Page 19 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
Verity hoped he wasn’t being overconfident. As much as she admired his manner of bluntly pushing through every circumstance, some men were all bluster.
She left them to their food and led the seamstress up the stairs, where Mrs. Underhill was making up the beds with fresh linens she must have manufactured from fairy dust. The old ones were still flapping on a line out back.
The drapery divider had been pulled, neatly dividing the loft, leaving each of them with a single dormer window for light. “It smells beautifully of beeswax, thank you, Mrs. Underhill!”
The older lady grunted in return.
“Not very talkative for a companion,” Lavender whispered, entering the larger space Mrs. Underhill had assigned to Verity—Miss Edgerton’s bedchamber.
“I’m not accustomed to talk. I’ve lived alone for a long time.” Verity had been struggling so hard to overcome grief and survive, that she really hadn’t noticed how lonely she’d become. There had always been market people to discuss the price of a meat pie or a servant or merchant to question. She certainly hadn’t attempted to strike up conversations with the sailors on the wharf or the men in the countinghouse. She’d been sadly lacking in society.
“Well, this is not a good place to become a hermit.” The girl efficiently took Verity’s measurements. “What do you need first?”
“A simple, sturdy, round dress to wear about the house and into the village? Long sleeves for winter? I don’t need ruffles or frills. Since I don’t envision many dinners at the manor, it would be best to see how much this will cost first.” Not that she hadmany choices for improving her wardrobe. She wasn’t likely to buy a carriage and visit shops elsewhere.
“I have a few sturdy fabrics in stock for every day use, and a selection of second-hand dresses that can be made over, although they’re quite unfashionable in drab colors for servants. You’ll need to come up to the manor and we’ll see what you like. I have a lovely lavender cambric that might suit, although I suppose you’ll want kerseymere or merino for winter. I assume you have no lady’s maid and wish them to fasten in front? And what about stays? These are decent but don’t really fit properly. Do you need more?”
Impressed by the young seamstress’s knowledge and efficiency, Verity indulged in new everything from the inside out. She’d learned to sew by making over her mother’s garments when she’d outgrown her childish ones. She was no expert by any means. With everything she once owned lost, she’d had to buy second-hand after the fire. They’d been the first clothes she’d purchased since her father’s death, and she’d been practical, buying dark plain clothes and not the frills and colors she adored.
To buy all new seemed extravagant, but necessary, if she was to step into Miss Edgerton’s refined slippers, metaphorically speaking. Her wide feet didn’t fit the governess’s slender shoes. Which reminded her...
“I have bundled up Miss Edgerton’s clothes. Do you know if the church takes those sort of things?” Verity fastened her gown while Lavender took notes.
“I can take them. I have an assembly of seamstresses who can refurbish and refit old dresses for any who need them. The manor has been providing uniforms for the maids, because many of them only have one gown of their own. Henri picks up durable garments at the second-hand shops in the city when he can.”
“That’s a great kindness. I appreciate it.” Verity produced a basket that no doubt was intended for the laundry and filled it with the garments she’d gathered. “Do you have many seamstresses working with you?”
“They come and go, depending on the season and circumstances. Illness, children, complaining husbands... all interfere. But we have a number of older women who show up regularly. There won’t be any problem producing what you need this week.” Lavender took the basket, carrying it on her hip as they proceeded down the stairs.
Verity followed more slowly, using her walking stick and favoring her foot. She knew in the city that seamstresses worked in conditions ruinous to their health, but the alternatives for women were few. She liked thinking of the manor providing employment and a healthier work place, while the women could still have homes and families. But if lawlessness prevailed outside the manor’s safety...
She was no one to talk of lawlessness. She had essentially stolen her uncle’s daily funds. She had never pilfered more than a few shillings in the past. Her experience with her uncle’s business had been limited to carrying the satchel back and forth and dusting the books. She’d studied his ledgers but had assumed he made frequent deposits during the day. If she’d known how much she carried...
She might have stolen the bag sooner.
THIRTEEN: RAFE
Armed with a listof potential local suspects combed from the ledger, Rafe set out down Gravesyde’s main residential and commercial street. As a medieval village, it had originally served a priory. Later, he supposed the locals had served earls and their guests. The village had obviously never been wealthy or substantial, but it certainly had seen better days.
There were signs that was turning around. The larger establishments were still abandoned and deteriorating. But some of the small ones had been recently rethatched and repaired. The mud daub often needed paint but walls had been mended.
The mercantile still operated. Farm ladies lined their carts in front to sell their wares. Jams, jellies, gourds, the last of the summer vegetables... He stopped at each cart, introduced himself, memorized names, and admired goods. He couldn’t expect Mrs. Porter to provide all their provisions, so he purchased what looked fresh and useful and gave a penny to an urchin to deliver them to the cottage.
None of the names matched the names he’d been given.
He had great difficulty believing any of these women would have poisoned the governess. How? Dug the roots in the middle of the night, sliced and boiled them over a kitchen stove alongwith their children’s morning porridge? Then what? Taken the tea visiting? He should have asked the physician how poison was administered. It had seemed basic until he thought about it.
It made far more sense that the former governess had done the digging and boiling.
He met the lieutenant and Fletch at the inn on the far end of town, talking to a few workmen they’d produced from who knew where. The manor?
“How much of this place do we want to restore?” Fletch asked, gesturing at the sprawling dilapidated inn, from collapsed pub to stable.
“You cannot feed guests without a pub or shelter their horses without a stable. And in between one needs rooms with beds,” Rafe said dryly. “Which part were you planning on leaving out?”
“The stable’s not in bad shape,” Jack, connoisseur of horses and stables, remonstrated. “The blacksmith has been repairing it to use for his customers.”
“Then we’ll start in the middle, shore up the inn floors and thatch the roof, unless we can find tin or tile. Neither is pretty but tin should be cheap. Tile is sturdier.” Rafe really wanted the thatch with the half-timbered walls, but practically speaking, that wasn’t modern and needed constant repair. The whole place should be torn down to the frame.
