“He has? In what context? Who is your fiancé? I must know him,” Cecilia said, surprised at this opening to friendship with the sisters.
“He’s a solicitor, Richard Hargate of Hargate, Owen, and Hargate.”
“Oh, gracious! You are engaged to Richard Hargate! Yes, I do know him. He works almost exclusively for our good friend, the Earl of Soothcoor.”
“Who you saved from the hangman’s noose last year!” Hope bounced a little on the sofa.
Cecilia noted Faith turning to look at her sister, her interest piquing at their conversation.
Cecilia shrugged. “We had to! Anyone who knows the earl knows he could not have murdered Mr. Montgomery. It was an aberration of justice to even suspect him of murder.”
“And before that,” Hope went on, “you saved his nephew from life as a chimney sweep.”
“My gracious, Mr. Hargate has been telling tales,” Cecilia said, smiling at her. She turned to Faith, for she did not wish to be telling tales of the past, and wanted to include her in the conversation. “Did you know my husband is your employer’s cousin?” Cecilia asked her.
“He told me when I was leaving. He said if I needed anything, to go to him.”
Cecilia smiled. “Yes, and don’t hesitate.”
“The earl told us that it was Sir Branstoke who spotted our mother after she fell.”
Cecilia’s smile dimmed. “Yes, he did. And he climbed down the cliff to check on her.”
“And she was alive?”
“Yes…but not for long. I sent some water down to my husband, and he was able to wet her mouth so she could speak. He stayed with her until the magistrate and others arrived. We hope he gave her a modicum of comfort before she passed.”
“She spoke?” Faith asked, her eyes wide. “What did she say?”
“‘No pennyroyal. Stop.’ We don’t know what her intention was with those words. Miss Georgia Inglewood had passed awaysome days before your mother, and she had come to Mrs. Jones to ask for pennyroyal. She had turned her down.”
“Did she die from pennyroyal?”
“The official cause of death is recorded as iliac passion, a problem with her appendix.”
“The recorded cause,” said Hope.
“Yes,” Cecilia said. “I can tell by that clarifying statement you have spent considerable time around a man who practices law.”
Faith raised her hand to mask a laugh at her sister’s expense.
Hope bristled, then relaxed and smiled. “Where was the vicar when all this was happening?”
“Yourfather,” Cecilia gently corrected,“was told by the magistrate he could not come with them when they went up the downs to where she was.”
“Where was he the night before?”
“He’d gone to Canterbury to petition the Archbishop for a curate for the parish. He’d returned home and found she wasn’t home. He wasn’t immediately concerned, for she had a habit of going up into the downs by herself.”
“Really? Our mother go up into the downs? Why?” Faith asked.
“She’d taken up painting,” Elinor said, joining them. “She loved painting nature at all times of the day and in all seasons.”
“Our mother? Painting?” Hope exclaimed.
“Yes. It was something that she enjoyed.” Elinor continued. “She once told me she found it soothing after all the parish demands. She loved the parish and loved what she did for everyone; however, she recognized within herself a need for alone time.”
“Cecilia,” James said softly, coming up behind her. He gently grasped her elbow.
