Less than a week ago, Fletch had barely acknowledged the existence of young ones at the table. Obviously, he wanted something from Damien and was on his best behavior. That’s the only reason Kate could fathom.
Once the children had gone upstairs, Damien and Fletch remained at the table, plotting, while Brydie and Kate washed up.
“They’ve agreed to hold their show on Saturday, mid-afternoon, so children may attend.” Damien glanced to Kate. “You might ask Lavender to open her shop for a preview of what she’s offering. We want to ensure that the Jamesons will be there.”
“All we have to do is ask Vivien to work in the shop,” she said dryly. “She’ll happily take over. Is that what you want? Why?”
“I don’t want any suspects near you or your family,” Fletch answered with a growl in his throat. “If Miss Marlowe does open the shop, someone besides you has to help her. I want you and the children in the pub with me and Rafe.”
That sounded worrisome. The Jamesons or the actors might be thieves, she supposed. Only, she owned nothing worth stealing. The manor was a more likely target.
Did they believe thieves could be killers? Hugh was the only lunatic that she’d noticed.
While Kate attempted to puzzle it out, Brydie spoke up. “Would it be better if we stayed on the farm? What if Hugh shows up again?”
“We want Hugh to show up. We’ll make a spectacle of all of us climbing into the carriage and riding into town. Hunt will have men around the farm, watching.” Fletch shoved back from the table. “Don’t anyone eat anything that might have mushrooms.”
They’d had men out here, from all she could tell. They hadn’t caught her brother-in-law.
“Is this all just to catch Hugh?” Kate demanded before he could escape.
“If he’s our killer, then there’s no just to it. But what we want to see is who doesn’t show up to see the performance and who ends up where they shouldn’t be. If we’re only after thieves, then the most likely time for them to strike is while the whole village is at the pub.” He walked out, presumably to see to the animals.
Kate stared after him. “A week ago, he never said two words together.”
Brydie chuckled and put the plates in the sink. “Instead of driving him to drink, you’re driving him to speak. Let us hope he doesn’t crack under the pressure.”
Damien stood and kissed his wife. “Men like that don’t break easily. They simply need to stay busy instead of being allowed to mope.”
Or drink. If Fletch just needed to be kept busy, Kate could provide tasks from now until the end of time. But she had a feeling a commanding officer who had once led troops into battle really didn’t want to herd sheep or muck stalls.
Ladies kept their heads down and sewed Easter clothes and let men play soldier.
SATURDAY
April 13, 1816
Thirty-three
Rafe
The Saturday before Easter, in preparation for the entertainment, Rafe carried a fresh barrel of ale to the bar and kissed his wife’s hair while she polished his tankards.
Verity frowned up at him. “Are you sure the children will be safe in the manor nursery? What if they are stolen for their wealth?”
“Doors locked, Birdwhistle and two of Hunt’s soldiers guarding the attic. No one can enter until we say so. I don’t think any of our suspects have an interest in children, though. Coins and jewels are far easier to carry off. The babes are simply safer in the manor than as potential hostages if things go awry down here.”
He had gone over the plans with the men at the manor, as well as with Damien and Fletch. It seemed foolish to over-react because of a letter from a dressmaker, but this was Gravesyde. Bad things happened here. This time, they would attempt to prevent them.
Which was why the women had now taken over. Rafe tried not to sigh too loudly as the voices of the manor ladies drifted from the lobby. They were turning what was most likely a bawdy, not for the genteel, theatrical into a church faire. They were selling pies in the lobby!
And hanging banners, ribbons, flowers, and signs pointing to the dressmaking shop and the hole-in-the-wall Henri was creating with his second-hand items. Henri had been in there all week building shelves and hanging ropes to display his wares. It wasn’t nearly as refined as the airy, lace-and-ribbon bedecked space of Miss Marlowe’s shop, but men wouldn’t mind.
Miss Marlowe and Kate had opened the shop a few hours a day to encourage anyone passing by to stop in. No one was beating a path to the door yet, but persuaded by the curate’s wife, a few of the church ladies had taken a look. Rafe wondered how he might reassure them that the inn was respectable if the pantomime turned out bawdy.
Clare Huntley sailed into the pub, her pink walking dress no longer concealing that she was in the family way—which didn’t slow her down in the least. “Thea has found some rather moth-eaten velvet draperies we could use to set up the stage, if you’d like. Will they need to make costume changes?”
“If they didn’t ask for curtains, then they won’t need them,” Rafe concluded, based on nothing whatsoever except his dislike of extra work or concealing any prospective thieves from his sight.
