Page 33 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
James shook his head and turned away, wondering if the nails he had driven into Mrs Bridges’ shed would hold against the storm. For a moment he considered riding out to see Flora safe—but then recalled how her grandmother had foretold the tempest while the skies were still blue. She was in safe hands. Hands that had not stormed from her kitchen in a huff.
With a sigh, he settled at the small table and spread Sir Ambrose’s ledgers before him. Yet two questions chased him even as he bent to the accounts: who had taken the wolfsbane? And would Flora ever forgive him?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE MORNING AFTERthe storm, Flora rose with a sense of dread for the day to come. She did not know how she would fill all her hours trying not to think of Captain Thorne, or the disappointed way that he had looked at her the day before.
She also did not want to think too much on if it was actually disappointment she had seen in his eyes, or suspicion.
She would not blame him if he suddenly decided that she was, after all, the prime suspect for Sir Ambrose’s murder. Though she knew that if such a terrible thing was to pass—that the man she had attached her heart to now doubted her—that she would not easily over come it.
She would be heart broken. Perhaps she was already heartbroken, she mused, as she dressed for the day. That might explain why her hands were slow and clumsy as she closed her buttons, why her eyes looked back at her dully from the mirror, and why she felt so…bereft. There was no other word for it; her day seemed empty without the promise of seeing Captain Thorne’s smile.
After breakfast, she did her best to occupy herself with household tasks, though she quickly lost interest. From the kitchen drifted the clatter of pots and pans, punctuated by the sharp slam of a cupboard door.
“Men!” came a muttered exclamation, followed by another bang.
Helen, Flora realised with a start, was suffering from the same affliction as she.
Flora tiptoed down to the kitchen, hesitating at the doorway. She and Helen had not yet grown easy with one another but the sound of her disgruntlement struck a chord. Perhaps they might finally bond over shared heartache.
“Shall we have some tea?” Flora suggested, moving from the door to the stove-top. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
“I could murder a tea,” the maid agreed, abandoning her task with enthusiasm. Her face then fell and she gave Flora an awkward glance, quite obviously thinking that she’d put her foot in it.
Flora feigned deafness, focusing instead on filling the pot with tea-leaves, ready for when the kettle decided to sing. When ready, she brought the pot to the table, where Helen had set out the milk, sugar bowl, and slices of fruit loaf.
They sat awkwardly at first, Flora pouring, Helen cradling her cup as though uncertain whether conversation was truly invited.
“I’m not in my usual good humour,” Helen eventually offered.
Flora kept silent; she had never known Helen to be in good humour.
“It’s Mr Henderson,” the maid revealed, whispering his name as though it was a distasteful oath. “I thought he loved me—he said it enough times you can’t blame me for thinking it true. Then, a few weeks past, he lost interest like I was yesterday’s mutton.”
Flora tried to hide her surprise as she consoled the poor girl; Mr Henderson was known for chasing after ladies of means, not housemaids with low income.
“He kept saying he wanted to call on me here at Brackenfield,” Helen continued, her words gathering speed. “Then the next day he must have decided I wasn’t worth the walk. And now he’s strutting round in new breeches and flashingcoin like a gentleman. I ask you, what butcher’s boy makes that kind of blunt in a week? None that ever worked an honest trade.”
She stabbed at her slice of fruit loaf with such malice that Flora wondered if she was picturing Mr Henderson’s face amongst the currants.
“My mother keeps pressing me to move home — says I’ve lost my morals now that I’m working for a murderess—oh!” Helen stopped herself too late, her eyes darting up to Flora. “Beg pardon, miss. I didn’t mean—”
Flora lifted her cup, hiding a smile behind the rim. She had never known Helen to be in good humour, but she had rarely found her quite this entertaining, either.
“Think nothing of it,” she said lightly, as she stirred her tea, mind racing. Broken hearts, coin of suspicious origin, breeches too tight for propriety and too fine for a tradesman’s wages — it was all beginning to add up.
“Do you think Mr Henderson is involved in something nefarious?” Flora ventured, wondering if the girl might still be love-sick enough to defend him.
“I have no doubt,” Helen sniffed, her loyalty long vanished. “No honest butcher’s boy makes that sort of money overnight.”
She drained her cup and gave a sigh. “I suppose I’d best get back to work,” she said, rising from the table with a tentative smile Flora’s way.
Those pots won’t bang themselves, Flora thought dryly, though she managed a smile for the girl.
“Don’t overly exert yourself today, Helen,” she said as she too stood, gathering their empty cups. “You’ve had a tough time of it.”
“That I have,” Helen agreed, and—with all the cheer of someone whose complaints had been properly heard—she bustled back to the scullery.
