Death Comes to the Fair

by Catherine Lloyd

  Miss Harrington was looking around her as he spoke. “There is my father. He will be revealing the winners while we give away the prizes. Let’s attempt to persuade him to start right away.”

  * * *

  Lucy glanced down the list the major had handed her, added the real winners’ names, and wondered whether she had time to substitute a list of her own. Knowing the irascible nature of her betrothed she had no doubt that if she attempted to change a thing he would stand up and denounce her. The tent was now almost full, and her father was beckoning her and the major onto the temporary stage.

  In one corner of the tent Penelope Chingford was in close conversation with Dr. Fletcher. Neither of them was smiling, which was quite usual, as they seemed to knock heads over everything, and gained an enormous amount of pleasure from doing so. If she didn’t know better, she would believe Penelope was attracted to the dratted man. But her enemy-turned-unlikely-friend had her sights set on marrying a man of property and wealth, neither of which the local doctor possessed.

  “Lucy, come along, my dear. I’m waiting,” her father called out, his tone rather peevish.

  She gathered her skirts and stepped up onto the temporary dais.

  “Here you are, Father. My list and Major Kurland’s of all the winners.”

  “Thank you.” Her father put on his spectacles and cleared his throat loudly. “May I have your attention, everyone? Both Major Sir Robert Kurland and myself would like to thank you for attending the fair, and for offering your best produce to our contest. I’ll wager it was a hard decision to pick your winners, eh, Major?”

  Major Kurland bowed. “Indeed it was, Rector.”

  “Then I shall start by revealing the name of the winner for the best turnip.”

  Standing as she was on the raised stage, Lucy had an excellent view of all the watching faces. She quailed as her father carried on announcing the victors, and the mumbling and muttering grew louder.

  “Good gracious!” He beamed out over the crowd. “I do believe our verger, Mr. Ezekiel Thurrock, has won more first prizes than any other contestant in the last twenty years or so.” He waved at the verger, who was standing near the back of the tent. “Come up and accept your prizes, Mr. Thurrock, and well done, sir!”

  A path cleared to allow the shrinking verger to approach the dais. To Lucy it appeared less of a welcoming gesture and more as the action of a hostile mob surrounding their prey. Several of the villagers were now openly disagreeing with the prizes awarded. Muttered comments were directed at the poor verger as he moved nervously through the ranks.

  “Ain’t right,” one of the old farmers said loud enough for everyone on the dais to hear. “I’ve won that prize five years in a row, and my turnips were far superior to his.” The old man raised his voice over the murmur of agreement. “Strange how the verger’s won everything this year while the rector be the one giving out the prizes.”

  The verger gained the dais looking rather scared and murmured, “I do not deserve such an honor. I would be more than happy to stand down, and allow others to win.”

  “Hear, hear!” someone shouted.

  Major Kurland stepped forward, his commanding voice carrying clearly over the crowd. “Mr. Thurrock, you won your prizes fairly and without prejudice. Please accept them, and we will move on to the handicrafts.”

  The muttering died away, but the discontent on many of the faces didn’t. Poor Mr. Thurrock slunk off to the side, where the only person who congratulated him was his brother. Lucy turned to the major, and gave him her most eloquent look. In return he raised a dismissive eyebrow, and nodded to her father, who resumed speaking.

  “Let us move on, then, to the more gentle and feminine arts, and hope our Mr. Thurrock didn’t try his hand at some needlework.”

  His attempt at a joke fell flat with the still-muttering crowd. After she handed out the prizes to the winners, and hoped she had somewhat redressed the balance of village pride, she rejoined Major Kurland, who was now talking to Mr. Stanford.

  He glanced down at her as she approached, his dark blue gaze intent. “I’ll escort Mr. Thurrock and his brother back to the rectory. The poor verger is concerned he might be set upon.”

  “I did attempt to tell you that your choices might not win universal approval.”

  “Good Lord, Miss Harrington, these are paltry prizes for vegetables! Who would’ve thought the whole village would develop windmills in their heads and take this ridiculous competition so seriously?”

  Lucy lowered her voice. “Some of these families have been battling over these ridiculous competitions for generations, sir. It has become a matter of great pride to some of them to win every year.”

  “Which has only happened because you and the other judges have operated like a rotten borough, and fixed the vote.”

  “For the good of everyone, Major.” She glared back at him. “Many of these people have little of value in their lives, and winning such a contest—being the best at something —improves their spirits and sense of purpose.”

  “Poppycock.” Major Kurland shook his head. “You are being far too emotional about this matter, Miss Harrington. If a man believes his worth is measured by the length of his carrot, then perhaps it is time for him to aspire to new and higher standards.”

  Lucy merely looked at him, and then turned away shaking her head. Sometimes it was hard to believe that she and the major had both grown up in the same village. His understanding of those around him was lamentably lacking, but then he’d been sent away to school at seven, and gone straight into the army after that.

  He hadn’t really lived among the villagers as she and the rest of the rectory children had done. But then he wasn’t supposed to understand those who owed him their living. He was in the position to affect their lives far too widely to be seen as anything less than a temperamental god like most of the landed gentry too far above them to be criticized or crossed.

  Which simply meant he assumed that when he gave an order it would be obeyed without question. Lucy looked around the tent, where several groups of villagers were still gathered. In this case, she had a strong suspicion that the major’s final decision was about to cause quite a few problems amongst those who felt slighted. She could only hope that nothing more dangerous than a few muttered comments aimed at the poor verger occurred before the event was consigned to village history, not forgotten—nothing ever was, but suitably in the past.

  Chapter 2

  “I will accompany you this morning, Lucy. I agreed to help Dr. Fletcher distribute bottles of elderflower cough elixir to some of the villagers in Kurland St. Anne. I can meet him at his house.”

  Penelope was already tying the ribbons on her bonnet in her usual determined fashion and Lucy didn’t have the heart to argue with her. Miss Chingford and her sister had been living at the rectory for months now while their relations fought furiously and politely to avoid taking any responsibility for them. Apparently no one wanted to take in two sisters with little money, and a dire family reputation.

  When Anna returned from her London Season, and the twins came home from school for Christmas, the house would be packed to the gunnels again. Lucy patted her reticule. At least she knew that her brother, Anthony, was in good health serving in Major Kurland’s old regiment. She’d had a letter from him on the previous day that she intended to send on to Anna at the earliest opportunity.

  Anna expected Lucy to join her in London fairly shortly, an expedition Lucy was attempting to avoid. She had a terrible suspicion that once her aunt Jane got hold of her she wouldn’t escape until the day of her wedding, and she had far better things to do than sit in a drawing room in London being lectured by her aunt.

  “Lucy? Are you coming?”

  She picked up her umbrella, and followed Penelope out through the kitchen, where Betty was making a fresh pot of tea.

  “Morning, Miss Harrington. Off to see the major, are you?”

  “I might visit him later this morning, but I have a few
calls to make in the village today. Is there anything we need?”

  “Cinnamon, miss.” Betty frowned. “At least I think that’s what Mrs. Fielding said she was needing.”

  “Where is Mrs. Fielding?”

  “I believe she took the rector up his breakfast tray, miss.”

  Betty couldn’t quite meet Lucy’s gaze. They both knew exactly how matters stood between the cook and the rector, but neither of them would elaborate. It was the reason the rector tolerated the cook, and allowed her to ride roughshod over all Lucy’s orders. She wouldn’t miss Mrs. Fielding’s barely veiled insolence once she moved to Kurland Hall.

  “Betty, now that my father has employed Maisey to take your place, you do wish to accompany me to Kurland Hall on my marriage, don’t you?”

  “Oh yes, miss! I am looking forward to it immensely.”

  “You will become my personal maid, and I will ensure that your wages are increased accordingly.”

  “Thank you, miss.” Betty bobbed a curtsy, her cheeks flushed. “I can’t wait to tell my mum and dad.”

  “It’s your afternoon off today, isn’t it?” Betty nodded, wiping her hands on her apron. “You should take some of that chutney we made for your parents.”

  “That would be lovely, miss, although Mrs. Fielding said it wasn’t for sharing.”

  “And I say you may take at least two jars.”

  Betty grinned at her. “As you wish, Miss Harrington. She’s all down in the dumps because she didn’t win first prize at the village fair for anything. I heard her telling Mrs. Pethridge that it was obvious the rector hadn’t favored his employees, otherwise she would have won, and that Major Kurland was to blame for allowing Mr. Thurrock to win all the prizes.”

  “Major Kurland was only doing his duty.”

  “And I think he was right, miss. Some of those folks were getting a mite conceited about their leeks and cabbages. I even heard they were taking wagers in the pub as to who was going to win and betting on themselves.”

  Lucy winced. “That doesn’t surprise me at all. I don’t think Major Kurland had any idea how seriously our villagers take these competitions. I do hope no one lost all their wages on something so ridiculous.”

  Penelope popped her head back inside the kitchen door. “Lucy! I will be late.”

  With a resigned sigh, Lucy bade Betty farewell and followed Penelope outside. The trees were in that uncertain stage; half burnished gold and half stark branches. Beneath her sensible boots the dried leaves crackled and the slippery ones made it difficult to walk smoothly. She picked her way along the drive holding her skirt in one hand to avoid covering the hem in mud within seconds.

  Penelope led the way, her back straight, and her head high as she talked incessantly about either the awfulness of her relatives, or the ridiculous things Dr. Fletcher said. Lucy couldn’t quite decide who was deemed the greater villain as she struggled to keep up both mentally and physically. They passed the church, and went down toward the village proper. The tents from the fair had been cleared away from the green, but the pattern of occupation showed clearly in the flattened squares of grass and the muddy tracks between them.

  After the disastrous events of the prize giving, several of the villagers had refused to allow their produce to be used at the harvest festival in the church later that week. It meant Lucy would have to be even more imaginative than usual, which certainly wasn’t her strength. She wished Anna were home. She had an excellent eye for such flummery.

  “So I told him he was a complete fool, and what do you think he said?”

  Lucy turned to look at Penelope. “I have no idea.”

  “He said that he was a fool because he was in love with me.”

  “Dr. Fletcher said that?” Lucy stopped walking to stare at Penelope’s flushed face.

  “Why are you so amazed?” Penelope raised her chin. “I am quite beautiful, you know. Men do fall in love with me quite regularly.”

  “I am well aware of that. I assume you laughed in his face?”

  “I . . . didn’t.”

  “Why not? He is everything you told me you didn’t require in a husband.” She ticked the items off on the fingers of her gloved hand. “He has no money, no title, he’s Irish, he’s probably a Roman Catholic, and he works for a living.”

  “I know all that.”

  “But?”

  “I don’t know.” Penelope blurted out in a most uncharacteristic way. “I cannot seem to think about anything but him.”

  “Then, perhaps you love him in return?”

  “How can I? He is all those things you mention, and I’m related to the aristocracy.”

  “I suppose you told him that as well.”

  “Of course I did. There are no secrets between us. He knows exactly what I think of him. He claims to understand me all too well.”

  “Does he?”

  “He says I need to be put over his knee and spanked, and then soundly kissed.”

  Lucy blinked. “He sounds absolutely perfect for you.”

  “Oh, Lucy, I suppose I must allow you your moment of fun. After all, you’re marrying Major Kurland—a man I rejected.”

  “I seem to remember that Major Kurland was the one who rejected you. And stop trying to change the subject. What are you going to do about Dr. Fletcher?”

  Penelope started walking again. “Do? I shall do nothing. It’s not as if he wishes to be in love with me. I suspect it offends him quite as much as it offends me. He would never force me to be with him. He has a conscience, Lucy, and believes that every man and woman in this country should have the vote, and be free to worship as they wish.”

  “Then mayhap he should move to the Americas. I believe they are very keen on destroying the antiquated social order over there. Major Kurland is quite in sympathy with them as well.”

  “Major Kurland is a baronet! Surely he believes in the monarchy who awarded him such an honor?”

  Lucy paused outside the village shop. “Not at all. He picked up many unusual leanings during his time in the army on the continent.”

  “Foreigners.” Penelope shuddered. “One can expect no less from them, but Major Kurland is an Englishman.”

  “Whereas your Dr. Fletcher was born in Ireland, a nation whose people are barely considered civilized by our government.”

  “He was educated in England, and was in the military with Major Kurland. His mother is English and ran off with his father against her family’s wishes.”

  “Then he is at least half civilized and an excellent physician. He also owns that rather nice house in the village.”

  “He doesn’t own it. He rents it at a peppercorn rent from Major Kurland.” Penelope heaved a sigh. “I wish he hadn’t come here.”

  “Because he has overset all your plans to marry for money and rank?”

  “It’s easy for you to mock, Lucy—seeing as you have managed to snare both.”

  “I also happen to care for Major Kurland very deeply,” Lucy admitted haltingly. “He might be infuriating at times, but he has a good heart. If you truly care for Dr. Fletcher, you should tell him.”

  “Tell him? And what? Expect him to go down on one knee and propose to me?”

  “Why not? I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t be as stupid as to keep you as his mistress. Major Kurland would definitely not approve of that!”

  “He . . . hasn’t asked me to marry him.”

  Lucy considered Penelope’s resolute profile. “He probably thinks you are too far above him.”

  “Which is true. I am his superior in every way.”

  “But if you care for him . . .”

  “I must be going, Lucy. Dr. Fletcher is expecting me. I will see you later at the rectory.”

  Penelope walked on, skirting the village green and the duck pond and heading for the very respectable stone house where Dr. Fletcher practiced his medicine on the far side of the square. He was beginning to acquire new patients, as the old doctor grew reluctant to attend to anything or anyone t
hat disturbed his rest.

  The thought of getting Penelope out of the rectory was remarkably motivating. Perhaps Major Kurland could ask his former colleague what his intentions were or even offer him an incentive to marry Penelope. But would the major want his former betrothed permanently ensconced on his doorstep?

  Lucy found her shopping list. If it came down to Penelope taking over the rectory, or Major Kurland’s peace of mind, she knew what she would sacrifice. The only question was how she would accomplish it.

  * * *

  “That verger shouldn’t have won for his carrots, sir. His leeks were admittedly far better than mine, but his carrots? Look at these, sir. I ask you.”

  Inwardly Robert sighed as Mr. Pethridge, who ran the Kurland Hall Home Farm and supplied the house with all its produce and dairy, kept talking.

  Who would have thought a bunch of carrots could prove so divisive? Every single person he’d met since the fair had an opinion to share on the matter. And now he was standing in a muddy field with the wind cutting across the flat plain staring at a plot of land where Mr. Pethridge had just harvested the last of his so-called superior carrots.

  “That’s very interesting, Mr. Pethridge, but—”

  “And, I know the verger keeps saying the reason he won was because the soil at the rectory is all new, but I use compost on my land every year, and the best horse manure the Kurland stables can offer me, so I think my soil is far richer.” He bent down and scooped up a handful, then stuck it right under Robert’s nose.

  “What do you think, sir? Full of goodness, aye?”

  “Indeed. Now perhaps we might discuss our plans for next year.” Robert eased his weight off his damaged leg. “And get out of this wind.”

  Mr. Pethridge dropped the soil and wiped his hand on his breeches. “’Tis a bit breezy today, ain’t it, sir? Let’s go inside, and have a nice glass of cider.”

  * * *

  While Mr. Pethridge murmured something about fetching his papers and excused himself, Robert deposited his hat and gloves on the stand inside the curved stone archway of the main door of the Home Farm. From the manorial records he knew that the building had once been part of the Kurland St. Anne priory and had been evacuated during King Henry VIII’s purge of the religious institutions. What remained was a sturdy stone-and-flint house with solid walls, thick foundations, and large cellars perfect for storage.