The challenge in her question—and the subtle narrowing of her stare—was unmistakable, but Beau could have sworn he detected the hint of a nervous swallow as she waited for his reply.
What did Madeline Murray look like? Like no other woman he’d ever encountered. She was his height, or possibly an inch taller, with shoulders that upon reflection seemed able to carry the weight of a thousand worries. She was hard, and yet she was soft. She had a full mouth, and a generous bosom and hips. Madeline Murray wasn’t dainty. She wasn’t overtly charming or classically beautiful.
She looked like a goddess—a Ceres, a Demeter, a Faerie Queen.
“Not a miserable old spinster,” he said instead.
The faintest hint of a smile quirked at the edge of her lips and she looked away again, down toward the safety and silence of her book. Beau contented himself with the subtle flush of pink rushing into her cheeks, before turning back to his own.
* * *
The journey passed uneventfully. By the time Maddy and Mr. da Silva disembarked at the station in Windsor, they had settled into companionable silence. Having collected their baggage, they waited for Mr. Chandler, a trusted associate of Mrs. Turnbull, to take them the rest of the way.
According to Mr. da Silva, the Chandlers had been neighbours of the Reddens for two generations, trusted with keeping the property maintained long after it had been regularly occupied. Mrs. Turnbull had alerted the Chandlers about Beau da Silva’s arrival, using the pretence that he was coming to personally survey the property ahead of the sale. There was no allusion to Frank da Silva’s murder, or the bounty on Mr. da Silva’s head.
The Scandalous Spinsters were highly experienced at coordinating people to accomplish a feat of the extra-legal variety for a client, but this arrangement was between The Everwell Society and Mrs. Turnbull. That subtle but critical distinction meant that the contact with the Chandlers had been handled by Mrs. Turnbull. This left Maddy with a crater of doubt about the trustworthiness of their new neighbours.
By now, Dominic would be on his way to Saint John to find the real culprit, or at least cast enough doubt on the existing theories to allow Mr. da Silva to return home with his innocence established. She could only hope the detective employed his usual cunning and solved the case quickly. Behind Mr. da Silva’s effortless charm there was a sharp intellect and a quick wit she would have to guard herself against. Not because she might be under his spell, though. Never again would she fall prey to a handsome face or the pretty words of a well-dressed man promising her the moon.
Maddy shook off her woolgathering and looked past the platform to the road, which was busy with the comings and goings of a small town. Thankfully, she had not seen any posters advertising the bounty for Mr. da Silva’s whereabouts. Instead, she tamped down a curious wave of envy growing inside her at the barely disguised looks of interest thrown in his general direction by women passing by.
They did not have to wait long before a cart pulled up alongside them. The driver was a man her age or a little younger, wearing a straw hat, trousers, and a jacket Maddy suspected was used for weddings, funerals, church suppers, and picking up strangers from the train station. He had fair skin and dark blond hair.
“Good morning,” he said, looking over Beau, then taking off his hat and nodding to Maddy. There was something about him—his smile perhaps—that was not dissimilar to Mr. da Silva.
“I’m Dan Chandler, and this is my son, Teddy.” He nodded to the boy sitting next to him. Teddy looked to be in his early teens, with short black hair, fair skin tanned by the sun, and bright inquisitive eyes. “I believe you are the people I’m to take to The Grove.”
“You have found us,” Mr. da Silva replied. “I’m Beau da Silva, and this is Miss Murray, who is my?—”
“Housekeeper,” she interjected primly, sniffling her discomfort. At her age, she hardly needed a chaperone—those days were long past her. Still, she was not good at play acting. That was Elouise’s job.
“I can help you with your things,” Mr. Chandler said, hopping down. He and Mr. da Silva shook hands, before picking up Maddy’s trunk and hauling it to the back of the cart.
Maddy watched the crowd as the men hauled the luggage onto the farm cart. Clearly the Chandlers had taken advantage of the trip to load up on a few supplies, and there was some rearranging required to ensure everything fit snugly and provided room for seating.
Even though the task took only minutes, impatience ate away at Maddy’s attention. Every moment they lingered was another moment someone could recognize Mr. da Silva. She turned her attention from the crowd to the wagon, trying not to be distracted by the way his fine wool coat pulled across his shoulders.
“There is no need to take up an entire side of the road.”
Maddy turned to the source of the grumbling. It emanated from a well-dressed man with a remarkable set of sideburns, hawkish nose, and an unmistakable air of pomposity. While there was, in fact, plenty of road for him to move around, he stood there waiting for Maddy to move. Unwilling to subject herself to his ill will, or Mr. da Silva to his attention, she moved out of the way.
“My apologies,” she said, then stepped aside for him to pass. He returned her apology with a caustic stare.
“Next time, watch where you are going.” He brushed by her, muttering to himself. “Oversized cow.”
The insult caught her ear. She turned away, giving herself a moment to let the hurt roll off her shoulders. She looked over to the wagon to see if it was finally loaded properly so they could leave. She was greeted by the sight of Beau da Silva, jumping off the back of the wagon, directly in front of the man, a thunderous look on his face.
The man blinked, clearly taken aback by his path being blocked a second time.
“I didn’t realize it was acceptable to insult a woman for simply standing on the road,” Mr. da Silva said, the lightness of his tone at odds with the edge in his stance. “You will apologize immediately.”
Blood flooded the man’s cheeks, regarding Mr. da Silva with the dangerous countenance of someone whose overinflated ego had just been shattered. Maddy, warring between mortification at the attention and Mr. da Silva’s defence of her, watched the two intently.
“Come,” he continued when the man merely sputtered, not moving as quickly as Mr. da Silva had liked. “I’m sure you have somewhere of dubious importance to be. Apologize.”
“And what is she to you?” the gentleman sneered, casting a side long glance at Maddy.
Mr. da Silva put himself between Maddy and the cad.
