“That depends on whether you were harming Mrs. Morgan,” she replied in a lower, more haughty voice.
Fletch rubbed his temple and turned his heat down to simmer. “She’s in church. Our local lunatic was robbing the garden. You might want to keep an eye out for him. He’s taken some fool notion that this farm is his and is apparently helping himself.”
“And you meant to shoot him for stealing vegetables?” Miss Kitty eyed his weapons skeptically, sounding more like a sensible person.
Fletch gestured at his arm. “The lunatic did this to me last time I faced him unarmed. He terrified Mrs. Morgan by moving in and chasing her off. So, yes, I’ll shoot him if I see him.” Had shot him. And knifed him. Bedlamites apparently didn’t notice.
Miss Kitty flipped open a fan concealed somewhere on her person and fluttered it. “Oh, my, I had no idea! This is dreadful. We shall have to stand guard all night and day! Lunatics, oh my.”
Fletch started to close the door.
Miss Kitty waved a gloved fist. “Mushrooms! I was told to tell Mrs. Morgan that Reynard has found mushrooms in the woods. Since we so enjoyed those last night, I’m to ask if you’d like more.”
“You taste them first,” Fletch growled. “I’m not risking incapacitation while that madman is around.”
“We’ll do that.” Miss Kitty hurried off to spread the news.
Well, that was fun. Fletch shut and locked the door. He’d come to Gravesyde seeking bucolic peace and quiet. He’d meant to steep himself in mindlessness, sleep when he wanted, work when he needed. . .
And now he was juggling madmen, judgmental females, and nosy thespians. The only way to stop this was to stop Hugh Morgan. He needed a bear trap.
MONDAY
April 8, 1816
Twenty-two
Rafe
Hands proudly on the shoulders of his two wards, Rafe waited while his wife greeted Patience, the new mother, on Monday morning. Rafe was escorting his family to the manor schoolroom. Henri was apparently escorting his wife in the opposite direction, to his new shop.
Unlike tall and buxom Patience, Verity was unimposing in size, but in her beribboned bonnet and new sprigged muslin, she was every bit as beautiful. Rafe was a fortunate man.
Proudly carrying their infant, Henri nodded at the children. “I was orphaned by war and have no notion how to be a father. You and your wife will have to be my example.”
Rafe knew Verity was disappointed that they had yet to create a child of their own, but their wards filled their hearts and days. “They all grow in their own ways. Mostly, you need to keep them safe.”
As if his words had unlocked Pandora’s Box, Hunt’s normally stoic steward, wreathed in a storm cloud, sprinted up the drive. He stopped in relief at finding Rafe so easily. “Meera fears we have another case of poisoning. She needs a witness.”
Meera and Walker were not known to panic without reason.
Standing amid the riotous rhododendrons and greening hedges, with two wide-eyed towheads watching worriedly, Rafe wanted to shout his frustration at the gray heavens. He’d first been roped into the position of bailiff because of the poisoning of Verity’s beloved governess.
“Who?” he demanded, to get the worst over. He pushed the children to follow the women, who sensibly hurried toward the safety of the manor.
“A Mrs. Young, one of Lavender's seamstresses. Elderly, frail. Meera wants to be told she's wrong.” Already dressed to start his day as the manor steward, Walker was impeccable in spotless linen and striped waistcoat, but his dark face wore the concerned frown of a family man.
“Who would poison an old woman? She doesn't even own her cottage, does she?” Henri asked, also recalling the governess’s death.
“She rented from the bank. Son died in battle, daughter in childbirth, years ago. Older sister died of influenza last year,” Walker recounted from his trove of knowledge.
“Button maker, not seamstress.” Rafe finally placed the name, “She was with Lavender and Kate on Saturday, discussing the shop. Tiny thing.”
Walker shot Rafe a look. “Said the giant. She was stooped but average.”
Rafe had to concede the point. Walker led them to one of the smaller, medieval cottages on the main thoroughfare, just short of the town green. The thatch had been patched years ago. The cross beams had weathered to cracked, blackened wood. The ancient leather door hinges hung by a thread. The place needed to be leveled.
The yard was a weed patch groomed by a goat that bleated at their entrance. It needed feed and milking. “Who found her?”
