Page 52 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“Not a thing, my love,” Mrs Bridges assured her, fetching her shawl from the back of the door. “You take your time now, don’t be worrying about me. I’ll just be here enjoying the peace and quiet.”
Flora accepted the shawl from her grandmother, who was affecting an air of complete innocence. The valerian tisane, Flora suspected, had been less a cure for her nerves than a cure for her grandmother’s patience.
Outside, the air was crisp and fresh. The week’s earlier storm had stripped most of the trees of their leaves, carpeting the road with a patchwork of gold and russet leaves. Flora walked toward the village at an unhurried pace, her thoughts lingering on last night’s kiss.
It had been nothing short of magical: the candlelight flickering against the walls, the hush of the parlour, the thrilling intensity in Captain Thorne’s eyes as he bent to capture her lips. A more sensible woman might have woken filled with shame—or at the very least regret—for allowing a gentleman into her home at such an hour. Yet Flora, try as she might, could not summon a single negative feeling.
How could one feel badly about kissing the man they loved? For she was certain of it now—she loved Captain James Thorne. And though she was inexperienced with men, she was equally certain the feeling was reciprocated. He had told her so with his eyes—and blue eyes never lied, she thought with a smile.
The village was bustling when she arrived. The half-market had been set up on the green, and the housewives of Plumpton were shopping with such fervour that one might think the roads had been impassable for months, rather than a single day.
Flora decided to skip the market, as she spotted Mrs Canards engaged in debate with one of the farmers. She did not want to see the town tabby today—it was irrational but she feared Mrs Canards would know instinctively when she saw her that she had been kissed—and that the whole village would know by night fall.
She carried along the main street instead, idling at the grocer’s window, hurrying past the butcher’s, until her walk came to an abrupt halt as she was spotted by Eudora, Lady Delaney and the Duchess of Northcott.
The sisters had—Flora suspected—been mid-bicker when they sighted her, for the duchess’ brows were knit in determination while Lady Delaney wore the long-suffering air of the youngest sibling.
“Miss Bridges!” Lady Delaney called, her hand fluttering as she waved Flora over. “Just the person we need.”
“Indeed,” the duchess smiled a warm greeting as Flora approached them. “Perhaps you can settle an argument that has lasted half the morning, Miss Bridges.”
“Oh?” Flora tried her best to look politely curious.
“Mary thinks that she is carrying a girl,” Eudora explained, casting her eldest sister a rather irritated glance. “While I am convinced that I will be the first of us to birth a daughter.”
Flora was no clairvoyant but she could internally guess at what Lady Delaney was leaving unsaid—that she wanted to finally be the first of her sisters to do something.
“I don’t suppose that there is any sure way of knowing,” Flora offered, cautiously. “Though my grandmother swears by a few things; if the babe is carried high, it will be a girl, or if the mother craves sweetmeats, she’s sure to have a daughter.”
“I’ve been unable to resist seconds of dessert since I found out I was carrying,” the duchess declared triumphantly to her sister.
“You’ve never been able to resist seconds,” Eudora huffed, unimpressed.
“If you need a more certain sign,” Flora continued, warming now to the topic. “My grandmother also claims that if a lock of the father’s hair is burned on the fire and it sparks, then the child will be a boy—but if it smoulders, it shall be a girl.”
The duchess’ eyes lit up with delight; “Why didn’t you say so sooner? I’m certain I can convince Northcott to part with a lock of his hair.”
Flora bit back a smile at the image of the formidable duchess chasing her husband about Northcott Manor with a pair of scissors.
“Well, I’ll convince him if he ever returns from the search for Mr Henderson,” the duchess corrected herself. “Who would have believed the lad wily enough to evade a search party?”
“I still cannot quite believe it was he who pushed Mrs Pinnock down the stairs,” Eudora chimed in. “But if he was sighted by both Miss Vale and Mrs Canards, it must be so.”
“Mrs Canards was the one to witness him?” Flora asked, feeling a faint stir of disquiet.
“Yes,” Eudora replied, rolling her eyes. “She’s been crowing all morning that she has finally evened the scorecard after their quarrel at the summer assembly.”
“I wonder how many people Mrs Canards is keeping scorecards on?” the duchess mused aloud. She didn’t appear to expect an answer, for she added brightly, “I suppose it does not matter—for it is God who keeps the ultimate tally, as Papa always says.”
Her expression lit at the thought, clearly cheered by the idea of Mrs Canards finally meeting her comeuppance in the afterlife.
“Come, Eudora,” the duchess declared. “We cannot keep Miss Bridges all morning—and we’ll be late for our own luncheon if we linger.”
“By my tally, you did most of the lingering,” Lady Eudora muttered. But whether her sister hadn’t heard or simply chose not to, she wished Flora a cheery farewell and marched her younger sibling away.
As Flora watched them go, her smile faded a little. Mrs Canards’ scorecards were amusing enough in theory—but if the village busybody had truly been the one to witness Mr Henderson on the stairs, then last night’s accusations rested on the most spiteful tongue in Plumpton. The thought left Flora uneasy, though she could not have said why.
Her musing was cut short by a sudden commotion from further down the road, as a shout rang out from the direction of The Ring.
