In the Shadow of Croft Towers

by Abigail Wilson

  “Go ahead.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “It?”

  I’m not sure he knew what to make of me, let alone whether to take my question seriously. Honestly, I didn’t know what to make of myself. So I raised my voice. “Rob the mail coach, of course!”

  “Of course.” He rubbed his chin, his gaze on the horizon. “A lark, I suppose. Boredom. I doubt you would understand.”

  I blinked, waiting for him to say more, but he merely sat there watching me with that piercing gaze of his, the kind I generally try to avoid but found impossible with him. Self-conscious, I crossed my arms. “You’re right. I don’t.”

  He shrugged then slapped Hercules’s reins. And as irritating as it was, I was forced to follow him like a lost puppy.

  He didn’t look back when he spoke next. “I cannot discuss that day in any way where you might find me less reprehensible than you already do. The only thing I must plead for now is your discretion.” Suddenly, he turned. “Can you do that, Miss Delafield? Keep what you know to yourself? I find it admirable of you to have done so thus far.”

  I didn’t think it admirable—cowardly more like—but something about the tone of Mr. Sinclair’s voice gave me reason to doubt that what he called a lark was not something far more grave. Perhaps it was my current situation or the many questions I had, but after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, I consented.

  He looked pleased. “Then I will consider myself in your debt. I expect you to let me know the first opportunity that I can repay your kindness.”

  “As you wish.” I wasn’t sure I could trust this wild person who paraded around as a gentleman one day and a ruffian the next, but what harm would it do if he was indebted to me?

  I hated secrets with a passion, for they were usually kept from me. However, within two days of my arrival to the Towers, I had become the unlikely bearer of three. One for Mrs. Chalcroft, one for Mr. Cantrell, and one for the highwayman.

  7

  The town of Reedwick sat tucked between two gentle swells, a sort of handmade valley amid the rolling hills of the countryside. The horse cart track we’d been following opened to the town’s center just past the blacksmith’s shop and what turned out to be a circulating library.

  We walked the horses down a line of two-story buildings, each stacked one against the other like dominoes. Mr. Sinclair reined Hercules in at the open corner and I followed his lead. A breeze whooshed through a wide gap between the buildings, and I was forced to better secure my bonnet.

  Fresh bread scented the air, and I turned to find a group of peddlers gathered in the town’s center selling their goods. A child’s laughter rang out, followed by a bit of commotion as a woman with a basket chased a little boy around a display, stooping to scoop him into her arms. Every corner of the quaint village thrummed with movement, but not like the loud and crowded streets of London. This was more like a joyful restlessness.

  Mr. Sinclair dismounted and assisted me to the ground. I stretched my legs as I took a few steps into the central square. Hercules and Aphrodite were handed over to the groom before Mr. Sinclair looked to me. “Mrs. Chalcroft indicated you’ll be visiting Pasley and Co., which sells most items a lady might need.” He paused as if waiting for me to add more. “Have you any other business in town?”

  “Well, no.” I smiled, hoping that was the end to his questioning.

  “Pasley’s is just ahead on the right.” He held out his arm. “Shall we?”

  I settled my hand on his coat sleeve and allowed him to skirt me around the busy market. Though the ground was quite dusty, the recent rains kept the dirt from climbing my pelisse.

  A church bell resounded in the distance, sending a momentary hush over the town. At the same moment, my gaze fell onto a rough-looking man skulking in the shadows of a nearby shop. A chill tickled my shoulders as our eyes met. It was strange that he seemed the only person interested in our stroll across the square. Tracking us as we passed, he shoved a pipe into his mouth, which resided between two clumps of shaggy gray whiskers.

  I tightened my hold on Mr. Sinclair’s arm. In a strange way I was glad to know he could handle a pistol. Only, as I glanced up, my escort seemed miles away, his jaw clenched, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. It was then I remembered he had spoken of his own business in town. I wondered just what sort of business he meant.

  At length he touched my hand. “I’ll see you to Pasley’s and then, if it meets with your approval, I must leave you in their capable hands.” He gave a short laugh. “I’m sure you don’t need me looking over your shoulder while you shop for the things you need.”

  So I would be left alone to deliver the letter. “You’re quite right. I am more than able to take care of myself.”

  He stole a quick glance. “I’m sure you are.”

  I don’t think he meant the words to be patronizing, but by the look in his eyes, we were both probably thinking the same thing. He thought me reckless and adventurous, but he was wrong. I took one more peek at the man in shadows, but he had disappeared.

  Pasley’s and Co. resided in an active, squarish building set apart from the other rows of shops. Mr. Sinclair led me up the stone steps to the door before giving me a gracious but disinterested nod. Whatever it was he meant to do in town, he was obviously anxious to get on with it.

  “I’ll find you at the market in the square in three quarters of an hour. Will that do?”

  “Thank you. Yes, that will be fine.” I tightened my bonnet ribbons and smoothed my skirt. It was time I met this Mrs. Barineau.

  Shelves of folded fabrics and drapes lined the shop’s wall as people milled about the many floor displays. Down the central aisle I passed tables of ladies’ gloves, parasols, and handkerchiefs.

  A young man at the reticule display directed me to the rear corner—the milliner’s domain. I paused beside a few fetching chip bonnets and ribbons before finding a middle-aged woman hunched over a counter at the back, leafing through a large book.

  She glanced up as I approached and adjusted her spectacles. “Good morning.” Her voice was calm and cool with the delightful hint of a French accent. Yet I was surprised by her harrowing expression.

  “Yes, um, good morning. I am in search of a Mrs. Barineau.”

  She lowered her chin. “I am Mrs. Barineau.”

  I’m not sure if I was glad or disappointed by the revelation. “I have come from Croft Towers on behalf of Mrs. Chalcroft.”

  Her nose twitched. “Am I to be put off again?” Then something flashed in her eyes, and I followed her glare to a few other shoppers who had entered the store, but no one was near the milliner’s counter.

  She lowered her voice. “He won’t like it.”

  I blinked for a second, uncertain how to proceed, then retrieved the letter from my reticule and slid it across the counter. “Mrs. Chalcroft sent this.”

  The milliner stared at the folded paper a moment before snatching it up. “This better be what I hope it is.”

  I had no idea what she hoped for, so I cleared my throat. “Mrs. Chalcroft did not discuss any particulars with me, but I believe it to be the instructions for the hat she purchased.” I gave her an encouraging smile. I’d learned long ago a touch of kindness went a long way.

  “Hmm.”

  In the time it took for her to look over the paper, a young woman had crossed to this part of the store, perusing the available ribbons no doubt. Mrs. Barineau glanced up, seemingly startled by the lady’s presence. She thrust the note beneath the counter in one swoop, then affected a pensive smile. “Miss, if you will step with me into the back room, we can discuss the details in private.”

  Details? Mrs. Chalcroft had said nothing to me about the hat. What on earth would I have to say about it? I had little choice but to follow the woman wherever she wished to go, as I was determined to properly finish my first task in my new position.

  Mrs. Barineau motioned me through a narrow door behind the counter. It led to a workroom of sort
s, and she paced the space with a newfound frantic energy. She circled me then stopped, pulling the door closed before coming to rest on a stool behind a wide table. She thrust a basket of ribbons out of the way of her elbows, then turned to appraise me.

  A single candle kept the room in a sort of dim haze, highlighting the woman’s sharp features, angular shoulders, and drooping nose. With no windows I thought the room a poor working space, but reams of cloth, straw bonnets, and hats were strewn across a workbench on one side and rows of narrow shelving on the other.

  A heavy dampness hovered on the air, reminding me more of a cave than I would have liked. “Perhaps it would be best for me to give Mrs. Chalcroft a message. I’m really not privy to her wishes regarding the bonnet.”

  Mrs. Barineau spread out her worn hands on the counter as if laying out a piece of cloth. “Sick or not, she put me in a bind, you see. It’s not so simple this time.” She squeezed the knuckle on her first finger, her skin blanching white. “He already came yesterday. And he was in a taking, I’ll tell you.” She held up the note. “But I’ll get it to him somehow. I promise you that. You tell her not to be late again or we’re done. She must be on time every time or . . . Well . . . you just tell her that.”

  “I-I will.” I had no idea what she meant, but I supposed Mrs. Chalcroft would. All I could deduce was that another man was involved. With a hat trimming? I turned slowly, almost unwillingly. But I had nothing further to say to the woman, and really, the whole affair was none of my concern. The note had been delivered—my task was complete.

  I exited the shop for the cold sunshine of the square, relieved to be away from the stifling room and out of the presence of the strange milliner. The town square was as busy as ever. A man on a horse trotted by, the sweet scent of hay trailing behind him. A bell echoed from somewhere around the corner.

  “Miss Delafield!”

  Startled, I looked up to see the woman from the mail coach lumbering across the street.

  “’Pon my soul,” she called out. “It’s the young lady from the carriage and looking quite smart today, you are.”

  I forced a smile. “Why, good day.”

  The woman plodded over with a bit more enthusiasm than I would have guessed, considering how we’d parted. “You remember me—Mrs. Plume—don’t you? So you have recovered, I see.”

  I don’t think the woman had ever bothered to tell me her name. “Yes. Very well. Thank you, Mrs. Plume.”

  “And settled in at the Towers . . . with Mrs. Chalcroft.”

  So it was gossip she wanted. Well, I’d none to spread—not to her at least. “Yes. Quite settled. The family has been very kind. I’ve only come into town to shop, so if you will—”

  “Have you? Well, that is very good to hear. Very good to hear.” She narrowed the space between us. “We were worried sick about you. Thompkins and me.”

  Thompkins. I’d nearly forgotten all about seeing her at the house the previous day. I lifted an eyebrow. Could it have been Mrs. Plume’s concern for me that brought her maid to the Towers? I doubted it.

  “If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times how concerned I was for your welfare since you left so suddenly that day—particularly after the incident.” She touched her chest. “Oh. What a time I’ve had.”

  I kindly refrained from mentioning the fact that she had pawed her way from the mail coach to secure her own comforts without looking back for me. “Well, it has—”

  “And the dragoons—crawling all over the town like ants. I never thought I’d live to see such a thing. It is as if they expect France to invade any day now.” She dabbed her nose with her handkerchief, then paused. “Have you happened to run into any?”

  “Well, yes. I did see a couple of officers that day at the Boar’s Head Inn, but I didn’t stay long enough to learn much.”

  “As well you did not, I’ll tell you. The proprietor of the inn was beside himself. Such talk of spies in the dining hall. If the inn had only had a private room, I could have escaped such vulgarity, but alas, Thompkins and I had to deal with the worst of it. ’Pon rep, I could barely eat my food.”

  Normally I would find such a thing amusing, but something Mrs. Plume had said caught my attention. I leaned forward. “Spies, you say?”

  “Oh, my dear. So you haven’t heard. Our little problem with the highwaymen is nothing compared to our Prince Regent. You see, he sent the dragoons down here personally to flush out the traitors. I’ve heard it was something of an assassination plot.” Finishing her declaration with the flap of her fan, she moaned as if she might faint.

  I paid no attention to the hartshorn she whiffed beneath her nose.

  “Traitors? Here in Reedwick?”

  “That, my dear, is the worst part. They say all signs point to one of our own. Of course, my estate is in Adisham, so I’ll not be lumped in with such horrid people, but my brother, John—”

  “And you heard this from the dragoons?”

  “Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. I had the whole of it from the Blunt sisters and my dear Robert. He’s a parson hereabouts. You remember? I spoke of him that day on the mail coach.”

  I nodded, glad I wouldn’t have to listen to all that again.

  “And then with Thompkins’s sudden disappearance—”

  My gaze shot to her face. “Thompkins?”

  “Have you not heard? My faithful maid—missing. Vanished without a trace yesterday afternoon. Left all her belongings behind. What this world is coming to I cannot know. My Robert is certain she’s run away. But I cannot credit such an assumption. How could she leave the hat I gave her last Christmas?”

  “Gone,” I whispered almost to myself, imagining her strained face in the garden. “But . . .”

  Mrs. Plume narrowed her eyes. “Do you know something, child? If so, you must speak up at once. She left me in quite a fix, I’ll tell you.”

  “I saw her at the Towers only yesterday.” I touched my cheek. “At least, I think I did. There was a woman out the window, but I did not—”

  “You must be mistaken. Thompkins knew no one at Croft Towers. She would never go there. And she would certainly not do so without her coat.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Faith, but I am beside myself with worry. What if her sudden disappearance has something to do with the dreadful dragoons and the traitors? They say it could be anyone, you know, and I believe it is my duty as a British citizen to keep my eyes and ears open. ’Pon my word, if anyone can find a liar and a cheat, it’s me.”

  “Good morning, ladies.” I turned just as Mr. Sinclair removed his hat. “A pleasant day for a stroll.”

  Calm and cool, he took Mrs. Plume’s hand into his, laying a kiss on her glove all the while slipping me a wink. So my highwayman turned gentleman recognized one of his other victims.

  Mrs. Plume’s bosom heaved with each breath. “So glad to see you again, kind sir. And how nice of you to stop.”

  “I would never miss an opportunity to do so, I assure you. I’ve just been to the post office and am happy to report the mail has arrived.”

  “Ah . . . thank you, Mr. Sinclair. You didn’t forget the purpose of my daily walks. Such fine condescension.” She tapped his arm with her fan. “But I had hoped to find word of my missing maid.”

  Mr. Sinclair’s brows drew in. “Still no clue as to her disappearance?”

  Mrs. Plume pursed her lips. “I suppose if Thompkins wished to run away with a blacksmith or some other preposterous young man, it’s none of my affair. She can be replaced easily enough.” She took a dramatic breath. “I, however, shall be forced to return to London soon to find a replacement if nothing turns up. But what of you, Mr. Sinclair? What brings you to town?” She held out her hand. “No, wait. Let me see if I can guess.”

  She took a quick glance at the clouds as if they might provide her with the necessary insight. “Ah, yes.” Her fingers wiggled. “I remember now. You were waiting for a letter from Lord Stanton. Have you finally received it?�
��

  Hearing that name, I stifled a gasp.

  Mr. Sinclair returned Mrs. Plume’s smile with a half-hearted one of his own. “Unfortunately, I continue to wait. Mail from the West Indies can be quite slow. I imagine I shall hear word from him soon.”

  “Quite right. I expect it won’t be too long now.”

  I studied the two of them, but it seemed I would learn nothing new about the man in the painting. The flapping of Mrs. Plume’s fan began again. “Perhaps Thompkins has taken up with the wretched highwaymen. Can you believe they still have not been caught and made to see justice? It is as if we live in a den of thieves.”

  I couldn’t help but glance at Mr. Sinclair then. Surely he’d have little desire to continue that topic.

  But I was wrong. He tilted his chin. “Only a matter of time. The dragoons are closing in.”

  “Yes. That is true. And I am grateful to you for finding my necklace, but what a beastly business it was. Of course, I am no better off, for it was Thompkins who had my emerald ring and now that has vanished with her. Am I to be forever plagued by liars and thieves?” She waved her fan once more in front of her face, but this time it reminded me of a young lady in her first London season; her other hand circled the pendant on her necklace. “Imagine you seeing my necklace for sale the very day I had described it to you. Thank goodness there are some honest souls still left in this world.”

  It took all my willpower to keep my mouth from gaping open.

  Mr. Sinclair avoided my gaze. “Quite right. Now, Mrs. Plume, if you would excuse us, Miss Delafield and I must be on our way.”

  I could feel her estimation of me rising with such a distinguished gentleman offering me his arm. How quickly she would change her tune if she knew the truth.

  We took our leave, and I allowed Mr. Sinclair to direct me down the street. An empty feeling settled in my chest. Thompkins was missing. No matter what Mrs. Plume implied, I’d seen her at the Towers yesterday. There was no mistaking that.