Page 34 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
Flora left the crockery by the sink for later, idly wondering what she should do with the news about Mr Henderson. Her first instinct was to tell Captain Thorne—then she recalled, with a sinking feeling, that he was no longer her safe port.
At least her grandmother’s door was always open to her, Flora thought, as she went to fetch her shawl. She called to Helen that she would be back before supper and nearly added a quip about not murdering the pans in her absence, but thought better of it. Their fledging friendship had not quite reached those levels yet.
Outside the gates of Brackenfield, she again eschewed the main road in favour of the quieter path by the river. The water ran high and swollen from the storm, but last night’s wind had swept the sky clear, leaving it a brilliant blue, and the sun on her shoulders was almost warm.
A few minutes into her journey, a group of children darted past Flora, clutching baskets stuffed with windfall apples. She watched them for a moment wistfully. How lovely it would be to be a child again; full of hope, carefree—unaccused of murder.
The children’s laughter faded into the distance, and in their wake another figure emerged: Captain Thorne, walking toward her with his hat already in hand.
Flora’s heart gave a traitorous leap, which she hastily quashed. For all she knew, Mr Marrowbone might be lurking just behind him, ready to haul her off into custody.
“Captain Thorne.” She inclined her head, her lips parting to blurt an apology, but he was quicker.
“I should not have left so abruptly yesterday,” he said, the words rushed but earnest. “I’m afraid my pride was wounded. I thought we had a rapport—an understanding, a trust,” his gaze caught hers, steady and sincere. “I may have confused what I thought we had with… what I would like us to have.”
Flora blinked, startled by his frankness, her heart beating faster at the quiet candour in his voice..
“I feared you suspected me,” she admitted softly, “And that was why you left. I am sorry too. I should have told you about the wolfsbane sooner. I only…”
She faltered, not wanting to sound self-pitying by confessing that she had never known another person she could trust implicitly besides her grandmother.
The captain gave a small nod, as though reading her very thought.
“I know,” he replied softly. “Though I do hope you will one day come to think of me as the person whom you can share your worries with.”
Flora’s chest tightened with a feeling she scarcely recognised. Before her stood a strong man, cap in hand, offering not just his apology but something more enduring—a safe harbour, if she dared trust.
She should have charged more for the love potions she used to brew as a girl, if this was the sort of result they could bring about, she thought wryly as she smiled up at him.
The thought steadied her, enough that she found her voice again.
“I was just on my way to visit my grandmother, if you would like to join me?” she offered. “I could tell you my suspicions about the wolfsbane over a cup of tea.”
“I couldn’t imagine anything nicer,” he answered, offering her his arm.
Flora slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, trying not to dwell on the way her heart fluttered at the contact. She managed only the safest of topics as they walked—the storm, the swollen river, Mr Marrowbone’s being seen leaving the pub at dawn—his nearness making her too giddy to manage anything weightier.
At last, her grandmother’s cottage came into view, and Mrs Bridges herself appeared at the door, scowling down the lane at Captain Thorne.
Oh dear, Flora thought. She had readily accepted the captain’s apology, but her grandmother—ever protective—was not so easily won.
“You’re back,” Mrs Bridges sniffed to the captain, turning her back on them and retreating into the cottage.
They followed her down the hall and into the kitchen. Mrs Bridges set the teapot firmly on the table before turning, arms folded.
“You left in a hurry yesterday,” she remarked tartly to Thorne. “And you left me mopping up someone’s tears.”
Flora flushed scarlet and made a frantic little gesture for her grandmother to hush—though it went unheeded. Mrs Bridges’ eyes were fixed on the captain like a hawk’s.
“That was not my intention, Mrs Bridges, and I apologise,” he answered, meeting her gaze steadily.
“Oh? And what are your intentions, then?” Mrs Bridges cocked a brow.
For a moment the room held its breath. Thorne’s eyes flicked to Flora, warm and unwavering, before returning to her grandmother.
“Honourable,” he said simply.
Flora’s heart gave a foolish flutter; honourable could mean only one thing…
