by Nicole Byrd
She took the time to wind a white ribbon through her brown hair so it would look its best, and to arrange a few curls on her temples so that they might look artlessly pleasing. She hoped that would draw attention away from her swollen eyelids and pale cheeks. When she was dressed, she went quickly down the stairs. Only Bess was stirring, and the maidservant was in the kitchen, rattling pans and stirring the coals of the fire.
“Yer up early, Miss Madeline, sleep all right, did ye?” Bess asked. “Yer head not paining ye, I ’ope?”
“No, I’m all right, Bess, thank you,” she told her, and sat down at the wide kitchen table to help knead the bread. Putting her hands into the dough helped her work out some of her frustration as she pushed and pulled. That for the villain who could take away their time together, that for men who didn’t listen…
Several loaves had been put aside to rise, some earlier ones that Bess had prepared were put into the oven at the side of the brick hearth. Maddie rubbed the flour off her hands and helped Bess carry dishes of food into the dining room.
She found John Applegate at the table having a hot cup of tea.
“Ah, my dear. I hope you slept well?” He glanced up at her, his expression anxious.
“I am well, thank you.” She attempted to summon a smile. Despite the calm facade she tried to present, it was hard to be as usual. The worry lines on his forehead pinched at her belly and increased her guilt.
But her reply seemed to ease his disquiet. He patted her hand and looked more at ease as Felicity came through the doorway to join them.
“Good morning,” their other guest said, and Adrian was just behind her.
“I seem to be the lie-abed this morning,” he suggested, grinning.
His entrance gave Maddie an excuse to move to the sideboard and pour him a cup of tea, beating Bess to the chore.
“Good morning, my lord,” she said formally, as Bess poured for their other guest.
They all filled plates from the sideboard, and then sat and ate, chatting easily. Adrian offered to accompany the women on their stroll back to the cottage, but Felicity declined, saying she could not steal Mr. Applegate’s chess partner.
“We will have Thomas to help us; I think he is planning to take the handcart, and I have not that much to bring back,” she told them. “Just a few clothes and a book or two. I do appreciate your kind offer of hospitality, Mr. Applegate.”
“Think nothing of it,” John told her. “We should have thought of it long since; how dangerous to leave you down the lane all on your own, with no close neighbor at hand to run to if anyone threatened. Quite a scandal, if you had been harmed—I should never have forgiven myself!”
He looked distressed at the idea.
Felicity thanked him again. “You’re too kind,” she said, appearing moved at his concern.
Immediately after the meal, although Felicity insisted on first helping clear away the dishes, she and Maddie and Thomas set off with the handcart.
Maddie and Felicity were in the lead. The day was a bit misty, but the sun tried hard to push its rays past the morning fog, and the dawn’s early coolness had warmed. Yet as the lane dropped away toward the slight valley where the cottage was located, the mist looked thicker, and a smell hung in the air.
It looked like—
“Miss,” Thomas said from behind them. His voice sounded alarmed. “’Ware that—”
“Oh my!” Maddie said at the same time. “It’s smoke!”
Twelve
Maddie turned to ask Felicity what she thought might have happened, but Felicity was running, and Maddie picked up her skirts and hurried after her.
“Felicity, wait!”
Her friend paid no heed, so she could only scramble and try to catch up. Felicity ran as if her life depended on it; her bonnet flew off and she almost fell once, turning her ankle on a loose stone. Maddie thought she would tumble to the ground, but Felicity recovered her balance and ran on.
She didn’t seem to hear Maddie’s calls, so all Maddie could do was to run after her.
Thomas left the cart in the road and loped after them, but his three score and two frame was not as agile, and he was soon several lengths behind them both.
Now they rounded the last curve of the road and could see where the thick column of smoke originated. Felicity’s cottage burned.
Maddie gasped. She had not quite believed until she saw it. She was as close as the burning heat of the thatched roof allowed her to go, and the inferno spewed up a thick, nauseous smoke that surely would have suffocated anything living. The glass in the windows had cracked and split, and the partially stone walls had already fallen in at several spots where the wood frames had burnt and twisted.
“If you had been asleep there, last night…” Swallowing, Maddie almost choked on the smoke in the air.
Felicity had both hands to her face; she looked stunned. “My books,” she said. “And, oh, my poor little cat!” She wiped her eyes and didn’t seem to notice that her hands were trembling. “Who could have done this?”
“You do not think it was done on purpose?” Maddie felt as if the words were another shock, like an adder striking. “Surely, a spark from the fireplace—”
“The fire was out when I left,” Felicity said. “I made sure of it, Madeline. I never take chances with fire.”
“Then perhaps, a lightning strike…” Maddie’s voice died away. Except the night had been clear. But who would seek to kill—because setting such a fire would have to lead to death. Could anyone not fail to realize that?
Had the gypsies rifled the house, stolen what they could, and then sought to cover up their crime? If they had known the house was empty, they would have known there was no one to kill, Maddie thought. That would still make it an awful crime but not quite so heart-stopping.
Poor Felicity, who had just lost all she owned, except what she wore on her back, looked pale with shock.
“You know we will help you,” Maddie said now. “You will not be allowed to go without, Felicity.”
“I do not wish to be a charge,” her friend said, her chin up, although she shuddered again. She reached to touch the small silver necklace that hung around her neck. “At least I still have my locket…”
Felicity needed hot tea, perhaps some brandy, Maddie thought, wishing she had had the viscount come along with them after all.
The fire burned high into the air, and the crackling of it was so loud, the heat so strong, they had to step back to avoid the fierceness of the blaze.
“Look!” Felicity pointed at the earth in front of the windows. “You see; there are even more footprints there than when I left the house yesterday. There have been more men here, I swear, Madeline.”
“I believe you,” Maddie told her, “but it does no good to stay here just now, Felicity. I do not believe the fire will spread into the trees; there is enough bare ground around the cottage and the wind is not blowing. Let us go back to the house. We will come back later with more witnesses, with the viscount, I promise.”
Felicity nodded, but still seemed to turn away with reluctance, as if it was hard to let go of the ruins of her life. The cottage had had little of worth, but it had been her home, and its contents were all she had. She pressed her lips together and braced her shoulders, wiping her eyes, and turned resolutely back toward the village and the Applegate residence.
They could not hear noises because of the sounds of the fire, but Maddie, too, saw the bush move just beyond them, and she stiffened.
Felicity threw up her hands as if to defend herself. It was not a gypsy dagger that came flying out of the greenery at her heart, but one small, slightly singed, and very frightened cat.
“Oh, my sweetling,” Felicity cried. “Here, here, come to mama.”
She wrapped the animal in her shawl and cradled it in her arms, speaking softly and trying to soothe it.
“Is it hurt very badly?” Maddie asked. “What a wonder it was able to get away.”
Felicity wa
s stroking the smoke-darkened fur. “It has some burns on its paws, but I don’t think they are severe. Let us get it back to your house,” she said. This time she set off at a swift pace toward the Applegate home, without any more backward looks at the conflagration behind them, as the last bits of the roof collapsed into the ruins of the cottage.
When they reached home, Maddie went to inform Adrian and her father, while Felicity bathed the cat’s wounds in the kitchen.
“Good Lord,” her father said. “How dreadful to lose everything that she owns at one blow. Thank God she was not there! And you don’t think it’s an accident?”
“Felicity—Mrs. Barlow—does not.” Maddie explained about the footprints, and the man that her friend had seen about the house.
The viscount frowned. “If you will excuse me from finishing the game,” he told her father, “I think perhaps I should walk down to the cottage and take a look at the scene.”
“Yes, indeed,” Mr. Applegate said. “I only wish I were in shape to go with you. Take one of my pistols when you go, Lord Weller.”
He rolled his chair over to the gun cabinet and unlocked it, and Adrian selected one of the two antique dueling pistols that had belonged to her grandfather. Maddie felt even more alarmed, yet how could they not take this seriously? It was true that Felicity could have died.
Adrian had the gun loaded and tucked away out of sight inside his jacket before Felicity reappeared. She had left the cat, apparently happy enough with its change of residence, sleeping beside the warmth of the hearth, she told Maddie.
“My dear Mrs. Barlow, do sit down and have a glass of wine. You must be most overset,” Maddie’s father told her.
Felicity sank down into a chair at the side of the room. “I admit, I would not be adverse to a glass.”
Adrian poured it for her, and she took a quick sip, then another.
“I was so glad to see my poor feline friend safe, and I have my locket with the miniature of my mother.” She touched the silver charm at her neck and sighed again. “But my books—”
“You are welcome to use my small collection,” Mr. Applegate told her, “and anything else we have that can help you.”
“You’re very kind,” she said, her voice quivering just a little. “I think perhaps…” She paused and Maddie jumped up and went to put one arm about her.
“Perhaps you would like to lie down for a space?” she finished for her friend.
Struggling for composure, Felicity nodded and wiped away a trace of moisture on her cheek.
“Come, I will go upstairs with you,” Maddie said. They both took their leave of the gentlemen, and Maddie accompanied her friend up to the guest room now put aside for Felicity’s use. There, Maddie was pleased to see that Bess had brought up warm water for Felicity to wash off the smoke stains, and fresh towels had been put out.
“If you need anything that I can supply,” she began.
Felicity’s eyes were welling over with tears she could no longer contain. “I–you have been more than generous,” she answered, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I think I just need some time to compose myself.”
“Of course,” Maddie said. “Please lie down for as long as you like. If you need anything, just let us know.” She hugged her friend one more time, then left her to lie down.
After shutting the door gently behind her, Maddie shook her head. What heartless ruffian would burn down the home of an almost penniless widow, just to steal a few pounds? Felicity had lost everything she owned; it was so unfair!
She had not lost her friends, Maddie told herself. They were the most valuable commodity that one could possess, and she would make sure that Felicity knew it, too.
She descended the staircase in time to see the viscount about to go out the front door.
“Wait!” she called. “I will come with you.”
He half turned to look at her. “I’d rather you did not. It’s too dangerous. If the person who set fire to Mrs. Barlow’s cottage is still in the area, who knows what villainous outrage he might be capable of?”
“Then are you taking Thomas with you?” she demanded.
He hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. “I think it best that your manservant stay here.”
Startled by something in his voice, she looked closely at him. “Why? Surely you don’t expect the gypsies to assault our house? That’s far outside their usual sort of behavior.”
“So is burning down a cottage,” the viscount pointed out, his tone grim and his expression boding ill for the person who had torched Felicity’s home.
“True,” Maddie acknowledged. “Which makes the whole business so odd. But you should not go alone, either, Adrian. I am going with you. If you leave me behind, I will simply follow, which is surely more dangerous for both of us.” She spoke calmly, without any bravado, and thought that he took her more seriously as a result.
The viscount raised his brows. “Blackmail?”
She grinned at him, but continued to tie her shawl around her shoulders. “If you like to call it such. But I am still coming.”
So they set off together down the path that was the quickest route to the cottage, or what was left of it.
The heavy tread of the handcart could be easily detected, its impression still visible in the dusty path. And their own footprints from their passage earlier, somewhat jumbled but still there, could also be seen.
It was possible that other villagers had been down the path, drawn by curiosity, although so far she saw no signs of other passage, and at the moment, the byway was quiet. The birds had stilled in the afternoon hush, and peace hung over the woods.
Wondering what he was thinking, she glanced toward the viscount. He scanned the trees around them; he always seemed alert for any untoward observer. How many times did one have to be attacked to become this vigilant? Chagrined that she could forget so easily, Maddie tried to keep her eyes open as well, and looked around her for any trace of strangers. After all, she had come on this walk to be a help, not a hindrance.
Now the ruins of the cottage were coming into view. The fire had burned down by now. The roof had fallen in, and only parts of the walls were still standing. Maddie wrinkled her nose at the strong smell of smoke; a few spots still smoldered so she did not think that they could get inside to investigate the fire from close at hand.
They had to content themselves with walking around the outer perimeter of the cottage and peering into the ashes and shattered remains of the building. The furniture, simple as it had been, had all been destroyed, and the chest that had held Felicity’s small collection of clothes, and her much loved set of books, had also burned completely. Maddie sighed as she looked over the corner where her friend had kept her most precious belongings. What a blow!
Meanwhile, Adrian had wandered farther. She gave up trying to use a long, narrow branch to reach a lone shoe that seemed to have escaped the worst part of the fire, though it did not seem to have a mate, and hurried to catch up.
“What do you see?” she asked, when he narrowed his eyes.
“Footprints that are not ours,” he told her.
“Oh, where?” she asked.
He held out his hand and pointed, and she followed the direction of his hand. She could see them, too, now that he had suggested where she should look. A solitary man had been standing back where several other prints converged, perhaps taking cover behind a flowering shrub as the owners of various prints had walked to and fro.
“These are in the way,” she complained. “If all these people had not trampled about like African elephants—”
“These elephants are you and Thomas and your friend, Mrs. Barlow,” the viscount suggested. “I believe he was standing just behind and watching when you discovered that the cottage had been set afire.”
“Oh, how unpleasant,” Maddie exclaimed. She could not hold back a shiver at the thought of being observed and not knowing it. “How do you know?”
“Just examine the footprints. Yo
u have obligingly worn the same boots as you did earlier; you are making the exact same print.”
“Oh, of course.” She blushed at missing such an obvious clue. “We must take care not to change our footwear too often, and our detecting will go much more smoothly.”
Bending over to examine the marks in the dirt more closely, he grinned up at her. “Just so. And I’m quite sure this is the widow herself. Her foot is a bit wider and longer than yours.”
“I haven’t noticed, but it’s quite likely, if you say so,” Maddie agreed.
“I have noticed that your foot is a neat one, much like your shapely ankle, and—ah—other parts of your anatomy,” Adrian noted, his tone serious, but a teasing glint in his eye.
Maddie found her ready blush staining her cheeks. “Now, that has nothing to do with”—then she saw that he was teasing, and she frowned at him—“We must pay attention to the matter at hand.”
“Of course, I stand rebuked.” He didn’t stand at all. He had crouched in the dirt, as he scowled at the last set of prints.
“You do remember that Thomas walked down to the cottage with us?” she reminded him. “Could they be his prints?”
“I do, but he stood back from the cottage with the cart. You will see Thomas’s honest yeoman’s prints back a ways up the lane. These are most dishonest footprints, and they are taking shelter behind a bush to remain out of sight.”
“Is that why you make such a face?” she asked, coming closer, though walking carefully so as not to disturb the line of prints he was paying such close attention to.
“I am trying to make out why our lone gypsy—not a band, you will note, even though the Romany brethren usually move as a clan—is wearing such well-cut shoes.”
Startled, she looked at him, then down at the footprints. “Perhaps the shoes were given away. Perhaps he stole them.”
“They are not much worn to be secondhand. Of course, if he snatched them from someone’s doorstep where the household boy left them to dry after blacking them for his master, that would explain it,” the viscount agreed. “But somehow—”