But the letter from Worcester had shaken her confidence and raised so many doubts. . . Ana Marie would certainly have recognized the Jamesons if they’d once worked for her. Mrs. Young had died after the acting troupe had arrived. . . Had she known them somehow?
It was all as ludicrous as Hugh claiming her home was his. And Fletch, the grumpy clockmaker, taking charge as if he were a general commanding troops. . .
“You’re using that arm. You don’t need my help cutting food or a place to clean your clockworks.” She returned to arguing because it was easier than thinking evil stalked the village.
“My arm aches by day’s end. It needs wrapping again,” he asserted.
Before she could argue that absurd claim, they had reached the bakery, and everyone was in the barouche, waiting for them. Belying his words, Fletch used his bad arm to hand her in, then collected the reins of his gelding. He shouldn’t be riding if his shoulder was cracked.
Men were so obtuse. . . Why was he doing this? And why was she so agitated? She’d survived far worse than a commandeering bully. But she couldn’t argue while Fletch rode ahead, scouting the road as if he were still in the army.
As the day before, a stranger rode out of the hedgerow when the carriage turned up the farmhouse drive. He consulted with Fletch, then rode back toward town.
The wretch had planted spies around her house.
More confusion. Fletch wasn’t a bailiff or even her brother-in-law. Why was he doing this? He should be putting a clock back together. And her father’s watch. She wanted the watch back.
She wanted to finish sewing Easter clothes and planning birthday cakes.
“We’ll go over and talk to Jacques and his guests about the pantomime.” Damian halted the team by the barn, making it clear that holidays were not on his mind. “Rob, you’ll take care of the horses?”
They needed field hands and stable boys, maids and a cook, not an army. Perhaps this place really was too large. But it was her home. She might be exhausted, but she felt happier here than anywhere else—once she removed Fletch and his guards and life returned to normal.
Perhaps he had returned to keep an eye on Damien’s tenants. The actors seemed unlikely killers, but one of them did know mushrooms, and they apparently knew Ana Marie and the Jamesons. Perhaps they knew something. She might accept that excuse, for a while.
“Eggs for supper?” Brydie suggested, removing her hat as they entered the kitchen. “Cheese? What do we have in the garden?”
They had a meal on the table by the time Damien and Fletch returned—accompanied by a finely-tailored young gentleman of slim physique and pleasing visage.
Damien introduced him as Delmar Reynard, and their guest made his bows. “My felicitations and gratitude ladies, for welcoming us into your home and community. Not many are so kind.”
“Once you come to know Gravesyde, you will understand,” Brydie said deprecatingly. “And you may think twice about lingering.”
Not as blunt as her sister, Kate returned the moment to civility. “Would you care to stay for supper? I fear it is little more than eggs and garden fare, but we have plenty.”
He bowed again. “Most grateful, but we are planning Saturday’s entertainment, and I must return. Do you have a time in mind? How do we spread the word?”
“Rafe will post a notice to make it official. The rest of us need only mention it. I will walk you back and we can discuss details.” Damien led the actor back to the parlor, leaving Fletch behind.
“Mr. Reynard does not look like a thief,” Kate murmured as they set the table.
“He is the friend Jacques mentioned. He apparently manages the troupe. I had hoped to question him, but as you saw, he’s polite but not talkative.” Fletch held out a chair for Brydie while Kate settled Lyn and Rob. “I’ll hope Damien can loosen his tongue.”
“Does this mean we really will have a pantomime?” Rob fidgeted in excitement.
Predictably, Lyn asked, “What is a pantomime?”
No entertainment ever came to Gravesyde. Kate had never seen any form of theater. She thought perhaps a pantomime might be like a Punch and Judy show with people instead of puppets. She’d seen a puppet show at a large fair once, back when the countess was alive, and she’d only been fifteen. She’d thought the puppets ugly and silly and hadn’t liked the man behind the curtain.
With wider experience, Fletch attempted explanations, but not until Damien returned to explain did the picture become clear. Lawyers had a way with words.
“The actors will wear costumes and act out scenes without speaking.” He took a seat beside Brydie and helped himself to bread, pickles, and cheese.
“Why won’t they talk?” Lynly asked. “They can talk. We talked to them.”
Kate had a suspicion that their usual performances might be bawdy. How did Damien propose to explain that?
“It’s funnier to guess what they mean.” Fletch handed Lynly a slice of buttered bread, which effectively shut her up.
