“She denied it and appeared horrified by the idea.”
Muldoon gazed at her. “You don’t believe her?”
“I don’t know. She’s hiding something. Maybe she was just trying to push Hester and Pascoe together.” Kendra drank her coffee, pacing. “The timing works,” she finally said. “Her uncle returned to England from India shortly before she hired Pascoe. Captain Sinclair hasn’t exactly been subtle in his desire to take more control of the brewery. He says suppliers and export agents want to deal with a man rather than a woman—”
“Which is outrageously unfair!” interjected Rebecca, eyes flashing.
“It is, but Mrs. Gavenston doesn’t strike me as an idealist. I think she’s a realist. She’s not going to waste her time fighting that kind of prejudice. So, instead she makes a strategic move by bringing Pascoe in as the brewery’s manager to act as her liaison.”
Muldoon cocked his head. “But she already had a business manager who was a man.”
“Mr. Carter was old, so he was probably going to retire anyway. She had to prepare for that eventuality. It makes sense, her knowing Pascoe. She wouldn’t bring in a man she didn’t know. Pascoe was perfect. By all accounts, he was good with numbers, and at the same time, he was a poet. A dreamer. His mother said that he sometimes had his head in the clouds. I don’t think Mrs. Gavenston would have been worried about him. He wouldn’t be a threat to her.”
Sam whistled softly. “Mrs. Doyle is right. Put like that, Mrs. Gavenston does seem ter be a bit ruthless.”
“A realist,” Kendra corrected. “Barrett Brewery is her legacy. She has every right to fight for it. Captain Sinclair was the one who implied that Mrs. Gavenston and Pascoe were involved, but he’s not exactly an objective witness.”
She thought of Albion Miller. He’d also implied that Mrs. Gavenston had done something improper, something that would shock her daughters and bring scandal to her family. Nothing beat sex when it came to scandalous behavior. And Albion was a shifty son of a bitch. He followed people, watched them from afar. Had he seen Pascoe and Mrs. Gavenston together in a compromising position?
Or was he leveraging something that happened years ago? It sounded like Mrs. Gavenston and his brother, Robby, would have married if Robby hadn’t died suddenly. If they had had an indiscretion—that was the euphemism of the day, if she wasn’t mistaken—could Mrs. Gavenston’s reputation still be tarnished all these years later?
Kendra didn’t have to think about that one too long—yes, women were held to a standard that was never imposed on men, who were encouraged to sow their wild oats before they married. If Mrs. Gavenston and her beau hadn’t waited for wedlock, society would be outraged at her lapse and the shame would follow her to the end of her days. Her disgrace would spill over and contaminate her family and Barrett Brewery.
“How does any of this relate ter Mr. Pascoe’s murder?” Sam asked, bringing Kendra’s attention back to the present. “Unless it was a lover’s quarrel?”
That would actually fit the crime scene. Domestic disputes that started in the kitchen had a higher percentage of becoming deadly for the very reason Pascoe ended up dead—that’s where the knives were. It was too easy to grab a weapon in the heat of anger, too easy to lash out.
“Maybe,” Kendra said. A spidery sensation tripped down her spine. I’m missing something, she thought again. All the pieces to the puzzle weren’t there. Or they were all there, but jumbled up.
She glanced at the clock. “I need to go to Cookham. Dressmakers in small towns might have as much gossip as tavern owners.”
Rebecca laughed. “I think you are right. In fact, I have a fitting at my own modiste this afternoon.” She pushed herself to her feet. “I shall see you at the Merriweather ball tonight?”
“I don’t think I can get out of it,” Kendra admitted.
Sam drained the rest of his ale and thrust himself to his feet. “We should go then. The quicker we get ter Cookham, the quicker we’ll get back.”
Alec grasped Kendra’s arm to detain her as everyone filed out the door. “I’m going to speak with Coachman Benjamin to make certain he and his grooms are prepared for any misadventures on the road to Cookham. Whoever was behind the shooting last night might decide to advance his agenda beyond a warning.”
28
The village modiste, Mrs. Browne, was easy enough to find, since there was only one dressmaker on High Street. Probably only one dressmaker in Cookham, period. The shop itself was a narrow redbrick Georgian sandwiched between a tobacco shop and haberdashery. It was two stories and boasted a large bow window on the ground floor, where two evening gowns were displayed on headless mannequins made out of wicker.
A bell chimed when Kendra and Molly entered the shop. The interior was cluttered with bolts of fabric on shelves, leaning against the walls, and stacked on the end of a long table. There was another, smaller table, the surface covered with fashion plates and magazines, with four spindly-looking wicker chairs arranged around it. A dozen dolls stared back at them from two shelves, which Kendra thought was weird until she realized that they were simply miniature mannequins, dressed in the latest styles. The air smelled of something spicy, exotic and uniquely feminine.
“Good afternoon, ladies!” greeted a woman as she sailed through a curtained doorway. She looked to be in her mid-forties, with her light brown hair covered by a tiny frill of French lace. She wore a fashionable embroidered, high-waisted, pearl-gray muslin with a colorfully patterned cashmere shawl wrapped elegantly around her shoulders to ward off the room’s chill.
The modiste’s gaze dismissed Molly as of no importance and fixed on Kendra. “I am Mrs. Browne. How may I assist you?”
“Kendra Donovan, and my maid, Molly.”
Mrs. Browne’s eyebrows rose a little. Servants were to be treated like pieces of furniture—useful, but generally ignored. Kendra knew the rules; she just didn’t always follow them.
Mrs. Browne asked, “Is there anything specific you are looking for, Miss Donovan? Or is it Mrs.…?”
“Miss. Actually, Mrs. Mercer recommended you,” Kendra lied. “She said that she was here on Saturday afternoon, and you showed her fashion plates from Paris.”
“Yes, Miss Sabrina—Mrs. Mercer—is one of my best customers, as are her sister and her mother. Horatia—Mrs. Gavenston—and I have known each other since we were in leading strings.” she said. Kendra loved this kind of chatty, guileless manner when she was conducting interviews. The dressmaker gestured to the table with the wicker chairs. “Please, won’t you have a seat. Would you like tea? Or coffee? I can tell by your accent that you are American.”
“Thank you, tea would be fine.” Kendra smiled at Mrs. Browne as she and Molly sat.
“Let me put on the teakettle.” Mrs. Browne disappeared through the curtain.
Kendra tugged off her gloves and set them aside. “You said that you and Mrs. Gavenston are friends,” she said when Mrs. Browne reappeared again.
“I don’t know if I would be so bold as to say we are friends—not now,” she demurred, sitting down at the table. “We are still friendly, but it’s not like when we were young misses.” She leaned back with a sigh. “ ’Tis difficult to believe how many years have passed since we were so young and gay. The time has simply flown!”
A modern lament, Kendra thought, that apparently wasn’t so modern. Once again it brought home to her the biggest difference between the early 19th century and the twenty-first was technology, not humanity.
She asked, “How well do you know Albion Miller? I heard that he grew up with Mrs. Gavenston as well.”
Mrs. Browne wrinkled her nose like she’d just smelled something rotten. “A ne’er-do-well, if there ever was one! I simply cannot fathom it. He comes from good family. Common stock, but still good. His sister, Beth, and I were friends. In fact, it was through Beth that I formed a connection with Horatia. She was part of our little group for a time because of Robby.”
“Robby?” Kendra feigned ig
norance.
“Oh. Yes. Robby Miller—Beth’s older brother. Oh, my, he was a handsome devil. Such beautiful blue eyes. If I hadn’t already set my cap for Mr. Browne, I know I would have been quite smitten.”
“How old were you?”
“Fourteen.” She laughed at the memory. “I suppose you can’t imagine an old woman like me being so foolishly in love? My daughters are around that age now. They think that their father and I do not understand what they feel when they flutter their lashes at a boy—and when he looks back.”
What Kendra couldn’t imagine was falling in love with a boy at that age, marrying him, and still being married to that same boy decades later. At fourteen, she’d been terrified after her parents walked away. Romance had been the absolute last thing on her mind.
The shriek of the teakettle’s whistle pierced the air. Mrs. Brown stood up. “Pardon me.” She disappeared through the curtains.
She bustled back into the room a moment later, carrying a tea service. “We’ll let it steep a bit, shall we?” Kendra watched her unload the tray. “It was quite tragic, really,” she sighed as she sat.
“What happened?” Kendra asked, although she didn’t think she needed to prod Mrs. Browne to keep her talking. She was happy enough to gossip about old times.
It wasn’t that difficult to get someone to talk about ancient history, especially when a tragic event had happened. That sort of thing became embedded in people’s minds. If someone passing through Aldridge Village mentioned losing a child at sea, it would be entirely natural for a villager to remember the Duke losing Charlotte. And plenty of information could be mined from that one comment. She was sure that Mrs. Browne didn’t even realize how much information she was supplying to a virtual stranger.
“Robby left Cookham to apprentice for his father’s uncle,” Mrs. Browne explained. “A silversmith, I believe. I think Horatia was happy for him, but it was difficult too. Young love is like that, isn’t it? It’s so very vexing to be parted. You think the world is at end, don’t you?”
Kendra made the appropriate noise of agreement.
The modiste frowned. “Of course, for Horatia and Robby, it turned out to be true. We received word that Robby had taken ill. Cholera. Such a shock. It made no sense how he could have been affected. He wasn’t living in one of those dreadful slums where you breathe in all those vapors that can contaminate the lungs.”
Kendra pressed her lips together to stop herself from explaining that cholera was actually contracted from contaminated food and water and could be easily be passed along by an infected person handling food—not by breathing in vapors.
Mrs. Browne picked up the small cream pitcher and poured a thimbleful into her teacup. “Naturally, Horatia traveled to London to see him. It’s been almost thirty years, but I remember the poor dear when she returned. He’d died, of course.” She passed the cream pitcher to Kendra and lifted the teapot. “Horatia was devastated. Simply devastated. Beth tried to offer Horatia comfort—even though she was devastated herself. So did I. But she sank into this ghastly melancholy.”
Mrs. Browne tsked as she poured tea into all the cups. “She was pale and hollow-eyed. We thought the poor dear would simply waste away. Mrs. Dyer—her mother—finally put a stop to it by sending her off to a finishing school for young ladies.”
“It wasn’t to teach her pretty manners?” Kendra asked, remembering what Sam had said.
“Heavens, no!” The modiste laughed. “Horatia had quite nice manners already. She certainly didn’t need to be sent away to learn to behave properly.” She shook her head and took a quick swallow of tea before setting down the delicate cup on its saucer. “No, Mrs. Dyer wanted to break the horrible spell of melancholy that Horatia found herself under.”
“It must have worked,” Kendra said cautiously.
“It took a while. Even when she returned to the village, she was so sad, really. She drifted away from our little group. I suppose without Robby, she didn’t see the point in continuing the association. And it must have been painful for her, to see Beth with her young man and me with Daniel.” She let out a heavy sigh and shook her head. “Oh, she was friendly enough at the local assemblies and White Pond Manor’s ball, but the poor creature always seemed to be staring off into the distance with such sorrow. Remembering dear Robby.”
“How terrible,” Kendra murmured, sipping her tea.
Mrs. Browne nodded. “Of course, Horatia had been involved in the brewery since she was a babe in her mother’s arms, but she quite threw herself into work after that. Everyone needs to heal at their own pace, I suppose. Several years later, Mr. Gavenston came to the village. Big, strapping young man. He began to pay court to Horatia and the next thing we knew, they married. Goodness,” she said, blinking with surprise. “How did I ever get on such a topic?”
“Albion Miller,” Kendra reminded her.
“Oh, yes! He was a horrid boy and is a horrid man. A sneak. Even when Beth and I were little girls, he’d follow us and threaten to tattle if he caught us in some mischief. Not that there were many times we were in mischief, mind you.” She shot Kendra a cheeky grin. “Still, if we didn’t supply him with some treat or do what he demanded, he’d threaten to tell. Born bad, that’s what he was. Mr. Miller should have taken a switch to Albion’s backside. I think Robby threatened to wallop him a few times, but…” She shrugged helplessly.
She lifted her teacup again and studied Kendra over the rim. “Why do you ask about Albion?”
“I was wondering how connected he was to Mr. Pascoe?”
Mrs. Browne looked at her in surprise. “What a strange question! I don’t know if there is any connection, except living in the same village. And they both are connected to Horatia—Mrs. Gavenston,” she corrected herself belatedly. “I can’t imagine that Mr. Pascoe was even acquainted with Albion.”
Kendra tried instead, “How well do you know Captain Sinclair?”
“Captain Sinclair? Not at all. I was a babe when he left Cookham. I was reintroduced to him at White Pond Manor’s Michaelmas ball. He attended only one assembly, and I seem to recall that he spent his time in the card room, not on the dance floor.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice even though there was no one else was in the shop. “Everyone knows that he’s been trying to get his hands on Barrett Brewery. Shoddy behavior, if you ask me. The women of that family have spent their lives making a go of it. Mrs. Dyer is the one who began selling her ale and stout to the rest of England and Scotland, and Horatia was the one who thought to expand to foreign markets.”
“So, people here are unhappy with Captain Sinclair trying to take control of the brewery?”
The modiste let out a heavy sigh. “Unfortunately, there are plenty of villagers who share Captain Sinclair’s belief that a female shouldn’t be running a business that size. Horatia is wily, but I’m afraid she may eventually be forced to give up some control or lose it altogether. There are simply some things that are impossible to fight against.”
Kendra lifted her teacup as she considered that. It dovetailed with the idea that Mrs. Gavenston might have sought out Pascoe because she thought she could control him more easily. Maybe it was a ruthless move, but Kendra wasn’t unsympathetic. The woman was surrounded by vipers who by fair means or foul were working against her.
Sex was often used to control. Had Mrs. Gavenston’s ruthlessness extended to that? Had she deliberately engaged in an affair with Pascoe to control him more readily? Or, had she tried to control the winds of fate by pushing him toward her daughter, Hester?
“When Mrs. Gavenston came into your shop, did she mention any of what was going on at the brewery?” she finally asked.
Mrs. Browne shook her head. “Horatia is not one to share confidences. We gossip a bit about what’s going on in the village while she has her fittings or selects new gowns, but nothing more. Certainly nothing about the brewery business.”
“What about Mrs. Mercer or Miss Gavenston? Do they talk about Barrett Brewery when
they come in?”
She laughed. “Mrs. Mercer—no. She’s only interested in fashion and is quite headstrong about her opinions on the matter. Thankfully, she has an unerring eye and knows what suits her. Miss Gavenston, on the other hand, needs a bit of guidance. She has become more interested in fashion in the last year, but nothing like her sister. If Mrs. Mercer didn’t have her annual stipend from Barrett Brewery, I would worry that she would set herself up as my competition.”
“And Mrs. Mercer was in here on Saturday afternoon?”
“Oh, yes. Didn’t I mention that? We went over the fashion plates I received from Paris. She selected two gowns but wanted different trimmings than what I have available in my shop. I’ve ordered them.”
“What time did she leave?”
“Half past five. I believe she wanted to go to the millinery next.” Mrs. Browne’s eyes had begun to narrow, as though it had just occurred to her the direction the questions were taking.
Kendra returned to the earlier topic. “And Hester—Miss Gavenston—never mentioned the troubles at Barrett Brewery with Captain Sinclair or Mr. Pascoe?”
Mrs. Browne hesitated, but then shrugged. “I don’t recall her speaking of any troubles. She appeared to quite admire Mr. Pascoe, though. Did you know that he was something of a poet?”
“Miss Gavenston told you that?”
“Yes. She appeared to be taken with the notion. But what young lady isn’t intrigued by a gentleman who can spin together a flowery phrase or two? Look at that Lord Byron. More tea?”
“Thank you.” Kendra waited until Mrs. Browne refilled all their cups before asking, “What did you think of Mr. Pascoe?”
“I only met him a handful of times at our assemblies, but I found him charming. He invited me to dance a few times when he noticed Mr. Browne was in the card room, just as he danced with Horatia. Not many young men would take note of us older ladies. But he was always attentive. I cannot imagine why anyone would harm him. And murder…” She shook her head, perplexed. “It’s not something that happens here in Cookham. We’re not like London, where fiends and cutthroats lurk behind every bush.”
Shadows in Time Page 26