“I take it you do not believe she died of a ruptured appendix?”
“Not when I discovered they refused Dr. Patterson access to her body and she was buried quickly.”
“You feel she committed suicide and her family hid that fact, and was able to do so since he is the magistrate?”
“I hate to say this; however, they are so starchy, I wouldn’t put it past them... But I don’t know, and I should hate to be accounted spreading heedless gossip, you know how gossip can get a life of its own!”
“Indeed, I do. I have experienced that. It is also what has helped me to maintain the myth that I am a fragile woman. People hold on to gossip harder than what they might see.”
Elinor laughed. “Too true,” she said as she pulled up the cart before Summerworth Park, surprised Charlotte remained asleep.
Daniel, one of their senior footmen, quickly came out the front door. They signaled him to be quiet, and the young man grinned and nodded. He helped Cecilia and Hugh to the ground.
“I’ll retrieve our picnic items from you later,” Cecilia whispered to Elinor, for she didn’t want to wake the baby.
Elinor nodded and drove on toward her home.
CHAPTER 3
THE NURSEMAID’S TALE
The widowed Mrs. Threadmont met Cecilia in the upstairs hall. “Let me take him, ma’am.” The young woman reached to take Hugh from Cecilia’s arms. Hugh fussed. “Hush, hush, little one. Let’s not wake my Ronnie. I’ll get you cleaned up and fed in a trice,” the woman cooed.
Cecilia smiled at Hugh in Mary Alice Threadmont’s arms. “Thank you, Mary Alice,” she said. “He did take from that new bottle we ordered, so he has had something to eat, but it has been a while.” She was grateful to have Mary Alice Threadmont as Hugh’s nursemaid and sometimes wet nurse. That she had experienced widowhood soon after her own babe had been born was a distressing circumstance. However, it allowed her to take the wet nurse position with the Branstokes.
Her late husband had been a tenant farmer on the Aldrich estate when he’d been kicked in the head by one of the horses, only to fall backward against another horse who reared up and trampled him beneath its hooves. It had been a heart-wrenching accident for all who witnessed the incident and for those who had not but knew the man to be an honest, hardworking, devoted husband to his young wife.
Though the Aldriches had promised her a pension on behalf of her late husband, Mary Alice preferred to work and had approached Cecilia with the offer of her services when her child was born. Cecilia quickly agreed and had Mary Alice and her young son move into Summerworth Park to acclimatize themselves to the household and its routine. In the five months since Hugh had been born, she had proved a treasure to Cecilia.
Cecilia followed the widow into Hugh’s nursery and watched her prepare to give Hugh a bath. “Mary Alice,” Cecilia said as she watched her pull his small arm out of his garment, “did you know Mrs. Jones well?”
Cecilia had liked Mrs. Jones, but, in light of her death, she wondered how well she had really known her and was curious as to the opinions of others.
“Know her well?” Mary Alice shrugged. “I suppose as well as a body could know the vicar’s wife. She is always good to me and wouldn’t hear no gossipy untruths that said my Ronnie did not die, as reported in the inquest.”
“People would do that?”
“Lord love ya, ma’am, yes. Nothing the village likes more’n is imagin’n the worst, like they done with the Baron and Lady Aldrich.” Her eyes narrowed. “And I could tell you the worst tale-bearers, too… Why do you ask about Mrs. Jones?” she asked as she turned toward Hugh.
Cecilia inhaled deeply. “The woman is dying—she might already be dead,” she said, her voice low. It seemed unreal to speak of her as dead. She felt her throat tighten and her eyes burn again, as they had on the meadow.
Mary Alice whipped around to face Cecilia. “Dead!” she exclaimed, her face white as a sheet. “What? How?”
“We saw her down the escarpment.” Her face grew pinched. “Her body lay on a small ledge, contorted in a most unnatural manner.”
Mary Alice looked at her numbly. Hugh, forgotten, rolled on his side. Cecilia stepped up to her son, laying a steadying hand on him. With her other hand, she gently guided Mary Alice to sit in the chair by the table.
“I’m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you—at least at the moment—but I fear it will become common knowledge before nightfall.”
Mary Alice nodded weakly, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Y-y-yes,” she said slowly, her voice broken. Then, she looked up at Cecilia and cleared her throat. “Yes, it will,” she said again, stronger. She ran her tongue across her lips. “I am glad I come to hear of it from you… You say she is dying, but might be dead now? How?” she finally asked into the silence between them.
Cecilia shrugged. “We don’t know yet.” She picked her son up, burying her face against his neck. She needed the touch of his young life to shore up the agony of another’s death. “That is up to the doctor and the coroner when she dies, I presume. Sir James said she was near death. She could have been pushed, or—I suppose—it might be a suicide.”
“Mrs. Jones? Commit suicide?” The idea of suicide drew Mary Alice out of her temporary shock. “No, no, I hardly think so, milady,” she argued. “That would not be what Mrs. Jones would do.”
“There will be plenty to imagine such, for we saw no sign of her pony cart or horse on the meadow, but we did find her favorite brooch.”
“The one with the dancing girls on it?” Mary Alice asked.
