Page 58 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“Mrs Canards is the only dragon you’ll find in Plumpton,” Flora assured him with a conspiratorial grin.
By then they had rounded the corner and were safely beyond any prying eyes. James at once caught her in his arms, drawing her close against him. He kissed her deeply, hoping that she might feel the depth of his desire and devotion. From the dazed gleam in her eyes when he finally drew back, he guessed she did.
“I don’t know that I can wait for the banns to be read,” he confessed, his voice low with need. “I could ride to London this very hour, procure a special licence from the Archbishop, and we’d be wed by morning.”
“That does sound ideal,” Flora admitted, laying her hands against his chest as though to steady both his heart and hers. “Though I think my grandmother might object to missinganother family wedding. She already had a daughter elope with a naval officer—I think she will want to be present when her granddaughter marries one.”
“Then we shall do it the proper way. Surrounded by our friends and family. I want the whole world to hear me swear my vows to you,” James smiled, as he brushed a curl from her forehead.
“The whole of Plumpton may have to suffice,” Flora teased softly.
“Plumpton will be my home,” James answered, pressing a reverent kiss to her brow. “And you, Flora—you will be my whole world.”
Her eyes misted at that, her lips curving into the smile he would slay dragons to see. He stole one last kiss before taking her hand to lead her home—to Mrs Bridges, and the sharing of their happy news.
EPILOGUE
IT HAD BEENnearly a month since Miss Vale was carted off to the gaol at Cirencester. Mrs Pinnock—much recovered—had given her testimony, confirming that the girl’s late parents had left her a fortune which vanished the moment it passed into Sir Ambrose’s care.
She also admitted that she herself had come to Plumpton intent on bribing Sir Ambrose—only to discover, too late, that Miss Vale had come with murder in mind.
“I wouldn’t mind, but what a waste of a good bottle of ’76,” the lady had mourned while questioned by Lord Crabb. “Not to mention a waste of all my scheming—what’s the point of revenge if you can’t watch a man suffer?”
Mrs Pinnock, Flora reflected, had not learned any moral lessons from the affair. Still, at least the tale had something of a happy ending. Mr Treswell had since ensured that the monies stolen by Sir Ambrose were reclaimed from his estate. Not only had her own accounts been restored, but so too had those of his many victims—including, to everyone’s surprise, Mr Jasper Goodwin.
He had not made his desired fortune but he had at least broken even—a rare feat for a man’s first venture into business.
And now, with justice served and peace restored, Plumpton turned its thoughts to merrier business: the harvest home fair.
The village green was a riot of colour and clamour, as Plumpton celebrated the end of the reaping season. The Ladies’ Society had gone all out for the occasion, stringing bunting fromthe trees and hiring three fiddle-players to entertain the crowds as they enjoyed chestnut roasting, apple-cider bobbing, and the ever-popular vegetable competitions.
Flora moved through the fair alone, her basket tucked neatly over her arm. As she walked, she caught sight of the servants from neighbouring villages, lined up in their neatest clothes, calling out their skills to prospective employers. She paused, struck by a sudden, piercing memory—the day she had stood in line herself, plain and hopeful, until Mr Allen had tapped her shoulder and taken her on at Crabb Hall. How much had changed since then.
She was no longer alone in the world, no longer feeling as though pieces of herself were missing. The loss of her parents would always ache, but it no longer hollowed her. To love as she loved James, to be so entirely entwined with another soul—it was no wonder her parents had not been able to live without each other. At last she felt peace, and a quiet comfort in knowing that, wherever they were, they were together.
She stopped at a stall where a small boy was selling glossy brown conkers strung on twine.
“For luck, miss,” he swore, all sincerity.
“For spiders,” Flora corrected gently, dropping a coin into his hand and choosing a few strings. Old habits died hard—she would leave them on the windowsills at Brackenfield to ward off any eight-legged visitors.
“Flora!”
Her grandmother’s voice rang out in the crisp autumn air. Flora turned to see Mrs Bridges marching towards her, trailed by her devoted servant.
Flora grinned at her husband, who was laden with three baskets, a bolt of fabric, and what looked suspiciously like a bag of turnips.
“Are you finished with your shopping?” she asked her grandmother, who only gave a shrug.
“Perhaps—though having a strong man about to carry things home makes everything much more tempting,” Mrs Bridges declared with a grin. For someone who had managed perfectly well on her own for so long, she was now quite taken with being waited on.
“Speaking of footmen,” Flora said, nodding towards the vegetable tent. “Is that Edward I see speaking to Helen?”
The three turned to watch Brackenfield’s maid, her cheeks as red as her hair, chatting with the footman from The King’s Head Inn.
“He looks smitten,” James observed, casting a wry glance at his wife that seemed to say—as I would know.
The crowd fell suddenly silent as one of the judges held aloft a very large, very suggestively shaped turnip, declaring it the winner of the Brassica category.
