And if there was ever a way to bring women to your side, it was that action.
Chapter Five
Gemma never broke down, not in front of strangers. It was the English side of her. Or perhaps the prideful Scot. Either way, she knew how to behave.
Oh, she would shed a tear, but to outright bawl? No, never, and yet, here she was.
She was exhausted, hungry, and on the verge of being completely defeated. Her confrontation with the bullish Mr. Thurlowe played to her every fear. In a village like this, the doctor was practically royalty. Certainly, he had access to the gentry and that meant the magistrate. Who would that authority believe? The doctor? Or herself with a rightful claim?
Or at least she hoped her claim was legitimate. She actually wasn’t certain. Instead, she had been operating on sheer nerve... because what other choice did she have?
If she couldn’t have The Garland, she had nowhere else to go.
Hands guided her to sit in the chair. Over her head, the women whispered about the battle of the mice and Gemma’s complaint about something having happened in her uncle’s bed that had upset her.
“What is wrong with the bed?” the younger woman queried.
“The sheets,” Gemma choked out and then refused to go on because it was so disgusting.
“Indeed?”said the older woman in a tone laden with well-placed suspicions, and Gemma knew she didn’t need to say more.
The older woman took charge. “Miss Taylor, cross the road to my house and tell Jane we will need a set of fresh sheets here. Also, when you return, bring the tea caddy and the sherry bottle. Tell Jane I want a full one. She needs to bring glasses, as well. We require fortification. I imagine we will not find a bottle here because everything appears to be drained dry.”
“Yes, Mrs. Warbler.” Miss Taylor hurried to do her bidding.
Gemma tried to halt her crying. It took several minutes before she could finally right herself. She reached for the pocket of her dress for a kerchief or something to blow her nose. There was nothing. She had to settle for the back of her glove and that was the most humiliating moment of all.
It almost put her back into another fit of tears, except for Mrs. Warbler’s crisp, “Here now, we can’t make things better if you are going to continue to blubber.”
Dear God, that was exactly what her gran would have said. Still, Gemma had to indulge in a fit of self-pity. “You won’t believe me. Not after what I heard Mr. Thurlowe say.”
“Young woman, I am more clever than to listen to what a man says. Are you going to tell me your side of the story or not?”
Such a challenge could not be ignored.
“I’m not usually like this,” Gemma said in her defense, raising her head. “I am actually quite practical.”
“Does the rest of The Garland look like these two rooms?”
“Worse.”
“Then I don’t blame you for having a fit. I’m Elizabeth Warbler, the neighbor across the street. I’ve seen the goings-on here.”
At that moment Miss Taylor, breathing heavily from her haste, returned holding a bottle and several glasses. “Jane will be here momentarily,” she reported. “However, I thought to carry this myself.”
“Excellent idea,” Mrs. Warbler said. She took the bottle, broke the wax, and looked around the kitchen. “Ah, a knife.” She dared to take one off a dirty plate. With a curl of her lip, she searched for something. Then, not finding it, she removed her lace cap and cleaned the blade of the knife.
“Your cap,” Gemma protested. “You will ruin it.”
“Priorities, my dear. We need substance.” She uncorked the bottle handily with her knife and then poured generously.
“Oh, that is too much for me,” Miss Taylor demurred. She was a lovely woman, perhaps the same age as Gemma. Her hair was the color of the richest honey and her green eyes were trusting, but she didn’t strike Gemma as anyone’s fool.
“Oh, posh,” Mrs. Warbler countered. “I have a feeling you will need more than this once we see the whole of the place.”
“You will,” Gemma assured her. “It is a disaster.”
“Then drink up,” Mrs. Warbler ordered, handing glasses to the two of them.
