They were children. They should be afraid of strangers.
Their parents too? a discontented voice rejoined, and he recalled the faces of all the adults who had watched him with trepidation from behind the vicar.
But Belle could not possibly know how the villagers feel toward me. She only arrived the day before yesterday and spent one morning at the Briar Inn. Hardly time to become knowledgeable about the villagers’ viewpoints.
At the tail end of that logical reasoning, a sense of calm descended over his racing thoughts. He breathed deeply, and his tense shoulders loosened and dropped. His neighbors and tenants did not even know him well enough to dislike him. He had lived away from Cheshire since he had turned eighteen. First, he had been at Oxford and then in London. On the rare occasions he had come home to visit Mama and Susie during the past five years, he had had little contact with anyone from Terrance Village. And if they were, for some reason, concerned about his behavior, he would show them they were mistaken. Once the villagers become better acquainted with the man he had become, they would have no cause to fear him.
He also needed to question some of villagers about his father’s last movements. Find out who he had seen, where he had gone, and what, if anything, had been on his mind during those final days before his death.
With the reminder that this village was where his father had spent his last peaceful moments before he returned to London and met with a villain’s bullet, the deep sense of sorrow that Rufus had lived with since finding his father’s body returned. With a heavy heart, he rang for the butler.
Chapter Six
Within a half hour after Lady Belle revealed that the villagers’ nickname for him was Lord Terror, Rufus was mounted and eager to face the people whom he apparently terrified. He gave Goodwin free rein to gallop across the rolling countryside under the bright morning sun.
He did not slow to a canter until the Parkers’ farm came into view. Nightingale’s records said this dairy farm’s production had deteriorated in the last four years. Once it had been renowned for the best cheese for a hundred miles. These days, the farm barely made enough to cover their taxes.
The farm was now a drain on his estate. A note written in his father’s hand suggested that this spring the Parkers must be given notice to leave and new tenants obtained. It was a duty Rufus did not look forward to, yet it behooved him to see to the estate’s prosperity for the benefit of all.
Laughter, intermingled with shouted words, drew him on. He reined in Goodwin near the edge of a wood that bordered the farm and looked at the farmyard where four children played: a boy of about nine, another probably a year younger, a girl of around six, and the youngest no more than three. When the younger boy argued with his older sibling, the elder boy stood on his toes, as if adding a few inches would gain him a degree more respect and authority.
Rufus shifted on his mount. It was not so easy to gain respect. He had adequate height, an honorable title, and enough wealth to buy this farm a hundred times over, yet none of it garnered him any more respect than the boy’s brother paid his older brother. Fear, certainly. Obedience, no question. But respect? Unlikely.
The younger brother flicked the elder boy’s cap off his proudly tilted head, and a friendly wrestling match ensued. They both tumbled into the snow. The girls, full of giggles, buried the boys with handfuls of white powder.
Goodwin neighed, unhappy at standing still so long.
The youngest girl looked up. Her gaze rounded on Rufus, and her arms came to rest at her side. Her sister’s glance shifted from the boys to the little one, still and silent beside her, and from there to Rufus.
Not wanting to frighten them, yet too far away to greet with words, Rufus tipped his hat and with a gentle nudge, urged Goodwin to lift one foreleg and bend the other in a bow.
The little tot of three moved forward, her gaze fastened on Rufus’s horse. He had captured her interest, and with luck, her respect. Before he could respond, the elder girl shouted a warning, and in a blink, they were all gone.
Disappointed that he had spoilt the Parker children’s game, Rufus rode toward the farm. This would be their last winter here. He wanted to ask what they would need to enjoy a good Christmas. He dismounted and knocked on the farmhouse door.
No response. Were the children alone and too frightened to answer? He waited a moment and knocked again.
“This is your landlord, Rufus Marlesbury. Is anyone home?”
Silence. He returned to his horse with a mental note to check here on the way home. On the farm’s outskirts, before he turned onto the main road, he glanced back.
The children and a slender woman, likely the mother, watched him. When he slowed, they all scurried into the house.
Nightingale must have warned them they were soon to be evicted. And fool that he was, Rufus had announced himself when he knocked, and so they hid.
Lord Terror.
The errant thought surfaced unbidden. He shook it off and rode on through the empty fields of snow.
Shortly, the church spire rose on the horizon, and he patted Goodwin. “This time, we will both be on our best behavior.”
At the churchyard, he dismounted, tied Goodwin to a tree, and walked inside. Most of what he remembered of this place had faded into the mists of childhood memories. He did recall with clarity the stained glass windows on opposing walls. The way the multicolored, reflected light played across people’s faces or shoes, and its dance along the aisle as the hour advanced—all had fascinated a boy more interested in movement than sermons.
Mr. Bedlow stepped out of a back room. “My lord! How wonderful that you have come for another visit. I hope you are able to stay longer this time.”
“Good morning, vicar. I do wish to have a word.”
“Of course, of course. How keeps your mother, by the by?”
“She is well. Thank you for inquiring.”
“My wife would be pleased to pour us tea while we talk.”
“If you have no objections, I prefer that we speak here.”
The thirteenth century church’s arched ceilings, wide pews, and finely detailed cross, resting high above the altar, made it a private place. Less chance of an eavesdropper.
Rufus sat on a bench while Mr. Bedlow stood. The short, round man seemed at ease. The vicar’s relaxed smile of welcome was an encouraging sight after the Parkers’ cold reception.
“Your mother seemed dispirited when I came by last week, my lord,” Mr. Bedlow said. “Talked a great deal about your father. It would do her good to consider the living more.”
Rufus thanked him for that sage advice, which he too held, and made a note to speak with his mother on the matter. “I actually came to ask you about my father. The week before he died, he returned to Clearview. Did you see him then?”
Mr. Bedlow took a seat beside him. “Why, no, my lord. He was in Cheshire, but he did not come to see me, and I did not feel I should intrude without an invitation.”
“Do you know with whom he met?”
“That information did not reach my ears, my lord. I could ask my wife.” He spread his hands wide. “Oft times she tells me who sees whom and goes where, and the information slides in and out of my ears without pause.”
Rufus nodded. “I would appreciate any help you can give me on the matter. But please keep this conversation confidential. No one must know I inquire. Not even your wife. If you question her, I request you do so discreetly.”
“As you say, my lord. What do you wish to discover?”
“What I seek will announce itself soon enough.” He stood and shook the vicar’s hand.
Mr. Bedlow accompanied him to the door. “Will you be at service next Sunday?”
“If time permits,” Rufus said before exiting the church.
The vicar followed him. “I only ask, because you
r dear mother has not come to church since your father died. It cannot be healthy to be away from regular service for so long.” He glanced back to the church, then returned his gaze to Rufus. “Without the good Lord’s guidance, our fears can sometimes overtake our senses.”
Rufus understood him all too well. So, the rumor of a spirit haunting the manor had spread to the village. He would check with Ellison to ensure the tale had not ignited from the servant quarters. Then again, Belle had announced her suspicions about ghosts in front of that family she had been with during their first stormy meeting. The story had likely spread from there.
As for the vicar’s suggestion, he had no great hopes that a sermon would shake any ideas his mother harbored about spirits. Once a notion found its way into her head, it rarely departed. Still, it could not hurt for his mother to socialize again. If she were to meet some local gentry, the interaction might distract her from maudlin thoughts.
“I will speak with my mother,” he said and left.
His next stop, the Briar Inn, was a local favorite according to Ellison. Villagers gathered in the taproom to converse. A perfect place to ferret out information.
On his arrival, a postboy took his horse.
The innkeeper greeted him at the door. “My lord, what a great pleasure to have you in my humble inn. How may I serve you? Shall I show you to a private parlor?”
“I shall sup in the common room.” Rufus left the man staring after him in astonishment.
He found the chamber lightly sprinkled with men from the village. He chose a table near the far end where a lack of windows gave it relative privacy.
A maid came by to ask his drinking pleasure, though her coy smile offered more than ale or whiskey.
Rufus gave her a coin and settled for whiskey. He sat for a time to allow his neighbor’s curiosity to subside, then motioned to the innkeeper.
The portly man hurried over, eager to please.
“Who among here knows best what goes on in the village?” Rufus asked.
The man turned to study his customers and then pointed out one who nursed his drink beside a group of men. He was unshaven, unwashed, and his clothes appeared unchanged in months.
“Name’s Brindle, my lord, Harry Brindle,” the innkeeper said. “Spends all his time chattin’ with folks. Wife died of influenza. Spent every penny to see to her needs and then for ’er funeral. Lost his farm when he could no longer pay the levy to your father. Harry sent his two mites to his sister’s place in Yorkshire. Not much work here, as these are hard times in Terrance. I let him clean up the place. Widow Harken lets him sleep in her barn, if he tidies it.” He gave Rufus a knowing look. “He would trade a word or two for a small coin or a tankard of ale.”
Rufus asked that the man be sent over.
The innkeeper spoke to Brindle. Despite being in dire straits, the man appeared to take a great deal of convincing. At one point, he made a run for the door, but the innkeeper caught the back of his coat and made the signal for cash with his fingers. Brindle still looked unconvinced.
Rufus took out a shilling, then tossed it and caught it.
The man’s eyes widened. Finally, with the innkeeper’s encouragement, Mr. Brindle reluctantly approached.
“Mor’n, milord.” Harry Brindle doffed his hat.
“Sit.” Rufus indicated the chair opposite him, then almost regretted it. A foul odor wafted from the man. They might as well have held this conversation inside the barn.
Brindle scraped back his chair and sat at its tip, woolen hat scrunched between both hands.
“Good morning, Mr. Brindle,” Rufus said. Although his attention remained focused on his guest, he noticed that the taproom descended into an arena of silence. He could almost picture every ear trained to catch each word he and Brindle spoke.
Brindle’s gaze swung to the door, and in a bid to ease the man’s tension, Rufus mentioned the weather. “Glad the snow finally stopped. You fared it well?”
Brindle’s gaze returned to Rufus and then dropped to the table. “Well’s could be ’xpected, milord.”
Rufus motioned to the innkeeper, and the man hurried over.
His guest ordered ale, and Rufus paid for it and waited.
Once the drink arrived, Brindle abandoned his cap on his lap and grabbed the sweating mug with large, coarse hands. He downed the contents. Dribbles slid along the sides of his mouth while he swallowed in rapid succession. He returned his empty mug to the scarred wooden tabletop.
Rufus ordered the mug be replenished. Slowly, he sipped his own whiskey, enjoying its sharp, dry bite. As the chatter about the room rose, the man’s tight shoulders loosened.
“The innkeeper tells me you are an avid source of village gossip,” Rufus said. At his guest’s blank stare, he rephrased. “You know a lot about what happens around the village?”
“I knows some, milord.”
“Do you remember the last time my father came to Terrance?”
“All knew whenever the Black Ter, um, his late lordship, were here.”
The man’s gaze swung to the doorway as if he were considering bolting for the exit. Brindle’s fear and his hesitation over Rufus’s father’s name would have to wait for later consideration. He must be careful, or he would lose the man’s cooperation.
“Do you remember what my father did the last time he visited?”
Brindle’s attention returned to him, and a light appeared in his dull brown eyes. He straightened his shoulders, and his face changed from slack and lifeless to alert, with a hint of optimism. The man lifted his mug and emptied the remnants. Though his hands still shook, this time Rufus suspected it was more from excitement than fear. With care, Brindle laid the empty mug down with a soft thunk.
He leaned forward, bringing with him a nauseating odor of stale sweat and horse droppings.
Holding his breath, Rufus also leaned forward.
“I might knows something about something, milord.”
Rufus reclined and let his breath gush out in relief. Before the day ended, he might know who killed his father. He hid his excitement behind a bland face, like the ones Phillip wore in polite circles. A flick of his finger again brought the innkeeper to replenish his guest’s mug.
Once they were alone, he placed a shilling on the table. Brindle’s hand sneaked out to grab the prize, and Rufus covered the man’s hand. “First, tell me what you know.”
Brindle would have withdrawn, but Rufus held him in place.
Fear returned to his companion’s eyes. “Heard that before he left, someone had him raging.”
“Who?”
Brindle shook his head. “That never made sense to me, milord. There was no cause for his lordship to be angry at this man. He never hurt no one, I swear. Anyways, it makes no never mind now. Your da’s enemy is dead.”
Rufus sat back in surprise and disappointment. Brindle secreted his win inside the recesses of his coat and took a swallow of his drink.
“Who was it?” Rufus asked.
“The old blacksmith, o’course,” he said. “Heard Mr. Darby even went to London Town when he found out the earl left the village. Had matters to discuss with him, he said. They both died there. Your da shot through the head, and poor ol’ Darby strangled. They said by footpads, but them runners never caught no thieves.”
Rufus brought out another shilling and kept it visible within his fingers’ grip.
“Who else knows this?”
Brindle licked his lips and moved his hands nervously over his coat. A commotion by the doorway caught both their attention. Phillip, Mr. Winfield, and a stranger entered the taproom. His cousin hailed him from across the floor and came over.
Dash it!
Brindle made himself scarce before the newcomers made it halfway to their table.
“Rufus, why did
you not wait for me?” Phillip asked. “Luckily, I met Winfield in the village, and he suggested you might have come here.” He looked around the establishment and wrinkled his nose. “What draws you to this place, old man? And why no private parlor?”
Rufus ground his teeth. He wanted to go in search of Brindle. Instead, he sighed with resignation and settled his attention on his cousin. “If I had known you wished to join me, I would have waited. Would you gentlemen care to have a seat?”
Phillip moved toward the chair recently vacated by Brindle and then paused. “What is that stench?”
His nostrils waved like a flag as he sniffed in every direction for the offending odor. Unable to find the source, he brought out his lace-edged handkerchief and waved it.
An effervescence of violets wafted toward Rufus, who could not decide which scent he detested more—Brindle’s or his cousin’s. “Sit, Phillip.”
His cousin complied as Winfield snagged an empty chair.
“Where has your man gone to?” his cousin asked Winfield.
“Yes,” Rufus said, looking for the stranger who had been with him.
“My farmhand,” Winfield told Rufus. “Gone on a scouting trip. I am in need of more staff. So, Terrance, I see the bucolic splendor of village life has not worn off on you yet.”
“It has its moments.” He sipped his drink, his attention returning to his cousin. Phillip leaned his silver handled cane against the wall. Why was he in Terrance? This tiny backwater village, in the middle of nowhere, was not his usual haunt.
He was excellently turned out, of course. The brim of his hat had a graceful curl. Even Brummell would envy the cut of his waistcoat. Next to him, Winfield appeared like a local squire with presumptions toward fashionable dress. Then again, compared to his cousin, Rufus doubted he fared better than Winfield.
“Do you find country life a touch slow, Mr. Jones?” Winfield asked Phillip.
“Better than expected.”
“How so? Are there amusements at Clearview?”
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