“You deserve to hang!” Rupert shouted, but the people did not cheer him on. They seemed to have been subdued by the presence of Mrs. Groby and her children. It was as if they suddenly remembered that Mr. Groby was a family man who had been their trusted neighbor and friend for as long as they’d lived in Westmorland.
Groby untied his bloodied apron and threw it onto his workbench. Then, he walked placidly toward the magistrate. Everyone remained silent as Magistrate Hunt led him through the crowd.
“I won’t rest until I see you hanged!” Rupert shouted as Groby exited his slaughterhouse with the magistrate.
“Get out! All of you!” The butcher’s wife stepped forward and scolded her neighbors. “You’re frightening my children.”
Nate grabbed Rupert by the arm and whispered something to him. Then, he led him toward the door, and the rest followed. He made eye contact with Bridget as he came toward her and frowned. “You shouldn’t have come on your own,” he said, letting go of Rupert. “Things are getting dangerous.”
“That’s exactly why I came,” Bridget said. “And I’m staying to have a word with Mrs. Groby. She’s going to need my support.”
“You’re right,” Nate said. “That’s a good idea. I’ll wait for you outside.”
“No, you should go home. The colonel is on the loose, creating chaos as we speak, and poor Aunt Marianne isn’t too pleased.”
Nate hesitated, pressing his lips together as if contemplating what to do. “I’m sorry about that. I was worried about this exact scenario, that’s why I left in a hurry. I thought a few brandies would be enough to subdue the colonel. He usually falls asleep after a glass or two.”
“But what took you so long to get here?” Bridget asked.
“The magistrate was deep in conversation with Dr. Elias about Otis’s wounds and wasn’t to be rushed. He seemed far less concerned than I about a mob gathering at Groby’s slaughterhouse. Still, the damage at home is already done, and I hesitate to leave you now.”
“Go on,” Bridget said. “I’ve got my mare with me to ride safely home. And you’re needed at the villa. I’ll be there as soon as I’m finished here.”
“Very well,” Nate said reluctantly and went outside. Bridget watched as the rest of the men filed out, their bent heads reassuring her that all was not lost in her little village.
Once they were gone, she approached Mrs. Groby—a young, slim woman of one-and-twenty with chestnut ringlets and large green eyes—and put a comforting hand on the woman’s shoulder. Alice Groby had been a figure of interest in Braithwaite since she’d married Groby a little over three years ago. People speculated that she’d been forced to marry the gruff butcher, who was much older than she. But Bridget wasn’t so sure. Mr. Groby had a substantial farm and a solid business. And, for as long as Bridget had known him, despite his boorish appearance, he’d always been a genial man who was generous to others.
The babe in Mrs. Groby’s arms, a sweet-faced little girl of twelve months with tufts of blond hair, gave Bridget a toothy grin. Thankfully, she was too young to understand what had just taken place, but unfortunately, the Groby’s three-year-old son would not come out unscathed. Bridget had always known Edmund to be a cheerful and rambunctious child. But today, he clung desperately to his mother’s skirt, his large blue eyes filled with fear, and his round face ashen. Her heart ached for him. She knew what it was like to lose a beloved parent, and she recognized the child’s fear. More than that, she’d learned the hard way how to stomach slander and shame for an accused family member. Because her papa had died of self-murder, he’d been branded a sinner and had been buried alongside traitors and murderers. He’d been denied a Christian burial, and his memory and his good nature had been blighted for eternity. The pain of such cruelty was overwhelming and frightening. No one understood that better than she did.
Bridget turned and scanned the now-empty slaughterhouse and shuddered. She could still hear the shouts and cries for Groby to hang ringing in her ears. She had to get Mrs. Groby and her children away from here and safely inside their cottage. She knew that what they needed now more than anything was a bit of kindness and comfort from someone who understood their plight.
*
The butcher’s cottagewas modest yet comfortable and well-stocked. Mr. Groby was a hard worker, and he’d provided well for his family. The kitchen pantry was loaded with dried meats, potatoes, wheat, flour, eggs, and other staples. Also, his farm spanned out behind the cottage and housed a herd of cattle, sheep, pigs, and chickens. Mrs. Groby and her children would certainly not starve for now, but if nothing could be done to save their papa, then their lives could take a serious turn for the worse. Bridget assumed it would be difficult for Mrs. Groby to maintain the farm, butchery, and children on her own.
As they entered the house, Mrs. Groby said faintly, “I was just making John his morning tea. But he won’t be needing it now.”
“Sit down while I make it for us,” Bridget said. “I’m sure the children could use a bite.” Bridget guided Mrs. Groby to the rocking chair by the fire in the front parlor. “Then we can talk about what needs to happen next.”
Still holding her babe, the woman sank into the chair, and the child snuggled against her mother’s breast.
“Perhaps Edmund would like to help me?” Bridget smiled at the little boy. “Do you want to show me where Mummy keeps the tea?” The child shook his head and scooted closer to his mother’s chair. Bridget could not blame him. He’d just watched his neighbors turn on his papa while the magistrate escorted him from his home. It was nowonder he didn’t want to let his mama out of his sight. “How does Mummy like her tea? Does she take cream and sugar?” she asked, trying again to engage the child. He turned his face and buried it in his mother’s skirt.
“Black for me,” Mrs. Groby said flatly.
In the kitchen, Bridget found the pot of tea Mrs. Groby had prepared for her husband, along with a jug of milk. She poured a glass for Edmund. And after locating some biscuits, she prepared a tray and took it to the front parlor. Edmund turned to his mother and waited for her nod of approval before he accepted the cup of milk and a biscuit. Bridget then placed the tea tray on the small table beside Mrs. Groby’s rocker and poured two cups of tea, but the woman made no effort to touch hers.
Bridget pulled up a stool and sat next to the young mother. “Drink,” she said. “It will make you feel better.”
Mrs. Groby lifted her cup, but her hand trembled so much that she had to place it back in the saucer. “Mr. Otis is dead,” she said. “Murdered! And John will hang for it! How will my children hold their heads up in this village with a father who hanged for murder?”
“They won’t hang him. I won’t let them—at least not without a proper investigation.”
“Investigation? They don’t care about the truth. I’ve seen it before. It happened once at the market in Harrogate. They accused a man of stealing, and a mob set upon him. He were taken and hanged a week later. Mr. Oliver, he were called. A farmer and a good man, known to all. I saw them turn on him like rabid dogs. Then a month later, the true thief were uncovered.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Bridget said, although fear of the very same fate for the butcher had filled the pit of her stomach. This wasn’t a mere case of theft, which was serious enough in itself. This was murder, and no ordinary murder at that. George Otis had been mercilessly and brutally butchered. And even though George had beennew to Westmorland, he had been well-liked. And Rupert had whipped the good people of Westmorland into a frenzy. They’d felt the injustice of a young life lost keenly, and they would want justice, precisely because they were good, honest people.
“Everyone is against us,” Mrs. Groby said, breaking into Bridget’s thoughts. “Only you can help us now.”
