Page 4 of The Tart's Final Noel
He sat up on his haunches, then caught a worn, upholstered chair and shakily hauled upright on his own.He blinked at her.A head taller than her petite stature, with fashionably cut, mud-brown hair and muddy eyes, he wasn’t imposing.She hid the fire iron in her cloak.
“Willa?Didn’t she come home?”He rubbed the back of his head and grimaced.“Devil take it, did she hit me?I told her I was coming.”
This was a little too much oddity for this hour of the morning, and Paul would be looking for his breakfast soon.But Minerva’s instinct for danger had gone on full alert.“And you are?”
Unsteadily, he dropped into the upholstered chair without bowing or waiting for her to sit.“Distant cousin, of a sort, Geoffrey Cooper, Miss...”
“Mrs.Upton.It looks as if Mrs.Willoughby took your letter for a warning and left.Hold your head down, let me take a look at it.”Minerva’s father was a colonel.Telling people what to do was in her blood.She set the poker aside as he followed orders.
He turned his chair to cross his arms on the sofa back, letting his head sink onto them.“Can’t hold it up anyway.I quit drinking, I swear.I haven’t touched a bottle...”He grunted as she found the matted, bloodied bump on the back of his head.He’d smeared blood on his linen, probably from rubbing the wound.
“Mrs.Willoughby is strong if she’s the one who struck you,” Minerva said, almost in admiration.She couldn’t have managed to concuss a man like that.“I can send for a physician, but she’ll tell you the same thing.You need to stay awake for a while, don’t try to do anything strenuous until the nausea and dizziness settles.”
She glanced around for a weapon, but she held the most likely one.She checked the ends but saw no blood or hair.Of course, she’d had it in the oven.“Are you sure you didn’t say something rude to her?I’ve never known her to strike anyone.”
“Don’t remember a blamed thing.I was supposed to attend a funeral but I was too late.Story of my life.I used to visit my cousins here in summer, many years back.I’d written Willa, asking if I could stop on a night or two after the funeral.I didn’t hear from her, but that’s not unusual.She doesn’t write.I figured she’d find someone to read my post.She has no reason to hit me.May be the only person in the world who doesn’t, mind you...”
Hospitality required that she provide hot tea, at the very least.With the fires out, the usually cozy cottage was freezing.Caution said this man could be dangerous—but the expensive greatcoat...Well, wealth did not a gentleman make.
But concern for the baker was paramount.“Did you look upstairs?”
He rubbed his no-doubt aching head, frowned, and glanced down at his coat.“Doesn’t look like I had time.”
Definitely signs of concussion if he couldn’t remember what happened.Or a hangover.“Start a fire and I’ll make tea in a bit.I’m going up.”
The baker had once had a prosperous home, far larger than the parsonage, Minerva observed as she ran up the stairs.A small sitting area with a threadbare carpet graced the hall at the top of the stairs.Two closed doors at the rear, one open overlooking the front...very nice.Minerva chose the front first.
And entering—gagged on a scream.
Three
Brydie
“Lynly,remember not to disturb Mrs.Russell.She’s sad and doesn’t want to hear about your quilt, all right?”Brydie didn’t bother steering the pony cart.The poor old beast made the trip into Gravesyde nearly every day and simply followed the ruts.
“Why is she sad?”her eight-year-old niece asked.
Well, Brydie should have anticipated that.She didn’t have an answer.
“Wouldn’t you be sad if you were a long way from home with no family at Christmas?”Arthur answered.At fourteen, Lynly’s brother considered himself a man and an authority on almost everything.
The real man riding behind them had encouraged Brydie’s nephew to think for himself lately.The boy would be going off to boarding school after the first of the year, so she supposed he needed to grow up a bit, but she’d always remember her nephew as a baby?—
A nearly incoherent shriek froze that thought and had her sawing at the pony’s reins.A moment later, they heard a cry?—
“Brydie, thank all the heavens!”
Rob, her twelve-year-old nephew, was the first to point out the woman in the upper window of the baker’s cottage.Minerva?What was the curate’s wife doing...
Damien rode into Minerva’s view before Brydie could even think to respond.The curate’s wife shouted again.“Mr.Sutter, fetch Rafe, please—and hurry!Someone better fetch Dr.Walker.It’s early.She should still be at home.”
If Minerva needed a physician andbailiff—something bad had to have happened to the baker.Not at Christmas, please Lord!They’d had so many tragedies this past year...Brydie handed the reins to Arthur.“Leave Lynly and Rob and the pony cart with Mrs.Russell.It will probably be faster if you run for Dr.Walker.”
She set the reins aside before anyone could protest.Damien, her betrothed, rode around to help her down.“Stay outside,” he warned.“Minerva would not be screaming if Mrs.Willoughby is just ill.Persuade her down here until we return.”
At thirty, Brydie had finally found a man to love, one who loved her back.But she was too old to change her managing ways now.Her beloved was accustomed to meek ladies.He needed regular reminding that she’d never be one.
“Don’t go all protective on me, Damien Sutter.”Brydie picked up her heavy woolen skirt, revealing the boots and trousers beneath.“I’ve seen my fair share of death.”
