Sauce for the Gander (The Marstone Series Book 1)

by Jayne Davis

  Will made no mention of it at breakfast, instead asking her if she would care to go out in the chaise again.

  “We can go down to Ashmouth, if you wish.”

  “I would like that, thank you.” The view of the sea from the cliff top had been wonderful; now she wanted to see the waves up close. Talking to Will about the church could wait. In truth, she had enjoyed church mostly for the familiar rituals, and being able to escape from the house for a while with the chance to talk to Martha afterwards.

  They took Archer with them, on the back seat of the chaise. Connie enjoyed the journey down the hill, through dappled shade with only the sounds of birdsong and the clop of hooves.

  There was no reason for Will to need her company; he must have invited her because he thought she’d enjoy the outing. Or because he wanted her with him. She stole a glance at his face just as he turned towards her with a smile. Something in his eyes made her breath catch and heat rise to her face; she managed a smile in return before giving her attention to the road again.

  The bottom of the valley broadened and the woodland gave way to small stone houses lining the road, birdsong changing to the mournful cries of seagulls. Shading her eyes as the land opened out into a small bay, happiness rose in her as she made out the glitter of sun on the water and fishing boats bobbing at anchor.

  The buildings along the sea front were a little larger than others in the village. The inn here looked more prosperous than the one in Ashton St Andrew, a brightly painted sign portraying a smiling dolphin with huge teeth. A couple of men lounged against its wall, their unsmiling gaze following the chaise as Will brought it to a halt at the edge of the beach. Others scraped at the bottom of a boat propped up on the sand, or mended nets.

  “There isn’t a lot to look at.” Will sounded apologetic.

  “There’s the sea.” Connie smiled at him.

  Leaving Archer to look after the mare, they walked towards the water. Wavelets made a rhythmic hushing noise as they surged up the beach and retreated again, the salt air mingling with a faint odour of rotting fish. Connie gazed with delight at gulls wheeling overhead, fighting over scraps thrown from a table outside the inn where women were gutting fish.

  “Shall we walk?” Will offered his arm.

  They picked their way along the water’s edge, around piles of lobster pots and tangles of old rope. She met his eyes, laughing with the joy of it all, and was warmed again by his answering smile.

  “My lord!”

  Connie released Will’s arm, and they both turned to see Archer running towards them.

  “You’d better come, my lord. It’s Mrs Strickland.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Says she took a fall, my lord.”

  Archer led the way into the inn. Mrs Strickland was slumped in a chair in an empty corner of the taproom, hunched over with her arms wrapped around her chest. Connie gasped in horror when the woman raised her head. One eye was swollen shut, blood smeared her chin from a cut lip, and other patches of red marred her face. From the way she was sitting, her ribs hurt, and likely many other places as well.

  “Good grief. Who did this to you?” Will’s sharp voice indicated that he was as horrified as Connie.

  Mrs Strickland shook her head. “No-one did it, my lord. No-one.” She kept her eyes on the floor. “I fell down some steps.”

  She was lying. Nobody received injuries like that from falling down stairs.

  Connie could tell from the tight expression on Will’s face that he didn’t believe it either. She glanced around the room—the two men she’d noticed earlier sat in one corner with mugs of ale. The larger one had a bent nose, possibly the result of a fight; the other was nondescript, although better dressed than most of the drinkers. Both stared, stony faced, at a group of card-players at another table. Those men kept their attention on their cards.

  At least a few people in the taproom should have been watching them—it was human nature to be curious.

  Something is very wrong here.

  “We’d better get you back to Ashton Tracey,” Will said. “The chaise is outside—can you walk?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Archer stepped forward and offered his arm. Connie could see that movement was hurting the woman, but Mrs Strickland said nothing as she hobbled outside. Getting her up into the chaise caused even more pain; in spite of Connie’s dislike of the housekeeper, she had to admire her stoicism.

  “The seat is not wide enough for three,” Connie said, as Will offered his hand. “I can walk up the hill with Archer.”

  “No, definitely not.”

  Surprised by the vehemence in his tone, Connie looked at the chaise again. “I can ride on the seat behind. There’s room for me as well as Archer.”

  Will drew a deep breath. “No. Archer, you drive. I will sit on the back with Lady Wingrave.”

  “Right you are, my lord.”

  Connie gasped as Will lifted her onto the back seat. It felt odd, facing backwards with her legs dangling. The seat was not as wide as the one in the chaise itself, and when Will climbed up his arm and shoulder pressed against hers. She was conscious of the warmth of him where their thighs touched, the feel of his hands around her waist still lingering. His solid presence was comforting—someone had attacked Mrs Strickland, but she knew Will would protect her. She glanced sideways, before returning her gaze to the road rolling away beneath their feet. Was he as aware of her as she was of him?

  It was just as well she hadn’t shared the seat with Archer.

  Warren came down the front steps to help Mrs Strickland out of the chaise. There was concern on his face, but Connie could detect no sign of surprise. He knew something, even if he was not directly involved.

  The first priority was to assess Mrs Strickland’s injuries, and call a doctor. Warren offered to get Barton to help carry her, but she declined, leaning heavily on the butler’s arm instead. Connie and Will followed them in. Mrs Curnow came out of the kitchen as they passed the door, gasping as she saw the damage to Mrs Strickland’s face.

  “We’ll need water, Mrs Curnow,” Connie said. “Hot and cold, please, and clean cloths. Then you can make some willow bark tea and prepare comfrey poultices. I’ll get her into her bed.”

  “Begging your pardon, my lady, but it might be better if I undressed her. There’s not much in the stillroom, but I can take a look afterwards.”

  Connie realised that this was right—the housekeeper would be less embarrassed if Mrs Curnow helped her. She added restocking the stillroom with medicines to her mental list of things to be done.

  “Can you deal with this?” Will asked in a low voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Good, thank you. Connie, I need to talk to you afterwards.”

  “Very well. Can you send to the gardener to bring comfrey leaves, if he has any?”

  Will nodded, and went off with Archer. In the kitchen, Connie set Mary to heating water, and asked Sukey to bring bandages from the stillroom.

  Will sat at his desk in the library, toying with a penknife. Mrs Strickland had failed the smugglers in some way, that was clear. No rational person would blame her for Will wanting to look in the cellars, but she’d had several days’ notice by letter of his arrival. The gang could have moved the goods out before Will arrived, instead of risking them being found.

  Those injuries were hours old, too—he recalled the progression of his own injuries from fist fights in his youth. That meant she’d sat in the inn for hours, nursing her injuries with no-one helping.

  What would Connie make of it all? She’d work it out quickly, he was sure, if she hadn’t already. He wondered what Mrs Strickland had told her masters about Connie. Could they resent her for her request to inspect all the cellars?

  Connie entered the library, interrupting his thoughts. Concern filled him at her appearance—she looked tired, with tendrils of hair clinging in damp wisps to her face and neck and her apron damp and streaked with blood and dirt.

 
“Come, sit down.” He moved to a pair of chairs near an open window. “Wine? Or cordial?”

  She spoke before he could ring. “Mrs Curnow is still busy with Mrs Strickland. I’m just tired.” She unfastened the apron, bundling it up and dropping it on the floor, and then sat with her eyes closed, one hand massaging the back of her neck.

  Will opened the door wide, letting in a cool breeze. “How is she?”

  “Her face, you saw. Bruises on her arms and back, and it’s possible she may have broken ribs. A sprained ankle—possibly even broken, but that is beyond my skill. Bruises and broken skin there, too.” She swallowed hard and rubbed her forehead. “She insists we don’t summon a doctor.”

  “We may ignore her wishes if you think that best.”

  Connie glanced at the door.

  “If the door is open, no-one can listen behind it,” Will explained, keeping his voice low.

  She nodded. “Will, those injuries were not new.”

  “What makes you say that?” He wanted to hear her reasoning.

  “It takes time for eyes to swell up like that. The cuts on her face didn’t bleed again when they were washed. I helped Martha sometimes in the village,” she added.

  “Should I send for the doctor, then?” From what she’d said, her medical judgement would be more sound than his own.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps, if she doesn’t start to improve by tomorrow.” She took a deep breath, and sat up straighter in her chair. “Those injuries were not all from falling down steps. She refused to say how long she’d been sitting there, but Mrs Curnow says she went down to the village this morning, quite early.”

  “Why would she do that, and on a Sunday?”

  “Mrs Curnow doesn’t know. She seems to make a point of not being observant or asking questions. I’ll feel like screaming if she says ‘I really couldn’t say, my lady’ once more.”

  Will, having had a similar conversation with Warren, sympathised.

  “Sukey knows,” Connie continued. “I wondered out loud who could have done such a thing. She started to say something, then stopped. She was frightened about what she’d nearly said. I think the other staff know, too, but are better at hiding it. And all the people in the inn—they must know who did it.”

  “The smugglers.” Will said.

  “Yes, but why? They didn’t lose their goods.” Connie massaged her neck again. “I suppose they had to move things at short notice. Silly woman—if she had any sense she’d have shown me the cellars herself that first morning and passed off the last door as being stuck. It was only her manner that made me suspicious.”

  Will smiled; he couldn’t help it.

  “I don’t see anything funny in that.” Her words were sharp.

  “My apologies. It was just that you came to exactly the same conclusions as I did.” However, Mrs Strickland’s failings weren’t important now. He had to keep Connie safe, but after their discussion this morning, he wasn’t sure she would like what he was about to say.

  “Connie, will you agree never to go about the estate alone? Take Archer with you, at the very least.”

  Her eyes widened. “Do you think someone will attack me?”

  “No, but it is not worth taking any risk. It would also be wise to continue to pretend we don’t know that the cellars here have been used.”

  She sighed. “Very well.”

  His shoulders relaxed. He’d wanted her willing agreement; after her complaint yesterday about women being treated as possessions, ordering her to comply would not go down well. “Thank you.”

  “For how long? Not for ever?”

  “Not if I can help it. I don’t know what to do yet, but I’ll think of something.”

  “Very well.” She hesitated for a moment. “Will, in the cellars yesterday, you asked Warren to find a supplier.”

  “The cellars need restocking.”

  “Yes, but… Will, were you asking Warren to find a source of smuggled goods for you?”

  He shrugged. “Most people buy smuggled goods. I suspect that the majority of the people in Ashmouth, and probably many of the surrounding villages, are involved, to supplement their income.”

  “I see.” She met his eyes, her mouth turned down at the corners, then stood. “If you will excuse me, I need a wash and a clean shift.” She left the room without waiting for him to reply.

  She didn’t approve of him buying smuggled goods, it seemed. She did have a point, after what they’d done to the housekeeper.

  He shook his head—he’d think about that later. If the smugglers had removed goods from his cellars, what would they do with them? If they were destined for places inland, why were they still so close to the coast? The discussion in the Queen’s Head in Exeter came back to him. Duty on exports—could the goods be going to France? They would get a better price for wool in France, while still selling more cheaply than official exports. If that were the case, they’d want to move them on soon from their interim store.

  He could ignore the whole situation, of course, but that could result in the gang continuing to use his house. Connie wouldn’t be safe. Or he could inform the preventatives, but they were notoriously poor at getting convictions. The last thing he wanted was the smuggling gang still free and wanting revenge on him.

  He recalled a steep hillside above Ashmouth from his days playing in the woods, and a clearing with a good view of the bay. If he went there tonight, he might see if anything was happening. The more he could find out about the smugglers the better, as long as the servants didn’t know what he was doing.

  Sighing, he took the estate accounts from their drawer.

  Connie stripped off her gown and washed her face and hands, the cool water welcome on her skin.

  Accompanied at all times? It made sense, she knew, although she didn’t care for the idea. She was used to walking the fields around Nether Minster alone. Then she shook her head—she was better off now than she had been then. Here, she wouldn’t have to scheme and manipulate her father to be allowed out; having a groom accompany her was a small price to pay for that freedom. And Will had asked rather than ordering her.

  Will’s attitude towards the smugglers concerned her, though. The attack on Mrs Strickland had been vicious. Will could allow them to continue using the cellars, but would they trust him not to inform on them? Perhaps, if he bought enough contraband goods from them, but then he’d be even more complicit. And any criminal activity could easily result in potential witnesses being threatened or harmed.

  She rubbed her temples. Will was clearly not the controlling type of man her father was, but how would he react if she told him she wasn’t happy with his casual acceptance of smuggling? She didn’t really know him well enough yet.

  The gown lying over the back of a chair caught her eye, and she gladly turned her thoughts to her wardrobe. The gown badly needed a wash, and the pattern was faded. She’d never really minded what her gowns looked like, but now she wanted to dress in something brighter. Something more attractive.

  Her only other light gown was well past its best. The remaining gowns were all of fabric too thick for this weather, and too dark and drab for her taste.

  In her dressing room, she sorted through her mother’s gowns, pulling out one made of a cheerful yellow brocade, embroidered with butterflies and exotic birds. It was made to be worn over panniers, not the bum roll she used, but she could deal with that. Tomorrow she would get the second small parlour opened up, and start to make herself a new gown.

  Will cursed in the dark as he dodged a branch—again. He swung the lantern upwards before moving on. It was shuttered to only provide light ahead, allowing him to follow the faint traces of the footpath, but it didn’t illuminate the branches above him.

  Not for the first time this night, he marvelled at how much harder it was to sneak out than it had been when he and Alfred were boys, trying to re-enact Uncle Jack’s stories of fighting in the forests of British America. Back then, a friendly Warren had left a lantern for the
m behind a hedge in the formal garden, together with a tinder box. This evening, Will had had to find one himself, and without anyone knowing.

  Better planning, he told himself. If he was going to discover what the smugglers were doing, he needed to think things through properly first.

  Relying on his childhood memories was the second mistake. Paths changed, trees fell, sometimes the land even slipped a little. He should look for the path in daylight.

  Go on or go back?

  He took out his watch, squinting at it in the flickering lantern light. Two o’clock. The sun would be rising in a couple of hours, and he needed to be back in his room before dawn, with no indication he’d been out. He turned with a sigh, hoping he wasn’t going to run into the same branches again on the way back.

  Chapter 23

  Monday 30th June

  Will awaited the steward’s arrival in the library, drinking his way through a second pot of coffee while he reviewed his map of the estate. Nancarrow presented himself at eleven o’clock precisely. Around twenty years older than Will, he was running to fat, and his boots and breeches showed the signs of a ride on dusty roads. He deposited a pair of saddlebags on the floor to return Will’s handshake.

  “Welcome, Mr Nancarrow.” Will waved him to a seat at one end of his desk. “Have you had far to come?”

  “Ottery St Mary, my lord. A pleasant enough ride, in this weather.” He pulled out a handkerchief to mop his forehead. “I normally only report annually, with my recommendations and so forth, but the accounts are up to date as far as the last quarter day. Do you wish to start with those?”

  “If you please.”

  Nancarrow extracted a couple of ledgers from his bags. “These should be the same as the ones you have, my lord. First, the wages for the staff here at Ashton Tracey.”

  Nancarrow ran through the amounts. Will compared them against his own ledger, noticing one omission. “Where are your own wages recorded?”

  “Bless me, sir. My lord, I mean. I’m not a regular steward.” He laughed, setting his jowls wobbling. “I receive an annual retainer from Lord Marstone to pay wages, collect the rents, authorise essential repairs, and make any other recommendations as I see fit. I do the same for several other local estates.”