That door was open, so she strolled in as if she might have the coin to buy from a. . . lady? Did ladies sell in shops? She had not thought they did more than accessorize castles.
A plainly dressed matron with lovely auburn hair sleeked back in a prim knot, with a few natural wisps escaping at her nape, greeted her with a welcoming smile. “You must be Miss Leonard. Verity mentioned the professor had a lady assistant. How may I help you?”
Shop clerks never acknowledged El’s existence, much less recognized her by name, even at the market she had visited weekly. The experience was shockingly pleasant and just a trifle unnerving. Gossip traveled fast here.
“I fear both my wardrobe and my coins are lacking,” she admitted honestly, while Peg studied the bonnets in the window. “May I know to whom I am speaking?”
“Mrs. Caitlin Morgan, soon to be Ferguson.” She shyly presented a beautiful diamond ring on her left hand. “If you meet a tall, dark grump, most likely carrying mechanical parts, that is my betrothed. He’s an excellent clockmaker, should you need a watch repaired.”
Eleanor grinned. “We should introduce him to my employer, the surly lion. Greybourne no doubt has a dozen watches he never looks at.”
“I will admit, we’ve all been eager to meet you. I understand your brother is a tailor?” The smiling clerk picked up a straw hat with dangling ribbons and placed it on Peg’s dull brown hair.
The young maid nearly passed out in delight, admiring her reflection in the hand mirror Mrs. Morgan provided.
“We sell refurbished hats locals can afford,” she explained. “Even the ribbons on this one were salvaged. People in town throw away the most extraordinary things. A shilling covers the cost of the material and the time Odila spent in repairs.”
“Oh, my, even I might afford a second hat at that price!” El was surprised that the notion of another bonnet even entered her head. It had been so very long since she’d wanted feminine attire. . .
The maid regretfully set the straw back on the shelf.
El knew the longing pangs of making do with only the bare necessities. Peg had only an old kerchief to cover her hair. Her new maid was just fourteen and hadn’t grown into her looks yet, but young girls at that age desired to feel special, El remembered painfully well. It hadn’t been that long ago.
She reached into her meager purse. “We’ll take it. I cannot go about with a maid who has no hat. She will be all over freckles!” And she had no hand-me-downs to give her.
Peg tried to demur, but the hope in her eyes gave her away.
Mrs. Morgan nodded approval as she took the coin. “You will suit very well here, Miss Leonard. I do hope you are staying. Miss Lavender can make up a new gown—well, a refurbished one—for not much more than a few shillings. With your slender figure and height, you will look splendid in the new styles.”
“That may depend on whether we stay,” El admitted. “After yesterday, it is uncertain whether Bradford House will suit. Admittedly, Andrew and I had hoped to find a place in Gravesyde. He is still learning to tailor, but he’s quite excellent at refitting.”
Mrs. Morgan beamed. “He must talk to Henri. The men’s shop has to close when Henri goes into town or works at his tavern or helps his wife at the manor. He is too busy to do it all. A tailor running the shop would be ideal!”
The clerk lost her smile. “But losing Mr. Comfrey—a horrible tragedy. I understand your misgivings. I cannot imagine what happened. No one even knew the poor man! Our curate’s wife had to write the bank to ask where to take the remains.”
“Does Mr. Russell have any suspects? We fear the death is related to the house or, perhaps, us?” El made a moue of distaste. “One cannot help but fear it’s personal, that we are not wanted.”
“Fustian.” Mrs. Morgan handed her a receipt. “The bank is despised here, so they are the more likely target. I had not even seen Mr. Comfrey until he arrived the other night, after the shop closed. He appeared to be a pleasant, quiet sort, looked just as a bank clerk should, bespectacled, well-fed, average size, not very intimidating. He bowed most elegantly and greeted me with politeness. I cannot imagine how anyone could wish to kill the gentleman. Mr. Bosworth, the bank owner, on the other hand, does not acknowledge my existence, or that of anyone else without funds. He is the one people despise.’’
“Then Mr. Comfrey was not a frequent visitor? It’s hard to imagine wishing to kill anyone so harmless, but a gentleman no one knows. . . Was there some dispute over the house?”
Before the clerk could answer, a vision of loveliness wafted in on a breeze of bouncing golden curls, lavender ribbons, and muslin sprigged in violets. “Kate! You must see what Henri has found for us this time! Furs, he has found furs!”
“I know it has been a chilly spring, but I really think it extreme to need furs.” Mrs. Morgan’s welcoming smile transformed into a slight frown.
“Oh, but we’ll be prepared for winter! Buying out of season means we received a most excellent price. We can add them to cloaks and. . .” Seeing El, she dropped a sample of the fur on a table and hastened to greet her. “You must be the inimitable Miss Leonard Lord Greybourne spoke of last night at dinner. Welcome! Clare was most eager to learn of a lady scribe. She spends too much time at her desk and now that she’s about to present the manor with another infant?—”
El allowed the flow of eager chatter to sweep over her. She might earn her keep as a scribe? In a village where so many were illiterate. . . She bobbed a curtsy and accepted introductions to the shop’s owner, Miss Lavender Marlowe. The habit of the locals of calling each other by familiar names was confusing, but she gathered Miss Marlowe was not a younger child or a lady, she simply preferred to be called Lavender and the shop’s name was apparently a reference to her grandmother’s title, in some manner. El didn’t attempt to follow the chatter.
She had more reason than ever to stay in Gravesyde. All they need do is find a killer before Grey decided it wasn’t safe and wandered off elsewhere. He wasn’t one to stay in one place for long.
Eleven
Rafe
“A guest,” Parsons shouted into the kitchen, where Rafe was adding milk to mashed potatoes for tonight’s shepherd’s pies. “In a fancy gig!”
The inn’s ex-convict clerk was easily impressed by anything shinier than a farm cart. Still, Rafe took off his apron, donned his coat, and hurried out to the lobby. Guests were rare enough that he greeted each one.
