Since she had experience dealing with injuries—one of the few advantages of being a cutthroat’s daughter—she offered to look at his hand. It was a good thing she did, for the wound needed proper care. After cleansing it, she applied a healing salve she’d concocted containing honey, rosemary, and calendula. Then she rewrapped his hand with clean linen.
Waving aside Brunswick’s effusive thanks, she asked what tasks she ought to tackle first. He told her that the priority was to set up the delivery of foodstuffs from the village. When he gave her a list of the master’s favorite meals, she tried not to let her trepidation show. She hadn’t prepared most—all right,any—of the dishes before…but there was a first time for everything, wasn’t there? Compared to the work she’d done, how difficult could it be to make blood pudding?
Pretend until it’s true.
She gave Brunswick the smile of a woman who knew what she was doing and set off on the mile-long trek to Chuddums.
The first time she’d gone to the village, the rain had obscured her view. Today, the sky was clear, and as the path sloped downward to her destination, she saw Chuddums in its full glory…or, more aptly, with its warts and all. Situated on a low-lying riverbank of the Thames, Chuddums bore an unfortunate resemblance to a cesspit. The recent rains had turned the roads into muck. The village’s ramshackle buildings sagged against one another like friendly drunks. The patching of cottage roofs reminded her of a tattered quilt that wasn’t sufficiently large to cover all the important parts, leaving one’s toes cold.
As she entered Chuddums, she was greeted with curious looks and a few suspicious ones. Keeping her head ducked out of habit, she followed High Street to the village center, noting the mix of lodging houses, pawnshops, and public houses. Arriving at the square, she saw that the four main streets surrounded a village green…which was more brown due to the lack of grass and abundance of mud. A giant, bare-branched tree stood at the center. Around the square’s border, only half the buildings boasted businesses; the rest were vacant.
“Hullo there!”
She turned to see a fellow wearing an old-fashioned top hat and checkered red coat waving as he approached her. Seeing that he relied on a cane and walked in shuffling steps, she met him halfway. Up close, he looked positively ancient…in his nineties, if he was a day. His wizened visage and lively black eyes reminded her of a turtle.
“Good morning, sir,” she said politely. “May I help you?”
“Helpme?” He chuckled. “No, dear Rosalinda. It’s me, Wally.”
“You must have me mistaken for someone else, sir.” Seeing his confusion, she said gently, “My name is Jane Wood, and I’m the new housekeeper at Bottoms House.”
“You are sure you’re not Rosalinda?” he asked, frowning.
“Quite sure.”
He sighed. “Sometimes I get muddled.”
“We all do, from time to time.” She smiled. “Regardless, it is nice to see a friendly face.”
He perked up. “As the official guide of Chuddums, it would be my honor to escort you to your destination. Where to, Mrs. Wood?”
She consulted her list. “My first stop is the butcher shop.”
“Then it’s Mr. Bailey you ought to see. Follow me, follow me.”
Xenia didn’t have the heart to abandon Wally, even though his rheumatism kept them at a snail’s pace. Her guide took his job seriously, however, pointing out highlights such as a newly installed lamppost and a flower box that had been savaged by Mrs. Elmwood’s cat Fenwyck. According to Wally, the felonious feline had also knocked over rubbish bins and dug up Mrs. O’Hara’s prized flower garden. Since Fenwyck was sneaky, he had never been caught red-pawed, and his owner staunchly maintained his innocence.
“If you catch Fenwyck in the act”—Wally wagged a finger at her—“be sure to let me know. I am collecting evidence against him.”
“I will, sir,” Xenia promised.
They arrived at a shop with a string of fowl hanging in the window. When Wally struggled to open the door for her, she did it herself, thanking him and reminding him of others who might require his services. Bowing, he hurried off…well, as much as Wally could hurry.
The interior of the butcher shop was shabby and cramped. The products appeared to be of good quality, however, and fresh sawdust covered the floor. Garlands of sausages adorned the walls, and a selection of meats was displayed on a counter. The butcher, standing by a row of joints, looked as if he’d been a prizefighter in his former life. Or maybe in his current life, given his shiner of a right eye. His substantial black moustache seemed to compensate for the lack of hair on his head, and his bare, bulging arms bracketed his leather apron.
“Welcome to my establishment, miss.” His soft-spoken manner was at odds with his strapping exterior. “I’m Mason Bailey, butcher and purveyor o’ Chuddums’s finest meats. I ain’t seen you around before. New in town, are you?”
Keep it simple. Tell him only what is necessary.
“I am Jane Wood, sir,” she said. “The new housekeeper at Bottoms House.”
Mr. Bailey raised his thick brows. “Are you indeed? Brave one, ain’t you?”
She supposed working for a man like Lord Ethan Harrington required a certain amount of pluck. Since he was supplying her with a generous salary and a roof over her head, however, she’d decided to let bygones be bygones.
“My master’s bark is worse than his bite, and I’m grateful for the job.”
“I ain’t talking about the toff.” Bailey raised his hands and wriggled stubby fingers. “I’m talking about Bloody Thom.”
