Madeline set aside the nightgown, as any attempts to stitch a straight seam were doomed. Aunt had apparently left her common sense back among her biddies, for Madeline’s ability to coerce work from a tenant or oversee repairs was non-existent.
And to think Madeline had committed crimes in the hopes her aunts’ lot would be bettered.
“Aren’t you forgetting something, Aunt?”
“My memory is excellent, young lady.”
No, it was not. “If Hattie goes for a housekeeper at Candlewick, and you’re off to London with Mrs. Fanning, that leaves two vacant properties in need of tenants and stewardship. At best I could occupy one, but I wasn’t raised on the land, Aunt Theo. I was raised in London, and then went into service. What I know about running a smallholding is not sufficient for the challenge.”
And that assumed Madeline escaped arrest for theft—and stupidity.
Theo’s expression resembled one of her laying hens when a cat came calling at the chicken coop.
“Madeline, I cannot solve all of your problems. Hattie and I have done what we could for you, but it’s time you figured a few things out for yourself. It’s not as if taking over one of the farms would be a sentence to imprisonment on the hulks. Spinsters have to live somewhere, and a property of your own is a great improvement over a life in service. A fellow might marry you simply to get his hands on some good land.”
Good land? Madeline had devoted every half day—every half day for years—to assisting her aunts with their heavier chores. Every spare penny she’d earned had gone to filling their larders or buying them seed. Every article of clothing she’d sewn late at night had been made with her aunts in mind, and half the handsome, merry men whose overtures she’d rebuffed had been sent packing because those men would not have supported Hattie and Theo.
“You’ve given me much to think about.” Madeline stuffed her embroidery into its box and latched the lid. “But service is all I know, and I’m good at it. You’ll excuse me, please. I’m supposed to review menus with Cook.” And reorganize the linen closet with the head maid, and plan the next wine purchase with Pahdi.
“Away with you,” Theo said, waving a casual hand. “I’ll have a little nap before luncheon, so I’ll be on my mettle for cards. Reverend Fanning has the best stories, and he and Miss DeWitt are a formidable pair.”
Madeline left the parlor at a dignified walk when she wanted to sprint for the door.
This cheerful, selfish version of Aunt Theo was a stranger, and yet, Madeline could easily understand Theo’s determination to leave the shires. But for Jack’s kindness, and the visit of a passing maid from Candlewick, Theo might be coughing her life away.
Did that mean Madeline must be interred in a miserable cottage with only chickens, sheep, and an old hound for company?
Assuming she wasn’t arrested for theft.
* * *
Had Jack not been battling the urge to pitch the doctor bodily from the premises, the whole situation might have been comical.
The precious medical bag turned out to be a battered black leather satchel of no particular value. Inside had been a scalpel, some patent remedies, a cracked hand mirror, and a scent-bottle containing strong vinegar.
The thief’s motive had clearly not been greed.
“Do you have a spare bag?” Jack asked.
Higgans was examining a chased silver ink bottle, one of the matched pair that sat on the standish.
“Beg pardon?”
“Do you have a spare medical bag?”
“I do not. My father’s bag was dear to me, and the contents served me well for decades. I place great sentimental value on that bag.”
Oh, of course. Jack was nearly certain the medical bag also contained a flask or two. “What do you suppose the thief will do with it?”
“Sell it, of course. Coin is all their kind thinks about, and how to get it without working for it.”
Jack tugged the bell-pull when he wanted to rip it from the ceiling. A triple tap sounded on the door a moment later, and Jack bid Pahdi enter.
“Pahdi, humor me for a moment,” Jack said. “Why do you borrow books from the lending library?”
“Because, respected sir, I have read all of the books you have here in English, French, and Hindi. I also borrow books from the Candlewick library, for myself and for James Smith, whose lack of hearing makes reading a treasured consolation.”
Pahdi’s tone was pleasantly deferential, but clearly, he understood that more accusations were in the air.
“What books did you borrow from the lending library earlier this week?” Jack asked.
“The library was closing as I arrived, because many patrons were more interested in the darts tournament in which you participated, esteemed sir. I did not have time to choose new books, but returned an account of the life of Hannah Snell, an old tale, though interesting.”
“And what story was relayed in this interesting book?” Higgans snapped.
Pahdi bowed in Higgans’s direction. “Mrs. Snell, wearing man’s attire, joined His Majesty’s infantry in pursuit of her faithless husband, and served under the name of James Gray. She subsequently enlisted in the marines, served in India, was wounded severally at the Battle of Pondicherry, and made her way back to this most-enlightened realm, where she continued to wear her regimentals and other attire suited to men. I recommend the book to you most sincerely, revered, honored, and esteemed sir.”
Three adjectives and a bow assured Jack that Pahdi was in a temper. The New Year at Teak House was off on a decidedly sore foot.
“Any other questions, Higgans?” Jack asked.
“This proves nothing.”
“Thank you, Pahdi,” Jack said. “You are excused.”
The butler withdrew after two more obsequiously graceful bows.
“He had every opportunity to help himself to my medical bag,” Higgans said. “The lending library register will verify that he was in town, and there’s nothing you can say to it.”
“Higgans, before I summoned Pahdi, I verified that he’d been in town. Even you must admit the evening was dark, without enough moon to reveal much of anything. I’ll come around your house later this week and examine the premises for signs of forcible entry. Until then, I bid you good day.”
To emphasize this dismissal, Jack held open the library door, until Higgans had no choice but to leave.
“A conscientious magistrate would investigate now,” Higgans said, “not in his own good time.”
“I’ll begin my investigation this afternoon,” Jack said, “and start with interviewing those who attended the darts tournament. While memories are fresh, somebody might recall a detail out of place, a snippet of conversation, and then my search of your household will be more efficient.”
Higgans came to an abrupt halt in the front foyer. “Search of my household? The devil you say.”
James silently passed the physician his greatcoat, a lovely wool garment that would hold up to any winter weather.
“Do you want me to find that medical bag,” Jack said, “or shall I pronounce sentence on Pahdi without examination of the accused or benefit of trial right now? Perhaps treat him to a pair of thumb screws? We can reinstitute the Dark Ages right here in our little corner of Oxfordshire, and to hell with due process, the rule of law, and common decency.”
Over a damned medical bag, from one perspective. Over Higgans’s arrogance and indolence, from another.
Mama appeared at the top of the stairs, but she had the sense not to come down where Higgans might see her.
“You take your duties very lightly,” Higgans said, yanking on his gloves.
Jack could not resist. “You’ve probably misplaced an old leather bag, one carrying only the barest semblance of a doctor’s implements, not the Koh-I-Noor diamond. Nonetheless, I shall begin my investigation within the hour. Perhaps my example will inspire you the next time an elderly neighbor lies alone, cold, and at risk of going to her reward for want of medical care.
Your puppy awaits you in the stable. We’ve named him Hippocrates.”
Higgans jammed his hat onto his head and stormed out the door.
Slow clapping followed as the slamming of the door reverberated in the foyer. “What a disgraceful old bag of noise,” Mama said, coming down the stairs. “Why did you allow him to trouble your day?”
“Because I’m the magistrate, and the rule of law matters.” Or some such tripe.
Mama patted Jack’s arm. “You should eat something. You get in a pet when you’re peckish. Why did Mr. Patty look so thunderous?”
“His name is Pahdi.” Jack had never seen Pahdi looking anything less than dignified, except perhaps when he’d failed to shoot that tiger.
“That’s what I said. Patty.”
“Dr. Higgans accused Pahdi of theft, the item in question has virtually no value, and Higgans has no evidence of wrongdoing other than his own offended pride.”
“You’re worried though,” Mama said. “That awful man upset you.”
She’d always been a noticing sort, but when had she grown so small? “He is an awful man, and if he has his way, I’ll put Pahdi on the next ship bound for India.”
“That would certainly be a relief to me.”
Whatever diplomatic skill Jack had once claimed, he’d not inherited it from his dam. “Mama, I would miss Pahdi dearly.” The thought of life without Pahdi’s quiet presence, irreverence, and honesty left an ache in the pit of Jack’s belly.
Mama drew herself up, a fierce little hen of a woman. “You would miss him? Miss him dearly? You hopeless boy, how do you think I felt when you ran off to the same jungles that seduced your father year after year? I waited months for your letters, and then that horrid colonel sent word you were presumed dead. If Mr. Patty entices you back to India, I will simply have to go with you. I cannot bear the thought of you going so far away, where you have no family, no friends, no mama… you—oh, drat you, you wretched, awful boy.”
The world had gone beyond daft to some level of disarray Jack couldn’t name. And yet, he knew his mother, his contrary, stubborn, proud mother, and he knew he loved her.
Jack wrapped his mama in a careful hug, because he didn’t know what else to do.
He’d bungled, badly, and a court higher than the king’s bench demanded that he attempt reparation.
“Yours was the last familiar face I saw when the ship left Portsmouth, Mama, and the first I saw when I returned. I wasn’t home until I saw you again. I’m home now. I’m home to stay.”
The mother who’d never before shed a tear in the presence of her prodigal son, who’d written lengthy lectures to him every month without fail, who’d doubtless prayed for Jack every night of his life, wept. She was silent and shuddery in his arms, and all manner of emotions assailed Jack while she cried.
Mortification, because he’d made his mama cry and been an insensitive lout—probably for half of his life.
Peace, because he’d spoken honestly to his mother. Teak House was his home now, and maybe someday it would be hers too. Saying the words aloud had settled the last vestige of restlessness in him.
Frustration played a role too, because had Jack’s mother asked him, he would have told her he was done with India—but had he invited her questions? Had he done anything except avoid her matchmaking and dread her meddling?
Beside the frustration ran a welcome vein of certainty though, because Jack had had enough adventures to last a lifetime. The only treasures he needed to seek or guard were right here in Oxfordshire.
And beneath all of those shifting, fraught sentiments, Jack felt respect for his mother, for her tenacity and stoicism, and acknowledging that respect brought profound relief. Jack wanted to respect his mother, of course he did, and all he’d ever wanted was for her to respect him.
He should have known that objective was wide of the mark, for his mama didn’t merely respect him. She loved him, relentlessly, and always would.
“You have turned me into a watering pot,” Mama said, drawing a handkerchief from her sleeve. “You are a very naughty boy. It’s well your brother is a saint, or my account with the Almighty would be in sorry condition.”
Jack sneaked in one more small hug and let her go. “Perhaps if you’re done scolding the son who sailed across oceans to return to your side, you might afford me a moment or two of your time?”
Mama ceased dabbing at her eyes and stuffed the handkerchief back into her cuff. “If it’s about the upcoming assembly, you’ll get no help from me. You are going, John Dewey Fanning, and you will dance with every wallflower who’s not too tipsy to turn down the room.”
And a few who were too tipsy. “Yes, Mama, of course. But before you castigate me for dances I’ve yet to sit out, do you suppose you could help me solve a crime or two?”
Mama took him by the arm and steered him toward the library. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Chapter Thirteen
* * *
Madeline dreamed of lavender borders, great silvery billows dotted with fragrant purple sprigs. The scent brought a sense of peace and well-being, which she desperately needed.
“Madam will please wake up.”
Madam did not want to leave her dream-garden, assuming Madeline was madam.
“Madam must not spend the night among the linens.”
Somebody made a timid attempt to jostle Madeline’s shoulder.
“Please, madam. Wake up.”
The urgency of the entreaty had Madeline opening her eyes to find an anxious Pahdi peering down at her. They were in the linen closet, the space illuminated by Pahdi’s carrying candle and the single stub of taper left burning on Madeline’s candelabrum.
“Pahdi, good evening.”
“I must beg to differ with madam. If Sir Jack finds that I have allowed you to fall asleep here, at an hour when all ought to be snug in their beds, I will be instructed at great length on the proper management of a civilized English household. No matter that ‘civilized’ and ‘English’ are regarded as contradictory terms by most of the world.”
Madeline’s back would certainly prefer she’d sought her bed. “What time is it?”
“Nearly eleven, and yes, Sir Jack has returned.”
Jack had been absent from dinner, ostensibly investigating yet another petty theft. Madeline was all too aware his investigation would not lead to the missing medical bag.
“Thank you for waking me,” she said, rising. The linen closet had a wonderful scent, but the chair Madeline had occupied had lacked a cushion. She longed not for bed, but for Jack’s company.
“If you would thank me, respected ma’am,” Pahdi said, sweeping a hand toward the door, “seek your bed before Sir Jack comes upon you. Bad enough he must waste his time on the doctor’s imbecilic allegations against me. I would not have Sir Jack worrying about your health as well.”
Madeline picked up her candelabrum, and the last candle guttered. “What accusations against you?”
In the light of a single candle, Pahdi’s features were fierce. “I stole Dr. Higgans’s bag, of course. Though I am accounted a wealthy man by my relations in India, I must risk my liberty, bring shame on Teak House, and upon Sir Jack, by purloining some old bag of useless nostrums and dirty knives belonging to the doctor.”
“You’ve been accused of theft—again?”
Madeline dropped back onto the hard chair, feeling as dumbstruck as when Theo had announced a plan to elope to London. Nothing had gone right since Madeline had agreed to join the staff at Teak House.
Or since she’d decided the parish needed a few lessons in charity.
“Of course I have been accused again,” Pahdi said. “Sir Jack scolded the esteemed doctor in public for neglecting his duties, and the doctor—scurrilous varlet—could not accept a deserved rebuke. He seeks to bring dishonor to Teak House and its owner.”
This was… this was a disaster that could soon veer into a tragedy, and not only for Pahdi, who was innocent of all wrongdoing. Jack woul
d be affected by Higgans’s vitriol, and possibly be asked to step down as magistrate.
The shadows shifted as the door to the linen closet opened farther.
“My staff has taken to congregating in unusual locations.” Jack propped a shoulder against the doorjamb. “Somehow, that seems in keeping with the rest of the day’s activities. At least it smells good in here.”
“The linen needed rearranging,” Madeline said, pushing back to her feet. “I fell asleep.”
A look passed between Pahdi and Jack, and Jack minutely shook his head.
Of course, an evening of drinking at the Weasel hadn’t revealed the latest culprit. The culprit was standing before Jack, her heart breaking.
“Find your bed, Pahdi,” Jack said. “I’ll light Miss Hennessey to her room.”
Pahdi bowed and withdrew, passing Jack the carrying candle.
“He’s worried,” Madeline said. She was beyond worry, approaching blind panic, though she knew what she must do.
“I’m worried,” Jack said, picking up the candelabrum. “The mood at the Weasel was hardly reflective of the good spirits which a new year should engender. Mortimer Cotton was muttering about widows who get above themselves, and the winning darts team resented giving away their tournament money.”
Madeline resented that her aunt had nearly frozen to death. “Then why give it away?”
“Pride.” Jack closed the linen closet door as Madeline gained the corridor. “Possibly honor.”
“Honor begrudges widows and orphans a warm bed?”
On this point, Madeline was clear. If her nocturnal forays into criminal behavior had kept her aunts and those similarly situated from undeserved suffering, then she wasn’t sorry for her crimes. She was sorry those crimes could result in more undeserved suffering, though.
Very sorry.
“We won’t solve the moral dilemmas of the shire tonight,” Jack said, as they turned the corner to the family wing. “But I’d better find that blasted bag before Pahdi is deported in chains.”
Jack (The Jaded Gentlemen Book 4) Page 23