Page 5 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
Terrified of her uncle coming after his money, she’d nervously watched over her shoulder the whole time she’d spent gathering the beginnings of her new life. Not until the newssheets reporting the fire came out had she been able to unclench and breathe a little. Faith Palmer had been officially declared dead, even though they’d found no bodies. She was relieved that no one had lost their life.
Rather than mourn his niece’s loss, her uncle had condemned the new fire company for not putting out the flames, for what little good that would have done. He no doubt planned to sue the city and the fire company and anyone else his attorneys recommended, if only to recover lost funds.
So she knew the drunken miser was alive and kicking. Here in the village, she’d see him coming from half a mile away. She really didn’t expect him to care where she was. And even if he did, he wouldn’t know about Miss Edgerton. She simply couldn’t shake years of walking on eggshells.
The rural air was fresher than the city. Autumn smelled different, of old leaves, pine, and wood smoke, with none of the stench of sewers and rotting fish. Although there was a faint fragrance of manure...
She found Miss Edgerton’s garden gate and admired the cottage yard of autumn blooms. She couldn’t identify most, but the wealth of colors and peaty scent was welcoming. The gate opened without creaking. Moss grew between the flagstones. More greenery danced along the border. She recognized some of it as herbs she’d seen in the market. She usually bought her dinner from carts and knew little of cooking beyond eggs and rashers.
Living in the country, she’d have to learn how to cook. Shefeared she lacked qualifications, but she hoped Miss Edgerton might show her a place where she might become a teacher. At home, she’d been helping a few of the locals learn to read. A school of young students, where she could go to her own small house at the end of the day, sounded like heaven. No more living in cellars at the beck and call of others. She might not know Latin or science, but Miss Edgerton had taught her well, and her father’s books had taught her more. She wasn’t ignorant.
The half-timber and wattle cottage appeared freshly painted, the mullion windows recently cleaned. Accustomed to the tall brick edifices of the city, Verity thought the cottage quaint and charming, but she did wonder about the thatched roof. Surely that wasn’t safe?
The door had been painted a sparkling red to contrast with the black timbers and white wattle. She used the brass knocker tentatively, at first, then a little harder when she heard no response.
She was wondering if she ought to go around back and was examining a narrow stone path through the tall flowers when she thought she heard a cry. Marmie must have heard it, too, because she stuck her head out of her pocket.
Swallowing hard, she tried the door latch and found it unlocked. Pushing the door open, she called, “Miss Edgerton? It’s me, Faith Palmer. Are you here?”
She hadn’t dare write for fear her uncle would learn she was alive.
Another cry that sounded distinctly likehelpfollowed. Panicking, Verity dropped her satchel at the door and rushed into the low-ceilinged cottage, watching for the usual threats of men or fire, finding no more than a pleasant parlor with two sofas and a rocking chair. The mullioned bay window lit the interior.
Another cry, one that almost sounded like relief andFaithhad her crossing the rush carpet, heart in throat.
On the sofa, the one with its back to the door, lay Miss Edgerton, an arm dangling over the edge, her head bent awkwardly as she appeared to struggle to push up with the arm under her. “Tea,” she whispered. “Papers. Under... bor. . .sssss.” She collapsed and quit moving.
Verity screamed. Falling to her knees to help her former governess, finding her completely limp, she screamed again, while tears rolled down her cheeks, unchecked.
FOUR: PAUL
After escortingdrunken Clement back to the orchard footpath, Paul Upton didn’t return to the tavern. He sat on a bench in front of the parsonage, contentedly finishing his lunch and admiring the lovely day. And studying the firewood needing cutting and the garden he’d promised Patience that he’d weed.
He had seen Bosworth’s carriage drop off a passenger, but he’d been too far away to greet the visitor. She’d been gone by the time he reached the street again.
Odd to have three new visitors. Perhaps they knew each other.
The two male arrivals in the village wore the uniforms of soldiers, and the unshaven beards of travelers. He’d gathered they were friends of Jack, so he thought no more of them. Jack had a stable where he raised and sold carriage horses to city folk. Paul’s duties were firmly rooted in helping the village survive.
His stepsister and stepmother were part of the manor folk, but he was the orphaned grandson of Irish immigrants. Even though Oxford educated, he’d known since childhood that he’d follow his adopted father into the ministry. The world held so much suffering, someone had to lend a hand.
He was dusting off bread crumbs when he heard a woman’s scream. Or thought he did. It was a fair distance.
He pushed through the chapel gate to the road and saw men and the pony-sized hound running from the tavern toward the other end of the village. Gravesyde wasn’t large. Mr. Oswald from the mercantile stepped onto his porch, and a few women peered around their front doors. He wasn’t the only one hearing screams.
Paul picked up his pace and was on Henri’s heels by the time the men halted at the end of town, glancing about in puzzlement. The screams had stopped.
“Miss Edgerton’s,” Paul said tersely, pushing the half-open gate into the flower garden. “Her door is open.”
He’d only arrived in Gravesyde in the spring. He’d spent a great deal of the time since then helping at the manor, while learning his congregation as he could. The smiling former governess had attended services regularly and aided his other church ladies in restoring the neglected chapel to order. He couldn’t say he knew much of her beyond that. He pushed the door wider.
Inside, a veiled stranger kneeled on the carpet, clinging to a pale hand and weeping silently. At the arrival of four bulky men, she merely wept harder, shoulders shaking. Mercifully, the hound remained outside.
Biting back an epithet, Paul slipped into full parson command. “Henri, Minerva is with Betsy’s mother. Send her over, if you will, then fetch Meera.” Slighter than the two bulky soldiers, Paul pushed past to kneel beside the woman.
Clever-witted Henri understood immediately. He ran out, muttering French imprecations under his breath.
“I’ve sent for a physician,” Paul murmured, for the benefit of the widow as well as the looming soldiers. He took Miss Edgerton’s limp hand in his own and knew at once that a physician couldn’t save her. “Sgt. Russell, Major Ferguson, if you would, guard the doors. We don’t need curiosity seekers. Whoever takes the kitchen might make a fresh pot of tea.”
