Death Comes to the Village (20 page)

 

“I saw her, sir.”

“Where?” Robert sat forward, his hands clenched on the arms of the chair.

“In the rectory.”

“So she was just too busy to come up to the manor.” Robert couldn’t decide if the feeling that swept over him was relief or annoyance.

“She wasn’t busy, she was all bloody, sir. It was quite a sight.”

Robert’s attention snapped back to the boy in front of him.
“What?”

“Miss Harrington, sir. When I got there, the front door was open, so I went right in. She was lying on the couch in the parlor, and the doctor was there, and her sister, and the rector, and that mean Betty from the kitchen. It was like a death scene from a traveling play, but it wasn’t pig’s blood in the bowl, I’m thinking.”

“Miss Harrington was bleeding?”

“Yes, sir, didn’t I just say so?”

“What happened?” Robert raised his voice and Joe winced.

“I’m not quite sure because no one was wanting to tell me nothing, but I
think
Miss Harrington fell down and hit her head in the graveyard, which was why her cheek was bleeding and they was all fussing around her like a bunch of ninnies.”

“Did you manage to speak to her?”

“Yes, sir, I did. She wanted to write you a note, but her pretty sister, Miss Anna, said no, and to tell you that Miss Harrington would come and see you when she was ready.” Joe scratched his nose. “She didn’t sound real friendly-like, if you know what I mean.”

“Did you discover why Miss Harrington was in the graveyard?”

“She didn’t say, but she did say that she hadn’t fallen down. She kept insisting she’d been hit on the head, but the rector and the doctor kept telling her she was being silly.” Joe shuffled his feet. “Women are silly sometimes, aren’t they? All emotional and crying like a baby.”

“Miss Harrington was
crying?
”

“No, but she did look bleeding awful. All pale and muddy apart from that big bloodied bruise on her cheek. She’s going to have a right shiner.”

“Good God,” Robert muttered. “Whatever have I done?”

“
C
ome along, my dear. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Lucy took her father’s proffered arm and followed him into the graveyard. She still had a terrible headache but found herself unable to stay in bed a moment longer. Her request to revisit the graveyard had been granted somewhat unwillingly, and only after she’d confessed that it might be the only way to set her mind at rest. As she’d hoped, her father had interpreted that to mean she would stop worrying him over nothing if he gave in and agreed to accompany her.

Harris brought up the rear, a stout cudgel in his hand, his gaze scanning the trees for any hidden dangers. For once, Lucy was quite glad to have him with them. She guided her father down to the corner of the graveyard, where the DeVry tomb stood, its pale white walls benign in the early morning sun.

“It was here, Papa. I took off my gloves because I thought there was something stuck in the door of the crypt.”

Her father paused in front of the tomb. “I don’t see anything now. Do you?”

“No. It all looks remarkably undisturbed.” Lucy looked around. Whatever she’d thought she’d seen trapped in the door of the vault had gone, and there were no footprints in the dirt beside the structure except the new imprint of her father’s boots.

“Can we open up the tomb and take a look anyway?”

“Lucy, for goodness’ sake.” Her father frowned. “You cannot go around opening up sacred burial plots on a whim.”

“
Somebody
opened it.”

He walked over to her and lowered his voice. “Sometimes, my dear, the poor of the parish feel unable to spare the money to have a deceased relative decently laid to rest. They prefer to use their coin to drink themselves into a stupor toasting the dead. Sometimes their solution to the dilemma of wanting the body in sanctified ground, without paying for the privilege, leads to them opening up existing graves and adding a cadaver.”

Lucy put a hand to her mouth.

Her father patted her shoulder. “It is possible that someone chose to do that in this case. The DeVry tomb is no longer in use, so there is no one to be offended.”

“So no one will mind if we open it up a crack to take a look, either, will they?”

Her father surveyed the tomb. “It looks perfectly fine to me and quite undisturbed. I doubt anyone has opened it in a long while, and I don’t intend to be the one to do so. To be perfectly honest, my dear, what probably happened was that you disturbed a local man up to no good, or a band of grave robbers after a corpse.”

Lucy shivered and her father put his arm around her. “Don’t worry, my love, I doubt they’ll be back for a while. You probably scared them more than they scared you.”

“But—”

“I’ll ask the church warden and Edward to keep an eye on the graveyard over the next few days. If they see anything suspicious, I’m sure they’ll let me know.” He offered Lucy his arm. “Are you coming? There’s nothing more to worry about here.”

“Thank you for reassuring me. You go ahead, Papa. I’ll be along in a moment. I just want to make sure I can’t find those gloves.”

“You were always the most thrifty of my children.” He chuckled as he headed back toward the gates. “I’ll leave Harris here with you. Don’t be long.”

Lucy’s smile faded as she heard the gate shut behind her father. She turned back toward the DeVry tomb. It was truly as if she had imagined the whole thing.... There was no blood on the tomb, the scrap of cloth had disappeared, as had her gloves. That was two pairs she needed to replace now.

It was almost too perfect.

She turned and walked a wider circle around the vault, her gaze flicking everywhere. The sun broke through the clouds and threaded its way through the branches of the ancient oak trees that stood guard over the graves. In the scrubby nettles and blackberry bushes that grew around the base of the trees, it touched upon a hint of white.

Trying to avoid both the thorns and the sting of the nettles, she used her booted foot to push aside as much of the foliage as she could and bent down, suddenly all too aware of her vulnerability, the curve of her exposed neck, her lack of vision....

A piece of broken pottery flashed white against the mud, and she carefully picked it up and held it in her open palm. The remnant was porcelain, and fine enough to see her fingers through. From the look of the piece, someone had ground it into the earth beneath his or her boot. Why on earth would anyone do that? Had the object been broken? But why would such a dainty piece be in the middle of a graveyard? She squinted at the piece more carefully. The pastoral pattern seemed somewhat familiar. . . .

A wave of nausea made it almost impossible for her to breathe, and she closed her fingers around the fragment.

“Are you all right, miss?” Harris called.

“I’m fine.” Lucy rose to her feet, ignoring the swirl of unsteadiness as she straightened. “Let’s go home.”

 

“I think that is a very clever idea, Robert. A movable chair with wheels.” Aunt Rose smiled as she passed him a cup of tea. “Don’t you, Miss Chingford?”

“Oh, it wasn’t my idea.” Robert accepted the cup and balanced it on his thigh. “Miss Harrington read something in
Ackermann’s
and brought it to my attention.”

“Miss Harrington is a remarkably competent young woman.”

“Which is just as well, because she scarcely has the looks to become a diamond of the first water.” Miss Chingford put her cup down. “She strikes me as the meddling sort.”

Robert’s smile held an edge. “She does like to manage us lesser mortals, but I owe her a great deal and will not have her spoken of in less than courteous terms.”

Miss Chingford hunched her shoulder at him. For the first time, it occurred to him to wonder how it might feel to face her every morning over the breakfast table. Was she just young as his aunt suggested, or was she simply a spoiled beauty who was too used to getting her own way to accept the slightest hint of censure or disapproval?

“By the way, have you heard any more from the rectory about what happened to Miss Harrington?” Aunt Rose poured herself some more tea and took up her embroidery.

“No, I haven’t. I thought it best to wait until Miss Harrington wished to communicate with me, rather than bother her if she is indisposed. Blows on the head can be quite unpleasant.”

Miss Chingford made a huffing sound and Robert switched his attention back to her. “Is there something wrong?”

She stood and walked over to Robert. Her blond hair was dressed in a cascade of ringlets that framed her classically beautiful face, and she wore a blue dress that exposed rather a lot of her small bosom. Robert wasn’t surprised she complained his house was cold if she insisted on dressing in such skimpy garments.

“Why does everyone talk about Miss Harrington all the time? I realize that this place has no social life to speak of, but there must be something more interesting than her.”

Aunt Rose opened her mouth, but Robert quelled her with a look. “Miss Harrington is much respected for her charitable work in the village. I don’t understand why you seem so determined to dislike her.”

“I don’t
dislike
her. She is too far beneath me for that. She is the one who forced herself upon my notice as if
she
is the arbiter of taste and social niceties in this godforsaken place.”

“She is considered one of the first ladies of the village.”

“But she is so provincial. What this place needs is a woman with taste and sophistication to make it more fashionable.”

“You don’t like my home?”

She flushed. “It will look much better once I take it in hand, I can promise you that.”

“And what if I like it just the way it is?”

“Why would you? The house is old and falling down around your ears.”

“But it is my home.”

“And it is inconvenient and beneath your status.”

He shrugged. “I’m a country gentleman. It suits me rather well.”

“But you have the money to make it so much more.” For the first time since he’d seen her again, his betrothed looked animated. “And once you have improved the property, I’m sure the crown would be more than willing to grant you a title to go with it. You could probably even afford to buy yourself one if you wished.”

Robert couldn’t help but smile. “What would I want with a title? I’m quite happy keeping my money for the more important things like improving my lands and supporting my tenants.”

“You cannot mean that.”

“Why not?”

“Because . . .” Miss Chingford shook her head. “
I
want . . .”

His smile disappeared. “Could you leave us for a moment, Aunt?”

“Of course, my dear.”

Robert waited until his aunt shut the door behind her, and then turned back to Miss Chingford, who had remained standing, her hands locked together, her expression mutinous.

“Perhaps it is time for us to speak plainly, my dear.” He gestured at the chair opposite his. “Won’t you sit down?”

She took the seat, but avoided his gaze. “It is not necessary to discuss anything, Major Kurland. I was perhaps a little presumptuous with my remarks as to what I intend to do with your estate once we are married. I will, of course, consult with you before I instigate any changes.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

Robert studied her averted profile with a great deal of exasperation. She was obviously uncomfortable with him. In truth, he doubted she even liked him anymore, so why couldn’t she just say it, and end this charade?

“Miss Chingford, it is no sin to have made a mistake.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

He tried to be gentle. “I’m not the same man you met in London three years ago.”

“Yes, you are!”

“I didn’t mean it literally. Much has changed in the past three years.” He smoothed a hand over his covered legs. “I’ve been wounded. I’m still not sure if I will be able to take up the reins of my old life or that I even wish to return to the military. I can understand if you find that too much to deal with.”

“Are you suggesting I should abandon a man who has fought for his country, a man whom everyone I meet tells me I am lucky to have as a betrothed?”

“It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.”

“Yes, it does!” She glared at him. “You have no idea.”

“Obviously not.” He made a supreme effort. “But surely, no one would wish you to be unhappy?”

“What is there to be unhappy about? I will be marrying a man my family approves of.”

“But what about you? What do you want?”

Her eyes filled with tears and she practically ran out of the room, leaving Robert feeling even more useless than usual. Eventually, his aunt came back in and picked up her embroidery as if nothing had happened.

“She’s very young, you know.”

“That’s blatantly obvious.” He sighed. “I feel like a wolf savaging a lamb. She cannot wish to marry me, Aunt. Why can she not just say so?”

“Because it’s not that simple for a woman. She’s invested three years of her life in you, and she feels she is practically on the shelf. If she breaks her engagement, she’ll disappoint her family, and she fears she will be an object of pity and ridicule amongst her contemporaries.”

“She told you this?”

“Some of it. The rest I inferred.”

“Then why can’t she be honest with me? She’s only twenty, for God’s sake. She’s hardly on the shelf.”

“Most of her friends are already married and many of them have children. She worries that she has been left behind.” Aunt Rose set a stitch in her embroidery. “I also suspect, that having three other daughters to marry off, the Chingford family is eager to hang on to your money and your connections.”

Robert contemplated waking up next to the golden beauty of Miss Chingford every morning, of her bearing his children, sharing his life....

“Why did I propose to her? What was I thinking?” He groaned. “I’m not sure how it happened. It seemed to be assumed, and like a fool, I went along with it.”

“She is very beautiful, Robert, and she’s young enough to be molded into the kind of wife you want.”

“I don’t want to mold her! She’s not a slab of clay and I am not God.” He glared at his aunt. “In my present state I’m not fit to be a husband or companion to anyone.”

“I’d agree with you on that. Your temper is quite shocking.” She smiled at him. “If you wish, I’ll talk to Miss Chingford and see if I can find out why she clings to this arrangement when it obviously won’t make her happy anymore. I don’t think she is a bad person, Robert. She is just confused and scared about the future.”

“I know.” He stared glumly at his aunt. “There has to be a solution to this. It would help if she didn’t run away in the middle of every conversation I attempt to have with her.”

The door opened and Foley appeared with a tray of the small cakes his aunt preferred. He still wasn’t speaking to Robert, and he lavished all his smiles and attention on Aunt Rose.

“I hope you don’t mind, nephew, but I thought it was time to call on your neighbors and renew my acquaintance with them.”

“Please, go ahead. Just try not to mention me.”

“I can hardly pretend you don’t exist. People will want to know how you are getting along.”

“Well, tell them what they need to know, but don’t encourage them to visit me here.”

Aunt Rose topped up his tea and placed three cakes on his plate. He was sick of tea. It was no wonder he yearned for the brandy bottle.

“You will have to face everyone at some point you know, my love.”

“Yes, but not yet. I at least want to be able to stand up and greet my guests. Is that too much to ask?”

He hated the thought of being stared at, of being pitied, almost as much as he hated being in pain. But what did that say about his character? Was he really too vain to accept his new reality?