Page 13 of The Tart's Final Noel
“As best as one can with children that age who lack understanding.They say their father went to fight bad people and can’t come home.That might mean their mother didn’t want to say he died in battle.They wore black for a long time, according to Daniel, but they outgrew the blacks, which meanssomeonehas been dead at least a year.If their father can’t take them, who else?Except, apparently, theirfathersent Elton.It is a puzzle.”
“Surely, their mother didn’t lie about their father, but the servant saying their father wanted them gone, argues elsewise.That’s just not right.Someone has to know them and their mother—or at least where Beanblossom is.”Brydie grimaced.“It’s just...it’s Christmas.People go visiting.Banks and solicitors may have closed their offices early.”
“Not Bosworth.”Verity wrinkled her nose.“He’s likely to show up at the manor expecting to join the festivities.He’s a very hard person to like, but he has a good heart, I believe.”
Bosworth was the banker who handled funds for the manor and others in the village.Bridey had never had funds to put in a bank and only knew him by reputation.“Bosworth was orphaned and adopted, himself, if the earl’s family is correct.That may work in our favor.He’ll know who to write or ask.This mystery should be easily solved.”Brydie hugged Verity.“We’ll give them a jolly Christmas while they’re here.Did Rafe start a plum pudding?”
Verity offered a weak smile.“He did.I haven’t celebrated Christmas since childhood.I’m not at all certain what I should be doing.Won’t the children expect gifts?”
“A cloth doll for Daphne.A book for Daniel, if you can part with one.We could make a kissing bough, if that’s not too naughty.I don’t know how the manor is celebrating.This is the first time in years that Gravesyde will have any celebration.Will the manor allow us to cut holly and ivy for the inn?Although the parsonage grounds have plenty.We can ask Minerva.I’m sure she or Patience will be decorating the chapel.”
Rafe stormed in before Brydie could return to Damien.They were supposed to be setting up Damien’s legal office in one of the inn’s empty rooms.A solicitor needed to be available in town and not out at the bleak house he’d inherited.
From the rage in Rafe’s usually genial features, the office wasn’t opening today.
“Oswald says the post won’t be coming through anytime soon!They took apart the bridge that flooded, and the rider refuses to cross downriver, says we don’t pay enough.Everything from Birmingham is going directly to Stratford, but they have no rider.If we want mail, we’ll have to ride there to pick it up until the bridge is rebuilt.I’ll have to act as post rider.”
Verity uttered a cry of dismay.“But there’s so much for you to do here...”
“What about Fletch?”Brydie asked quickly, remembering the scene earlier today.Rafe’s partner had a drinking problem.He needed to be kept busy.“Won’t he be eager to hear answers to our questions?He could go directly to the source instead of waiting on letters.”
“Fletch isn’t too good with people.”Rafe stopped to think about that.“I suppose he might take the post, though.We ought to set up our own posting inn, put some of Jack’s horses to better use than eating oats.”
“If we can prove Mr.Cooper’s innocence, you could employ him to run it.He doesn’t seem to have much occupation,” Brydie said dryly.“But I doubt he can ride anywhere today with his aching head.”
“I’ll look for Fletch.Don’t know if he can make Stratford and back for tonight’s delivery.He can deliver our post in time for the afternoon coach, but he’ll have to stay the night in Stratford and carry two days’ post when he returns.”Rafe strode off to consult with his partner.
“Thanks, Brydie,” Verity murmured.“I need Rafe here.We even have a guest who wants to rent by themonth.I had to send one of Mr.Upton’s helpers to show him about.I don’t know what they decided.”
“A paying guest is good!”Brydie wanted to wipe the sadness from her friend’s eyes.“It’s sometimes hard to find joy when faced with so much death, but you saved those precious angels.That’s a blessing.Rafe may have found additional income.There’s another.If we can only find a baker?—”
“Don’t suggest Rafe!”Verity replied in alarm.“Perhaps Lady Elsa will know someone.Or you could do it.I know you and Kate bake.”
“First, we’ll have to see who owns the cottage.”But the idea of her own bakery—would it pay more than her sister earned by sewing?Not if they had to pay rent and give bread to a nosy neighbor.Oh well.
Brydie went in search of Damien and Arthur.She loved the people and promise of a future in Gravesyde and was thrilled Damien had decided to settle here so she needn’t desert her family.
But instead of a post office or bakery, they would have to find an undertaker if people didn’t quit getting murdered.
Seven
Verity
Verity knewshe was fortunate that her husband loved to cook.Growing up with servants until she was fifteen, she had never learned.In hopes the inn might actually have guests someday, they were gradually acquiring a limited staff to assist with cooking and cleaning—women no one else might hire.Miss Butler was half-blind.Mrs.Hatter was arthritic and better at sweeping than dicing.And Mrs.Mayfield had a sickly cough, which meant she was mostly relegated to washing pots, not heavy cleaning or carrying.None of them had experience with the ancient fireplace.The kitchen had no stove.
Verity thought she might have to buy one.Rafe didn’t want her throwing away her limited funds on a project that might never support them.
But as dinner approached, she gazed in dismay at the burnt chickens, half done potatoes, and gravy that might be good for plastering the hole in the ceiling.Something had to be done.In the wake of all the tragedy and excitement occupying Rafe, their staff had tried to learn the fireplace.They’d reallytried.
“Perhaps add a little water or milk to the gravy?”she suggested.“If we remove the burnt parts and chop the chickens into pieces, could we put them in pies with the gravy and potatoes so the potatoes will finish cooking?”
“And some carrots,” Miss Butler agreed.“But we’ll need pie crust.”
Dinner would be very late.And they had the new tenant and Mr.Cooper sitting in the pub with coins in hand, waiting to be fed.And the children should have supper before bed.
It was enough to make one weep, but Verity had seen true disaster, the kind that still gave her nightmares.Burnt chickens weren’t the end of the world.
“Toast cheese on the old bread, then cut it up.Bring out the pickled onions.Can we fry up some apples?I’ll serve those with Rafe’s ale to the guests to hold them until the pie is ready.The children won’t mind a picnic for their supper.”Although she had wanted them to be happy, not hungry.Some old scones and jam for pudding might be filling.
