Fletch had absolutely no say in this. He was merely an unwanted guest. He wasn’t responsible for these children. His tongue would have holes in it shortly.
“That's thoughtful of her, but we are only home in the evening, when you have chores and homework.” Kate didn't look up from cutting Fletch's meat. He’d put his arm back in its sling. “Perhaps we ought to ask your aunt if she'd like to move the piano to her new home. Then she could teach you after school.”
Easily satisfied, Lynley responded to a question about her Easter frock and supper ended with no further mention of their unusual neighbors.
Fletch wasn't as complacent. To him, strangers meant the possibility of more trouble. They could be the murderer for all anyone knew. His duty to keep Kate safe from Morgan was starting to bleed into territory that was none of his damned business.
After supper, he returned to work, rearranging the clockworks to fit the diagram he’d drawn. Since the family always ate in the kitchen, he'd returned the parts to the dining table. He was back to sleeping on the cot. He couldn't make himself move into the intimacy of the family's personal quarters. He didn't belong there. And he ought to be downstairs when trouble arrived.
If he weren't needed to guard Kate and her family, he'd move back to the inn and suffer the indignity of eating soft food until his shoulder healed. Until then, he required the distraction of work.
After cleaning up in the kitchen, Kate stopped in the dining room doorway. “Did you hear Jacques’ guests mention Vivien as one of the seamstresses in Worcester who worked on their costumes?”
He set down the piece he was filing to study her, uncertain where this was going. “I heard. That the same chit flouncing about the manor?”
“I'll find out, but I think so. There is just something odd about Vivien finding a position in the sewing room but an experienced modiste like Ana Marie ending up as a maid.” She hesitated and when he did not reply, she turned away.
His battered brainbox didn't want her turning away, even if it meant actually speaking his thoughts. “Is it possible Mrs. Marie was losing her eyesight? I understand that is a difficulty for women who do fine handwork.”
She flashed a small smile. “Two sentences. We'll have you conversing again any day. Her son didn’t believe so.” She gave his question more thought. “Her daughter wrote urging her to try again. I cannot help thinking that had to do with the sewing room. But Lavender says she never applied.”
She looked unhappy. “I dislike thinking ill of anyone, but Vivien was hired first, I'm fairly certain. I think I'll ask Walker. And write Ana Marie's daughter to ask why Vivien left their shop and when.”
Given their earlier conversation, Fletch followed that thought with a cold chill. “You think Vivien had something to do with Ana Marie's death, not Hugh? But Vivien was pushed too.”
Kate rubbed her pale hands, then wound her fingers together. “Hugh might have pushed Ana Marie because she looked like me. I'll go to my grave carrying that guilt. But Vivien? Does she in any way look like me?”
“Not in the least,” Fletch said without hesitation. “She's skinny and wears shoes that make her look taller than she is. And her hair is dull black and doesn’t glow with red like yours. The only similarity is the gown all of you wear. She probably tripped over her boot heels.”
She smiled faintly. “Interesting way with words when you choose to speak. Thank you, I think. Perhaps I should stop wearing blacks. Or wear a pink scarf around my neck so no one else is mistaken for me.”
She drifted away without a farewell, leaving Fletch to fret.
Until Mrs. Young, he'd believed Kate the target of a lunatic. For all anyone knew, Hugh could be half blind as well as mad.
But she was right. If Meera concluded Mrs. Young had been murdered. . . The killer knew mushrooms and was indiscriminately attacking women. Or they had two killers on their hands. They couldn't possibly lock all the women in the village behind closed doors.
Mrs. Young had to have poisoned herself accidentally. Nothing else made sense. And that was none of his concern.
Except he couldn’t stop fretting over the danger to Kate.
Maybe, if he eliminated the danger, he could return to his simple life, where his only concern was making a clock tick.
TUESDAY
April 9, 1816
Twenty-four
Kate
Major Fletcher had chosen to sleep on a cot again rather than in the bed upstairs Kate had provided.
It had taken every ounce of courage she possessed to invite him upstairs, and he'd rejected her offer. Had she done something wrong? She knew little of men. She’d married young and lived an isolated life. The males in Damien's family were her only other examples outside of her home, and she’d been little more than a child when they’d all left the Hall.
A widow's life had its advantages, she supposed. She answered to no man—and certainly not to Major Fletcher. Instead of fretting, she should hold her head high and be glad he stayed as far from her as possible.
She needed to give up her compulsion to make everyone comfortable. The ex-soldier could obviously take care of himself and preferred it that way.
