Page 29 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“All very true,” the captain conceded, though Flora could sense he still held doubts.
This was it, Flora thought with a gulp, if she was to have him believe her, she would have to share her suspicions that shethought the wolfsbane had come from her grandmother’s press. Perhaps he might then believe Mrs Pinnock a credible suspect? She paused, wanting to wait a moment before she revealed her deception to the captain and the light of admiration in his eyes dimmed—or worse, extinguished forever.
“There’s something else,” she continued, squaring her shoulders.
Alas, that something else was not to be revealed, for the door was thrown open and her grandmother appeared.
“Don’t mind me,” she cautioned, as the captain leapt to his feet. “I’m just looking for a few nails and a hammer. I need to secure the hinges on the door of the coop, before the wind picks up.”
Flora stifled a sigh of annoyance; at this rate it felt as though fate itself was conspiring against her.
“I’ll do that for you, Mrs Bridges,” the captain offered, shrugging off his coat with ease.
Flora tried not to stare at the breadth of his shoulders as he set his coat aside—her grandmother however, had no such qualms.
“The salve is working well then,” she stated, as she eyed him appreciatively. “You’ve good movement back.”
Flora closed her eyes, praying that her grandmother would not suggest that the captain remove his shirt in the kitchen again.
“It hasn’t bothered me once since I started applying it,” Captain Thorne agreed. “I am forever indebted to you, Mrs Bridges. Now show me the hen-house so I can start working off what I owe.”
“Hush,” Flora opened her eyes to find her grandmother blushing at his words. “I’m just glad it’s helping; I’ll brew you up another jar while you’re outside. Come, I’ll show you what needs fixing.”
The captain offered Flora one of his crooked grins as he left, causing another pang of longing in her stomach. It should be illegal to be so handsome, Flora thought, rather churlishly—though she soon left her seat, to watch him work from the window.
Her grandmother shortly returned inside and came to stand beside her.
“He may have the voice of a gentleman,” Mrs Bridges remarked, as her eyes followed Flora’s gaze. “But those are the hands of a man who knows hard work.”
She then gave Flora’s arm a sly prod. “And so are those shoulders.”
“Really,” Flora blushed, tearing her eyes away from the window. “I wasn’t looking at him like that. He doesn’t look at me like that. Captain Thorne is merely here because he is being chivalrous.”
“Chivalrous, is it?” her grandmother sniffed. “At my age, a woman knows when a man is harbouring unchivalrous thoughts about a lady—and I’d wager the captain has had a few about you. Still, he’s not that sort to try anything before he’s put a ring on your finger, I’ll grant him that.”
She gave a roar of laughter at Flora’s stricken expression.
“Between his chivalry and your innocence, I won’t expect any unwanted surprises,” Mrs Bridges consoled her, patting her arm. “Now, hurry along and fetch a jar—I want the salve ready by the time he’s finished.”
Flora dragged her eyes from the window, glad for the distraction. She hummed silently to herself as she fetched a pan from the shelf and dropped in a lump of lard to melt on the hob. From the row of neatly labelled jars she measured out sprigs of St John’s wort, comfrey and rosemary, then added a pinch of lavender when her grandmother’s back was turned. The herbshissed as they met the warm fat, and soon the little kitchen smelled like a summer meadow.
Once ready, she picked up a square of muslin, and strained the infusion into a waiting jar, then set it aside on the dresser to cool.
“He’s taking his time,” her grandmother commented, suspiciously. “Perhaps I was mistaken about his hands.”
She moved to the window to peer out and gave an astonished chortle; “Well, I never.”
“What is it?” Flora asked, moving to stand beside her.
Outside, Captain Thorne had finished with the hen house and was now atop the low shed roof and driving in nails where the boards had begun to lift.
Flora’s lips curved into a smile; Captain Thorne’s accent might be polished yet there he was, sleeves rolled up, working as though manual labour had been his lot all his life.
The muscles of his forearms flexed with each swing of the hammer, and, as she noted that his skin was bronzed by sun and peppered with dark hair, she felt a strange twinge deep in her stomach.
“I’ll just finish off the salve,” she declared, touching a hand to her brow. She felt almost feverish and wondered if she should brew herself a nostrum while she was at it.
She took the jar from the dresser, relieved to see it had thickened as it cooled. With a wooden spoon she gave it a final stir—more for luck than necessity—then covered it with parchment and tied it with string. Her eyes were fixed on her task, but her ears strained after the steady hammering outside. When at last it ceased, the only pounding she could hear was the far less convenient one in her chest.
