Charlotte thought she might melt into a ball of fright. Tristen glanced at her and shook his head, not even having to hear her words to know what she was thinking.
The object grew in height and turned around.
Charlotte let out a sigh of relief and let her hand fall away, suddenly regretting the loss of the warmth from Tristen’s palm. “It’s only Mathilda Tugwer. I know her. She lives in the hamlet and visits our shop every few months. Although she looks frightful, she seems harmless enough. She’s a midwife and has always been kind to me. I wonder what she’s doing on the road to Ashbury. Do you know her?”
“I don’t. But I’ve seen evidence of her in the woods. A small track here or there. Plants that have been broken at the stem as if someone had been gathering. My uncle told me of her.”
They were within speaking distance, so Charlotte called her name.
“Ahh, the baker girl,” the old woman replied in her creaky voice, a smile pulling her thin lips upward. “How is my Charlotte these days?”
“Fine. But you gave me quite the scare. I didn’t recognize you from farther away.” The lovely scent of wet earth wrapped around them, and raindrops dotted the road. “If the rain is coming through the canopy, it must be pouring out there.”
Mathilda tilted her head and laughed at the exact moment a crack of thunder boomed overhead. The sound appeared to come from her. Tristen stepped closer to Charlotte—as though, perhaps, it was he who was now a little frightened.
For several long, uncomfortable moments, the midwife’s gaze roamed Tristen’s face. Charlotte edged forward slightly.
“This is Tristen Llewellyn. The gamekeeper’s nephew. He’s working at Ashbury until Mr. Henderley is back on his feet.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed with interest. Charlotte was used to Mathilda’s hooded gray cape, stringy black hair, and haunting silver eyes. She had a sweet tooth for plum tarts and apple strudel and could be seen passing through Brightshire just past sundown one to two times a week. Charlotte was not frightened of her, maybe because the woman had been around for as long as she could remember and had assisted the birth of many a country wife—or even an unmarried wench. One night, after Charlotte had sneaked her a glass of plum wine from the bottle Aunt Ethel kept hidden behind her cooking oils, Mathilda had whispered that she’d known a woman once who’d greatly resembled Charlotte. She’d given an account of her pretty face, blue eyes, silky dark blond hair. And how her voice sounded like bells on the wind. When Charlotte had asked if that woman had been her real mother, Mathilda had shushed her questions, but the light in the woman’s eyes spoke volumes. Later, Aunt Ethel had cursed Mathilda as a fool and liar and told Charlotte never to bring the subject up again.
“Tristen Llewellyn,” Mathilda repeated.
Tristen gave a nod but remained silent.
“Did you hear anything a moment ago, Mathilda?” Charlotte asked, wondering what she’d say regarding the superstition.
“You mean the lost baby?”
Charlotte bobbed her head. “Yes, exactly that.”
“I hear her all the time, at least whenever I’m in the woods.”
“Would that be often, madam?” Tristen asked. “I walk the woods every day, and I’ve yet to see you.”
“But I’ve seen you. And no, not often, but when I feel the urge, or need willow bark or wild herbs.”
She held out what looked like a list of words, perhaps of the plants she was hunting for. Charlotte was surprised that the woman could write at all. She hoped Tristen wouldn’t bring up the fact that she was trespassing on the duke’s land. Mathilda had so little.
Charlotte looked between them. “Is the lost baby a ghost? The story has been around for so long, she must be.”
“Nobody knows, not even me.” A sly-looking smile spread across her face. Was she trying to frighten Tristen?
Mathilda stepped closer and touched Charlotte’s hair.
Charlotte steeled herself not to cringe back.
“How old are you now, my little baker?” the old woman asked. “The years go by so quickly, I sometimes forget.”
Forget? Had the woman known her longer than she’d thought? “Nineteen.” The woman’s eyes glowed, and uncertainty swirled inside Charlotte.
“Yes, that’s right. You best be on your way. Darkness is falling more quickly with the storm.” She looked at Tristen. “You will see her safely all the way into Brightshire? To her home?”
“I will.”
“Good. Then you won’t mind if I take this trail out to the bog where the large willows grow, now will you? I must replenish my stock.”
“I won’t.” He looked down into Charlotte’s face. “We’ll be off.”
They took a few steps and Charlotte turned to say goodbye, but Mathilda had already vanished into the forest.
The rain above intensified from the soft pitter-patter to a deafening drumming on the forest canopy above. Thunder sounded again. The sky had looked dark, but she hadn’t expected such a storm. “May I have my carpetbag to retrieve my shawl?”
Tristen watched her dig for her garment and then wrap it around her head and shoulders.
Now that the rain had begun in earnest, he was striding quickly, and she had to run to keep up. She glanced at her bag, rocking with Tristen’s stride. She’d have to set it by the kitchen fire to dry once they reached the bakeshop.
Tristen switched the carpetbag to the hand that held his rifle and took her hand in his own, causing a flutter of butterflies once again when his rough, warm palm came in contact with hers. “Think you can run? Temperature’s falling, and we lost time speaking with that woman. I’d feel better to have you home. The darkness can cover a multitude of scoundrels. There’ve been rumors the duke’s death wasn’t all that accidental, and no one has been detained for the crime, if there was one.”
With her hand wrapped in his, she nodded. But the culprit you’re worried about might be your uncle. Because he loved his uncle, Tristen would welcome that information as much as she welcomed the thought that the culprit might be Thomas.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The wind began to howl, and dark, foreboding clouds swirled above, preparing to unleash a torrent of rain. Beranger glanced over to see Emma shiver and cursed himself for letting her go out today without proper rain clothing. They’d both be soaked before they arrived back at Ashbury. And he hadn’t liked the worry in her eyes when they’d left the pub. Hearing that Gavin may have been murdered had disturbed them both.
“Let’s canter,” he said, the wind whipping Charger’s mane. “Do you feel comfortable doing so? I’d like to try to reach Brightshire before the clouds let loose. It’ll be closer to head there than return to the castle.”
“Yes, as long as you lead. Dusty’s better following.”
A bolt of lightning cut across the sky as they cantered through sheep pastures and entered Brightshire from the side. Large drops of rain pelted the dry earth, shops, and anyone foolish enough to be out on such a day. “Here, this way,” Beranger shouted through the wind.
Trotting though the empty streets, Beranger cut toward the livery, with two reasons on his mind. One, they’d leave the horses there until the rain let up, and two, he’d like to see his old friend Phoebe Parker, now Phoebe Lewis. He gave a mental shake of his head. It was difficult to believe she’d married Leo.
On both sides of the road, shops and buildings were stalwart, some with brightly painted doors or window casings, looking attractive even in the rain. A thick green moss covered the north sides of the steeply pitched roofs, while the other sides were clean shingles. Lamplight brightened windows, and he wondered if any of the places had had gas lamps installed, as the castle had. He’d missed this town, he realized with a surge of affection.
The bulky, crisscrossed timbers above the double-door entry of the livery appeared a thousand years old. The large, sturdy building, the walls proudly straight, seemed exactly as Beranger remembered from his youth.
They clattered i
nside the open doors and pulled up. Darkness enveloped them amid the scent of hay, horse manure, and wet wood. When Beranger’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he noted three or four burning lanterns. He remembered the two rows of stalls.
He dismounted and tied Charger’s reins to an iron ring.
“Hello?” a deep voice called.
“Hello, Leo,” Beranger called back as he helped Emma down. They tied Dusty beside Charger and waited.
Leo Lewis’s tall silhouette appeared in the threshold of one door. The cloth he’d been wiping with fell to the ground.
“Beranger Northcott,” a woman’s voice called out from the second set of doors, which were now open. “The prodigal son returns.”
At first, Beranger didn’t recognize the woman standing in the doorway. She’d grown taller, almost as tall as him. Her hair, still dark, was pulled back, almost scraped against her scalp. He recognized Phoebe’s voice more than he did her face. There wasn’t a trace of her usual friendly smile, or the laughter that had always been in her eyes, but there was something in her stance that rocked him back into memory. Happiness pushed him forward. “Phoebe. Your mother told me I’d find you here.”
Her chin edged up, and he noted some darkness around one eye.
“So that’s how you recognized me. You wouldn’t have if you hadn’t had help. I’ve changed, but you haven’t, much.”
Leo stepped forward, a frown on his sweaty face. Where at eighteen he’d cut a fine figure of a man, it now appeared he’d put on many pounds around his middle and lost a good amount of his formerly thick, black hair. He’d been quite vain about that hair, boasting no woman alive could resist it.
Emma edged closer to Beranger.
After introductions, a child began to cry from somewhere in the back room. Phoebe nudged her husband. “I told ya Beranger had come home, Leo, so stop scowling at me. You need to unclog your ears and listen. News hit the village a few days ago.”
Feeling the tension between the two, Beranger reached for Emma’s hand. This reunion wasn’t quite what he’d expected; perhaps leaving quickly was best. “I’d like to leave the horses until the rain stops.”
“Sorry, we’re all filled up,” Leo replied.
Not everyone is glad to see me home.
“Fine,” Beranger replied, although he knew it to be a lie. “We’ll be on our way, then.”
He gathered the reins and turned to the door. Lifting his arm over Emma’s head in a useless attempt to shield her from the rain, they ran out into the storm. He understood Leo—the man had never been friendly—but he didn’t understand Phoebe’s reaction. He’d thought she’d be just as happy to see him as he’d been to see her, but the tension in the room could have been cut with a knife. Was Leo so jealous she was unable to show any type of affection? Or maybe Phoebe was tired. With seven children, her life couldn’t be easy.
He ducked under the eave of a dry-goods shop, pulling Emma under with him. “Are you hungry?” he asked, looking around in the dusky light as the street filled with puddles. “I think we should find somewhere to wait out the storm, since the livery didn’t pan out.”
“Is there a restaurant or pub in Brightshire? Surely people have to eat.”
“A few, but probably not the kind you’re used to.”
She smiled up at him as her wet hair began to sag around her face. “Anywhere dry is what I’m used to. As long as it’s warm and they have coffee.”
“I can’t promise coffee.”
“Well, tea, then. And something hearty. I’ve worked up an appetite. Stew or soup sounds good.”
“Then follow me. I know the perfect spot.”
Tristen rushed through the bakeshop door behind Charlotte, drenched to the bone. The two had run most of the way to Brightshire, her hand in his, only stopping to catch their breath when needed. Although four o’clock had yet to fall, darkness prevailed. The September storm had grown into a tempest. He wasn’t looking forward to the trip home.
As the door banged closed behind them, an older woman, who must be Charlotte’s aunt, nearly dropped what she was holding. Angrily, she took a step away from the long glass display case that ran the length of the room. Golden-brown loaves of bread, as well as other baked goods, sat on a large rectangular tray on a nearby table. “My word!” she screeched.
Charlotte turned to Tristen, a wide smile on her lips. “Never in my life did I expect a thunderstorm like that, Mr. Llewellyn!” she said through a round of laughter. “I’m soaked through. Look at me.” She put out her arms and turned a full circle, still breathing hard from their run.
Mrs. Smith’s screech sounded again. “Charlotte, look at you! A drowned rat is prettier. You’re a disgrace, girl.”
Charlotte ignored the insult as if she were used to hearing much of the same. She pulled off her sodden shawl and brushed wet strands of hair from her face, all the while holding his gaze. Merriment danced in her eyes. He tried to ignore how pretty she looked.
And how jealous he was that Mr. Winters had her attention.
The angry woman turned from Charlotte and her dripping clothes to him. Her eyes narrowed. “And who might you be?”
Tristen felt wet and conspicuous. Water cascaded down his coat and trousers, pooling at his feet. The puddle around them grew. “Mrs. Smith, I apologize for drenching your bakeshop floor. Now that you’re home safe and sound, Miss Aldridge, I’ll be on my way.” He inclined his head and started for the door.
“Please, wait.” Charlotte put out two supplicating hands. One to the woman and one to him, stopping his departure. “Mr. Llewellyn is the assistant gamekeeper at Ashbury, Aunt Ethel. Amelia knows him from his visits to the kitchen. He was good enough to see me safely home through this storm.”
Ethel Smith’s appearance softened so quickly the transformation was almost funny.
“A pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” he said, feeling uncomfortable and more than antsy to get back out into the storm. Something inside him said out there was safer than in here with Aunt Ethel. “I’ll be going now . . .”
“Oh, no, Mr. Llewellyn,” Aunt Ethel said. “Please stay and warm up. If you’re friendly with my sweet Amelia, you’re welcome to stay—as a matter of fact, I insist. Come warm yourself by our fire. Dry off and rest. Verity, my younger daughter, will serve you something to eat as well. The walk back will go better with a full belly.” Her eyes brightened. “We have some ale too I can offer. Wait until the foul weather eases up.”
Charlotte smiled, seeming unaffected by her aunt’s clear affection for her daughters and the way she practically ignored Charlotte. Tristen wasn’t sure why he cared, but something about her aunt’s dismissiveness irked him.
“I was just about to suggest that,” Charlotte said. “It’s the least I can do to show my thanks.” She looked at her aunt. “Is there a meat pie I can heat for this fine gentleman who was so good to see me home?”
“There is,” her aunt stated. “Jumping hare and potato. And it’s still warm from the oven. Amelia makes a splendid version of it when she’s home. No one’s can hold a candle to hers, not even Charlotte’s.”
The aunt’s grin revealed a missing tooth on the left side. Her back was slightly bowed, a posture developed from years of kneading, he presumed. A white apron covered most of her clothes, and a puffy white cap over graying brown hair topped off her look. She didn’t resemble Charlotte in any way, shape, or form.
“Didn’t you come in here a day or two ago?” Ethel asked. “To pay for some bread you said you spilled from our cart.”
“I did, Mrs. Smith, yes.”
“Honesty in a man is a quality that’s becoming harder and harder to find.”
Another young woman appeared through a door at the back of the shop. A young man stood back, watching.
Charlotte crossed the room and took the girl’s arm. “This is my cousin Verity Smith and my brother, Thomas.” She smiled up into her brother’s face, a look of pride crossing her eyes.
Thomas would stand eye to
eye with Tristen if he came closer. He had his cousin’s shade of hair, darker than his sister’s. In fact, Tristen realized, Charlotte resembled none of her relatives at all. The way Charlotte accepted her aunt’s scornful treatment brought a surge of admiration. He doubted he could be so charitable living under these circumstances.
Tristen nodded back politely, feeling at a disadvantage in his dripping clothes.
Ethel, eyeing the growing puddle at his feet, said, “I insist you accept our hospitality, Mr. Llewellyn. Verity, take him to the kitchen while Charlotte helps me stock this display case.” She glanced at the bread and sweets on the tray. “My niece hasn’t done a lick of work for days. Go on with ya, before you create a lake in here. The fire’s warm. We’ll join you soon. Thomas, pour him a mug of ale.”
Verity led the way through the narrow door into a much larger kitchen. There was an oven on the far wall, and a fireplace in the middle of the side wall. A large work area took up the middle of the room, with a pot rack hanging above. A table was crowded into one corner, and two rocking chairs in front of the fireplace had kitchen towels draped across the back, drying. The establishment was neat and clean and filled with a variety of wonderful smells that made his mouth water.
“Here, sir,” Verity said, her brown eyes lowering shyly as she led him to the fireplace and turned one of the rocking chairs so he could face the hearth and warming flames.
Thomas went to get the jug of ale from a shelf.
“Have him remove his boots,” Aunt Ethel called from the front room, “so his socks can dry out. I’m sure they’re wet through, by the amount of water they brought in, and—”
The bells above the door jangled loudly, drowning out whatever more the aunt had said. Someone else had come into the shop. There was a flurry of voices and what sounded to be a cry of happiness from Charlotte.
Verity rushed to the door between the rooms, and Thomas followed. Tristen thought he might as well see what was happening out there as well. As good as the warmth from the fire felt, his curiosity was more of a motivator. Had a suitor just arrived, one Charlotte was fond of? Could it be Mr. Winters? Even though he had no claim on the girl, he was powerless to stop his stockinged feet from crossing the short distance to find out.
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