildly in an arc to encompass her world. “Gussie and Marty a’course as they were her special friends, the Viscount, Mr. Vernon, Jerome Abernathy—though he weren’t happy to get one of her notes on account he’s sweet on a girl in the next village—and the blacksmithy’s twins.” She laughed again. “They were so jealous of each other. Miss Georgia told me—confidential-like—that she only sent notes to them on account it was fun to watch them get in fights with each other. That weren’t nice, I know, but they’d take off their shirts and git to fightin’ and wrestlin’, so it were fun to watch. If I were older, I’d wish either Jebus or Josiah Cathcart would pay attention to me. Coo…” she breathed out, a dreamy expression on her thirteen-year-old face.
Cecilia bit back a laugh at the expression. “How did you get the messages you were to deliver? Did you visit her every day?”
“No. She left ’em in the old henhouse.”
“Old henhouse?” Cecilia queried.
“Yes, by the abandoned cottage in the earl’s woods. The twins fixed the roof of the cottage, and Miss Georgia had us clean up the inside and that’s where we met.”
