Henri stepped in, glanced at the crooked window, wrinkled his nose, and crossed the hall to the back rooms. They overlooked the stable and had glazed windows only large enough to allow in light. “Windows might not matter so much if I am nearby, where shoppers are drawn in by Lavender’s wares. They might also peer into mine.”
Hearing their voices, Kate appeared in the doorway and exclaimed over Henri’s box. “Children’s clothes, I hope?”
“As ordered. If Rafe doesn’t mind, I’ll leave them here so as not to be in your way. Go through them, see if anything appeals. I am here on a separate mission.” Henri set the box down.
Distracted from his pea-shooter task, Rafe watched the women excitedly emptying the box of children’s clothes. His wards had an allowance from their wealthy trust fund for clothing, but he and Verity didn’t have time for traveling into town to find tailors. A boy didn’t need fancy coats for their rural school. But the pair were rapidly outgrowing the nice things they’d arrived with.
Kate happily snapped up a smart-looking boy’s coat missing a few buttons and gazed at Henri questioningly. “Your mission?”
“Dr. Walker says Patience and the baby are now well enough to attend chapel for a baptism. My beautiful wife would like a new bonnet, if possible.” Hands on hips, Henri looked like any proud father. . . and merchant. He did well with the styles he sold from his peddler’s cart.
“Oh, we can do that!” Lavender cried. “Mrs. Young, will you fetch that straw bonnet with the pretty blue lining and matching satin ribbons?”
The frail button-maker returned in an instant, holding up the requested chapeau. “Some posies on the band, perhaps? And I have some lovely blue buttons that exactly match the ribbons, if Mrs. Lavigne would like them to add to her gown or the infant’s.”
Rafe found a scholarly looking navy-blue coat that might fit Daniel and a fluffy pink frock for Daphne. “I should ask Verity. . .”
Mrs. Young handed the bonnet over to Henri to examine. “Let me take those back to the kitchen so your wife can measure them. I have to head home and start my mushroom soup. I’ll just go out the back way.”
Reminded of his duty, Rafe kept the outfits in hand. “No, go on home. I have to head up to the manor to discuss pea-shooters with little boys.”
“Pea-shooters?” Kate’s head jerked up from rummaging. “George used to use a pea-shooter to chase rabbits from the garden.”
Which meant Hugh Morgan very likely knew how to make them as well.
Nineteen
Fletch
Having found good quality oil and a sharp file in Kate's barn, Fletch sat Rob down at the dining table and showed him how to clean and oil clock parts. The boy was far more enthusiastic about this occupation than weeding gardens, and it saved Fletch from using his bad arm.
After they’d sold the farm, Fletch had grown up working in his father’s clock shop. Teaching Rob by action and not words came naturally. Compared to the inn where people made demands on him all day, the empty house was relaxing—until a knock rattled the front door.
Rob worriedly set down the piece he worked on.
It was mid-day. Morgan surely wouldn’t dare. . . Standing, Fletch stuck the newly cleaned and loaded pistol into his waistband. “Hide the shotgun until you need it.” He nodded in the direction of Kate’s old weapon.
Entering the parlor, Fletch glanced at the draperies Kate had pulled back. She'd not opened the shutters. No one could look in, but he couldn’t look out either. Coat covering the pistol, Fletch unbolted and unlocked the door.
Jacques, ostensible bootmaker and Damien's former valet, waited nervously in the entryway. At sight of Fletch, he visibly paled, if that was possible. The slender lad was always white as a sheet.
“I. . . Uh, is Mrs. Morgan here?” Jacques tugged at his red-embroidered waistcoat. He’d dressed even more vividly than usual for this visit.
“She's working today. Quit shivering and come in. I haven't eaten you yet.” Although he’d growled at the wretch enough in the past to frighten him, apparently.
Fletch returned to Kate's faded front parlor, wondering how the devil one entertained visitors. In a former life, servants used the back door and he didn’t deal with them. In Gravesyde, it was hard to say who was a servant.
Jacques only took a small step inside. “You can talk.” He didn't close the door.
Fletch glared and growled.
Jacques beamed. “Better. Now I know you're not a killer in disguise. Mrs. Morgan makes lovely soaps. I have visitors and thought I'd buy some.”
“I thought they were tenants.” If it would get rid of him faster, Fletch leaned into the dining room. “Rob, where are your mother's soaps?”
Rob bounded out, glanced incuriously at the visitor, and headed for the kitchen. “Lavender or bay rum?”
“Several of both, please,” Jacques called after him, then turned back to Fletch.
