The Riddle of the Shipwrecked Spinster (11 page)

“Where d’you mean to put it? In The Teacup?”

The Teacup was a deep depression not far from the manor. As children it had been their secret meeting-place, and two years ago, when the viscount had been a wounded Jacobite fugitive, he’d taken shelter there and been aided by the Cranfords despite the knowledge that their lives would be forfeit if they were caught helping him.

Piers said musingly, “It might be as well to fill it up, if only to keep out rascally rebs.” He ducked the tricorne Glendenning swiped at him, and with a wry grin took out his pocket watch. Td expected Florian before this. He’ll be sorry to have missed you.”

Amy Consett, the viscount’s beautiful affianced bride, had been stolen from her nurserymaid by the same band of gypsies who had later kidnapped Florian. Both she and the boy had only sketchy memories of their early childhood and neither
knew their true parentage, but having grown up together under the protection offered by Absalom Consett, a respected member of the tribe, they considered each other to be “family.”

Glendenning was fond of the youth, whom they now guessed to be about nineteen, and he asked, “How does he go on with your people?”

“Very well, in most respects. He has a fine mind and learns quickly. If he can just control his pride he’ll make a good steward.”

“I thought he’d subdued that famous pride of his. I know it bought him trouble aplenty while he was with the tribe. Amy told me that the young bucks resented the height in his manner. Does he still tend to treat others as if he were the king of the castle?”

“If he does, I’ve not seen it. But he certainly aims high in—other directions.”

They rode on, side by side, the bright coat of Flame, Glendenning’s chestnut mare, shining in the pale light and making a fine contrast with Tassels’ softly mottled grey.

In an attempt to turn his friend’s thoughts from the disastrous flood, Glendenning said lightly, “The direction of the ladies, eh? Or should I say ‘lady’? D’you fancy he made a detour in that ‘direction’ en route home?”

Cranford’s lips tightened. “If he did, he’ll hear from me!”

“Jove, what a spoil-sport! Florian is no longer a child, y’know.”

“True. But still too young to have formed a lasting attachment.”

“I don’t see that. He’s a fine-looking lad, and if his heart is given—”

“Then he has given it most ill-advisedly.”

“Why? Is Miss Finchley an antidote?”

“I’ve only seen the lady in the village, or at church occasionally, but she’s certainly not an ‘antidote.’ Her father loathes me, and is the kind to judge all gypsies as thieves and vagrants
who should be shot as soon as may be. He’s already warned Florian off.”

“Even as the girl beckons him on, eh? How is it that I’ve not the pleasure of her acquaintance?”

“She was at a seminary for several years after they moved here. You met him, though. Last autumn.”

“So I did, and was glared at with pronounced disapproval. He fought at Culloden, as I recall, and made clear his suspicions about my loyalties. Didn’t he once offer you and Perry some advice about your ‘treasonable’ friendship with me? He likely judges me to be as expendable as young Florian.”

“Oh, I’m sure of it. He’s the type to nurse his prejudices. Do you care to come and have a look at our collapsing bell tower?”

The viscount said he would be glad to see Muse Village, again. “’Fraid I’ll have to leave you afterwards, old lad. I’m to dine with my parents and Amy, and I’ve not left myself a deal of time.”

“What
you mean is that you can scarce wait to get back to your lady. You poor besotted lovers are all alike.”

“Oho! Listen to the crusty old bachelor expound on something he knows nothing about! If you’re lucky, one of these days
you
will fall in love, Mr. Indifference, and discover the joys of being ‘besotted.’”

“But not today,” said Cranford. And he thought, ‘And certainly not with Miss Cordelia Stansbury!’

They enjoyed a gallop through the crisp cold morning, and reached Muse Village neck and neck, with Glendenning boasting that his splendid chestnut had held her own against the much-praised Tassels, and Cranford declaring that he had very kindly held the filly back so as not to embarrass Tio’s “redheaded lady.”

The air now carried the tangy aroma of burning wood, and smoke drifted from the chimneys of the thatched cottages. A few villagers were to be seen on the winding lane; hats were
raised and greetings called to “the Squire.” Two women busily hanging out washing responded to Cranford’s greeting by saying shyly that they had to catch “a dry day.” A shabby but sturdily built man, his laden donkey cart nearby, was attempting to interest Mrs. Franck, the blacksmith’s wife, in the charms of a flat iron implement he called a girdle. Glancing at it curiously, Glendenning muttered, “Is the poor lady supposed to wear that thing?”

Cranford chuckled. “It’s a cooking pan, you lunkhead! They’re suspended over the fire and used for cooking cakes and suchlike. If you’ve never tasted a little cake still warm, with butter melting in the middle, you’ve missed—” He broke off, mildly irked when his friend rode on, obviously having paid no attention to his explanation.

Children came running along the lane, whooping with excitement, eager to greet their hero, “Left’nant Cranford.” Always an object of delight, Tassels was made much of, and betrayed no signs of alarm when many small hands stroked and caressed her. Glendenning was popular also, Flame came in for her share of admiration, and the two young men were soon surrounded. The viscount liked children, but it seemed to Cranford that today he was rather brusque and a tense look had driven the customary smile from the green eyes.

The horses were placed in the care of two of the older boys and led off to the stable while the younger children scattered to homes and breakfasts. Walking towards the church, Cranford said, “I hear something rattling around in your brain-box. Are you finding me solutions, Tio?”

“’Fraid not.” Glendenning glanced back. “That pedlar. D’you know him?”

“If you mean have I bought any of his goods—no. But he comes to the village now and then and makes a few sales. I’m told he’s an amiable-enough fellow. Why?”

“Does ‘now and then’ cover several years?”

“Be dashed if I know. But… a few months, anyway. You don’t look pleased. Is he a slippery customer?”

“I wish I knew. I’ve seen him before…somewhere…Can’t remember where. Only that he gives me an uncomfortable feeling. No—don’t look round. He’s still watching us.”

“Mercy! You never think he’s after
you?
I thought you had escaped that sticky wicket.”

“So did I. And very likely I’m borrowing trouble. Still, I’d be wary of him, your Squire-ship. Speaking of wariness, I’m surprised that old Perry ain’t come charging up here, and—Oh, egad! Only look at your poor church!”

St. Mark’s, although small and unpretentious, was much admired and usually presented a charming example of a rural place of worship. The graveyard lay behind the church. On either side of the building were velvety lawns and oak trees that imparted an aura of serenity to the old structure. Today, however, the lawns and front steps were littered with debris, several stained-glass windows hung in shreds, a thick dust covered leaves and grass, and the missing top of the bell tower gave the church an oddly “headless” appearance.

Cranford paused to view the damage in dismayed silence.

Beside him, Glendenning muttered, “Jove! Another mess for you, Piers! Beastly luck you’re having.”

Joseph Barrick, the curate, hurried to join them. A pale and rather high-strung young man with a nervous twitch, he expressed his gratitude for Mr. Cranford’s prompt arrival and led them inside, warning of the hazards of fallen masonry, glass, and splintered beams. Carpenters were busily erecting a makeshift cover over the hole in the roof, but Cranford realized sadly that most of the ancient and beautifully carven choir stalls were past saving. Glendenning, a fine amateur architect, was asked to comment on the work of restoration and delighted Piers and the clergyman by declaring that he knew some skilled artisans who could copy the carvings “so that you will scarce know the
difference.” He became so interested in the details that eventually Cranford had to remind him of the time.

They left the much-cheered cleric and reclaiming their horses, rode side by side until the viscount asked idly which cottage had burnt. Cranford shot an oblique glance at him and did not answer. Suspicion dawned in Glendenning’s eyes. Halting his mount, he demanded sharply, “Piers? It’s never old Ezra Sweet’s house? Gemini, but it is! Farewell, you unprincipled rascal!”

Piers leaned to snatch Flame’s bridle. “Wait! It won’t hurt you to delay another minute or two, and if you’re with me the poor old fellow is less likely to—”

“‘Poor old fellow’ my Aunt Samantha! He’s a perpetual rain-cloud, and crusty at that! Why you tolerate the creaking curmudgeon is more than I can—Hi! This is your chance, Piers! Build him a cottage on that piece of land you own outside Basingstoke! The Muse villagers will thank you, I’ll go bail!”

“As if I could do such a thing! It’s little more than a swamp, and besides, he’d die of loneliness away from everyone he ever knew! And I ‘tolerate’ him, as you put it, because after we lost our parents, Dimity nigh went into a decline. It was Sweet who took her with him about the gardens and—”

“And told her stories by the hour. Yes. I remember her speaking of it, but that was long ago, and he hadn’t turned into an argumentative old gaffer.”

“Who put the joy back into the girl you wanted to make your wife at one time, as I recall.”

“Well, and why not? Your sister is a very special lady.” Glendenning smiled nostalgically. “Fate has her own schedule, eh, Piers? Who’d ever have dreamt back then that Mitten would wed Tony Farrar?”

“Or that you’d have found your beautiful Amy.”

“To whom I must make haste!” Jerking his reins free, Glendenning said laughingly, “Go on, then. Listen to his moanings. But don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

“Fair-weather friend!” Cranford watched as the viscount rode off towards Windsor and Glendenning Abbey, but checked his speed after a minute to turn and wave a farewell. Returning the wave, Cranford guided Tassels to the north end of the village to inspect the charred ruins of his elderly tenant’s home. It was all too clear that the cottage was past restoring, and would have to be razed and rebuilt.

“I ‘spect as you be a-sittin’ there and blaming poor old Ezry. And thinkin’ as old Ezry went to lie down on his bed and left the fire burnin’ and no screen up,” wailed a scratchy voice beside him.

Cranford smiled down at the lined and sunken features of the frail, bowed old man who had once delighted his mother with his expert care of her beloved roses. “Now why would I think such carelessness of you?” he asked. “I know how conscientious you are, Ezra.”

“So you
says
, Mr. Piers,” argued Sweet, feebly brandishing a gnarled cane. “But I sees that there frown in yer eye, and I knows what ye was a-thinking. Old Ezry be too doddlish t’be trusted any more, ye was thinking to yerself. Don’t mean to build me another house, I shouldn’t wonder. Not as it wouldn’t be shame on ye to kick a poor old soul out in all weathers, wi’ nowhere to rest his poor weary bones, nor no one to give a button whether he lives nor dies! Arter all the years he served ye, and yer father afore ye!”

Dismounting hurriedly, Cranford promised, “Of course we’ll build you another cottage. And as for putting you out in the weather, I had understood you were staying with that pretty granddaughter of yours.”

“Bessie don’t want her old granfer taking up space in her fine new house what were give to her by her new father ‘law. A real house
that
be, with a fine deep hearth and no draughts comin’ in the winders or round the door like my poor old place. Fair froze I were in the winter-time the way they draughts come whistlin’ in, nigh deafenin’ me ears! But did I complain? Never!
And who cared? Not one single soul! Lone and lorn I be. Lone and lorn and outlived me usefulness.”

He turned away, only to stagger a little, so that Cranford threw an arm about his shoulders. A tear gleamed on the weathered cheek and Cranford said bracingly, “Come now, Ezra. Cheer up. Mr. Consett is already having plans drawn for your new cottage. FU send him down to talk to you and find out how we can make things more to your liking.”

“Aye, well, that young gypsy sprig had best come quick-like, fer poor old Ezry’s days be numbered, an’ chances are he’ll be called to his reward long ‘afore that there new cottage is built. Though even if it’s got better winders an’ more cupboards an’ a fine deep hearth it’ll be a lonely place fer a solitary soul, now that Bessie’s gone orf an’ turned hersel’ into a wife, an’ deserted her old granfer.”

“Now, Granfer,” said a gentle voice. “What be ye a-saying to Mr. Piers?” Bessie Sweet, now Mrs. Tom Kayne, was a comely, soft-voiced young woman, rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed. Flaxen curls were inclined to escape from beneath an immaculate frilled cap, the apron that encompassed her plump self fairly glowed with cleanliness, and there was about her an air of vibrant youth and health. Her fondness for her grandfather was well known, and she said with faint scolding, “Ye knows surely I hasn’t deserted ye, but has begged ye to move in with me and Tom; only you said you’d be more comfortable with Auntie Peg.”

“And so I would. Who wants to move in with a pair o’ lovebirds, billin’ and cooin’ night an day? Bad enough yer Auntie Peg’s comin’ to chit and chat and plague me mornin’ to night! Enough to turn the stomach of a sensible man. And likely she’ll do nought but grouse about the new cottage Mr. Piers
says
he means to build me. Not as a humble workin’ man can trust anything as ’ristocrats promises. So—”

“So that’ll be enough o’ that sort of talk,” chided Bessie, winking at Cranford, but sounding very stern. “’Tis past time
for the cordial the Widder Macaveety wants ye to be taking, so stop yer grousing and come home now, do.”

She took the old fellow’s frail arm and with a ruefully apologetic smile at Cranford led him off, nodding patiently through a snorted tirade about midwives “what don’t know peas from beans,” and gypsies who “only knows houses what a horse pulls!”