“Puddle,” she swallowed, “wick?”
“Yes.”
She tried to adopt an uncaring, unconcerned attitude. “Why do you ask? What’s Puddlewick to you?”
She moved, put her body between him and the church because he might take it into his head to go into the ruins right this very instant and discover the stone carved with the letters PVDDLEWICK.
“I’m trying to find a Mr. Augustus Puddlewick,” he said.
Her heart was beating out of her chest. She felt dizzy. But still she tried to scoff.
“A ridiculous name.”
“Yes. It might well be anom de guerre. A false name,” he said as if she could not possibly have any idea what anom de guerrewas unless he told her. He was not wrong. “But whatever his name, I’m almost certain he’s from these parts.”
“And what do you want with Mr. Puddlewick?”
“I want to pay him money to write a book.”
She gaped. “Money to write a book?”
“For my granddaughter.”
He was a grandfather. Which meant he was a husband and a father. Of course, most men were these things, just as most women were wives and mothers.
He said, “I don’t suppose you know of any authors who live in Much Wemby.”
Susannah didn’t. Not if she split geographical hairs. “In Much Wemby?” Her voice squeaked. “No.”
He looked at her as if he couldn’t decide what she was. Whether he should continue speaking to her or he should capture her as a freak of nature and put her on display.
Finally, he said, “I thank you for your time, Miss Beasley.”
He tipped his hat and bowed, but she didn’t want him to go just yet. He reeked of danger because of his handsomeness and because he was trying to find Augustus, but she still didn’t want him to go. He was something unlikely, and, for a long time, there hadn’t been anything unlikely in her life that hadn’t come out of her own head.
“Are you off to Much Wemby?” she babbled. “It’s just down the lane and beyond the bridge over the Wem. A third of a mile. Maybe a half.”
She could follow him there. She could clean up and go into Much Wemby and pretend to be in need of a packet of needles, and they might cross paths again. The village would be looking at its best with everything being readied for tonight, and the gentleman might take luncheon at The Swan. Sir John D’Oyly did that from time to time and had praised Celia’s pastry, said her pies were the best in the county.
But, no. Susannah should direct this gentleman to go away. Far away. For safety’s sake.
“Trimbleton is lovely, too, and I hear they do very good sausages at The Red Lion, and it’s in the opposite direction, only a few more miles, Mr. . . .”
Ha! She would use his own trick to get his name.
“Good day,” he said instead of his name.
The trick must only work for high-handed men who had plenty of experience in demanding things and getting them.
He walked away from her, and she admired his shoulders again as she replaced her bonnet and began to tie the ribbons.
“No, no, no, no,” she called after him when she saw where he was headed. She ran, ribbons flying, clamping her bonnet to her head with a dirty hand. “Don’t go through the lychgate. It’s old, and it sways in the wind, and it might come down around your ears.”
She’d never forgive herself if this man were to be crushed by the lychgate. He was so very good to look at.
“Here.” She led him to the place where some of the churchyard wall had crumbled.
He made another courtly bow and climbed through the gap elegantly. She didn’t even know one could climb through somethingelegantly.
