Bee Sting Cake: Greenwing & Dart Book Two

by Victoria Goddard

  “You were so poorly that you don’t remember your friend talking about an expedition across the Western Sea he was sponsoring—”

  “I do,” I protested. “I remember him mentioning it, now that I’m thinking about it. When we were looking at his estate he told me where he was going to put the arboretum. I thought he was joking but he must have been serious. I kept going in and out of things.”

  “He must be worried sick,” Mr. Dart said bluntly.

  I sat down in the other armchair. “I beg your pardon.”

  He tugged at the knot on his sling until it sat better. “I was afraid your last letter had a—a melancholic tinge to it. But I thought you were still writing to your stepfather, so I tried not to worry. It was only when Mrs. Buchance asked me if I had any idea where you were, after your stepfather died, that I learned no one had heard from you all summer. By then it was too late to find you easily. You must write to Hal. Immediately.”

  “What? Why?”

  He tore a page out of my notebook and handed it to me. “Write. Now. We can still make the last post if you hurry.”

  “What am I to say in such a hurry?”

  “That you’re alive and sane and are sorry you haven’t written since June, but as you learned last week you were recovering from Lark drugging and bespelling you.”

  “I can’t just leave a letter there.”

  “You said he doesn’t know your surname—nor more than you’re from Fiellan, either, I wager? Come now, Mr. Greenwing. He has no way to find out what happened to you.”

  I squirmed. The quarter chime came through the window faintly, and he made a hurry-up gesture to me. “Go to. There’s no post after this till Monday.”

  “Dammit, Roald stole my pen.”

  He pushed me the pen-stand from the other side of the desk, and I relented and wrote a brief and totally ridiculous missive that would probably worry Hal more than my silence. “There,” I said resentfully, and under Mr. Dart’s watchful eye got up to take an envelope from the box under the counter.

  “We have five minutes till the posting coach comes.”

  I smiled insincerely and made a show of writing

  His Grace the Honourable Halioren Lord Leaveringham

  Duke of Fillering Pool

  Leaveringham Castle

  Fillering Pool

  Ronderell

  “It’s pronounced ‘Lingham’,” I informed him, picking up the deposit box, which I had to deliver to the post office as well.

  “More haste, less waste.”

  “I don’t believe that is how the proverb usually goes.” But I moved quickly to lock the door and we proceeded through town towards Small Square, where the Ragnor Arms and the post office faced each other.

  Mr. Dart stayed outside, to bodily prevent the coach—which didn’t appear to have arrived yet—from leaving without my letter, I supposed. I went inside in a fit of irritation and guilt that I had alarmed him that much, as I must have done to make him so alert to Hal’s likely distress. I was more anxious than I wished to show about whether Hal thought I might have done myself a mischief, and nothing to do about it except wonder and look for ‘Mr. Greene.’ And worry. Hal was something of a worry-wart. He would be biting his nails over his ship’s adventures.

  Perhaps I could find an expedition to sail off on, and not bother about rectifying my father’s inheritance—my inheritance—from my uncle, and instead of being the son of the infamous Jakory Greenwing I could be—

  I’d always be my father’s son, I thought ruefully as it came to my turn at the counter, and old Mrs. Henny the postmistress said, “Welladay and Emperor bless, young Mr. Greenwing, I thought you’d forgotten the use of a post office this summer.”

  “I was unwell,” I said, and set the deposit box on the counter with my letter on top. “Trying to remedy the matter now, Mrs. Henny. How are you?”

  She made no move to take the money, instead giving me a piercing once-over. I felt absurdly naked under the scrutiny, aware that at least I did look as if I’d been ill, if my skinniness and what I had been assured by numerous people was not so very peaky a look as all that, truly, were any indication. I sighed. “I’d like to get this letter on today’s post if I can, Mrs. Henny.”

  Mrs. Henny started as if she’d fallen asleep staring. She was somewhere on the north side of seventy, with twinkling eyes and round red cheeks like a Winterturn doll, but I had always eyed her a bit askance because I distinctly remembered my father warning me that she was the best player of Poacher he’d ever met.

  I had been too young to wonder then, as I did now, when on earth my father had ever played Poacher with Mrs. Henny. At the time I had very earnestly promised never ever to attempt cheating her. “For you will surely pay for it if you do,” my father had said in an awful voice, while my mother laughed and told him not to put ideas into my head.

  Looking at Mrs. Henny, who was like a plump dove in her proportions, I was inclined to think the warning more of social regret than physical ruin.

  Though, as I was coming to learn, in Ragnor Bella you never knew.

  “You’re enjoying working for Mrs. Etaris, are you?”

  It sounded more an order than a question. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You and Mr. Dart had an eventful time of it last weekend, I hear.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Any plans for the Fair?”

  And the part of me that could not truckle to the Honourable Rag raised its stubborn head once more, and I said, “Yes, ma’am, I am going to enter the three-mile race.”

  “Are you now?”

  It might have been my imagination but I fancied I saw sharp calculations running behind those twinkling blue eyes. If she were a superb Poacher player, she would be very good indeed at making calculations of character and odds and tall tales.

  “I hear you’ve been out ... training? Planning ahead, were you?”

  The running I’d been doing the past week had been light conditioning, nothing like the speed or endurance I was still more than capable of despite the spring’s illness. I smiled lopsidedly, wondering what my father would have thought of my choosing to run in the poor man’s steeplechase. He’d been an officer through and through.

  I had not realized before my return home how much adulthood was like a huge and endless game of Poacher. Well, my father might not have approved of the poor man’s steeplechase, but he had taught me how to play that game.

  I smiled, winked, did not say I had trained for three years on Morrowlea’s cross-country team.

  “Oh, I merely dawdle, Mrs. Henny. I’ve Mrs. Etaris’ deposit box here.”

  “Hmm? Oh yes, Mr. Greenwing. Emperor bless, I must be getting old. Here is the slip and here is the stamp on your letter—to a duke, now? High friends you made at Morrowlea, Mr. Greenwing—over in Ronderell, so that will be two wheatears, please, and you tell Mrs. Etaris I’ll not be at the meeting, a’cause my granddaughter’s confinement, so she’ll have to make certain the recipes are true herself.”

  True was an odd choice of word—but Mrs. Henny was old, and perhaps that was what they used to say, once upon a time. “I’ll tell her,” I promised, giving her the money. “This is for the Embroidery Circle, I take it?”

  Mrs. Henny chuckled and actually tapped her nose at me. “What else would it be? Emperor bless. There’s the coach at last. The bag’s tied up so give the man your letter yourself, now.”

  I went out, letter in hand, to find Mr. Dart laughing at something said by one of the passengers alighting from the coach. They all looked as if they were in the process of being jollied out of what was probably justified disgruntlement, helped by Mr. Dart, who could be effortlessly cheerful to any passing stranger.

  And then one of the last passengers disembarked, turning as he did to help a stout woman out of the carriage behind him, and as he smiled up at her I realized I knew him.

  Chapter Three

  Mr. Dart has an Idea

  “HAL,” I SAID, HOLDING out m
y letter. Mr. Dart turned from the coachman with a quizzical frown, then followed my progress over, whereupon his eyebrows lifted in astonishment.

  I looked at Hal, who was dressed like a journeyman Scholar at best, and frowned quizzically myself. Hal had not heard me, being still preoccupied with the stout woman, so I cleared my throat and tried more loudly. “Hal. Hal!”

  “I believe that young gentleman is calling you, my dear,” said the stout woman.

  Hal opened his mouth in some shock. And, I saw, blatant relief. “Jemis?”

  “The very same.” I considered his expression. “I take it you weren’t expecting me to meet you?”

  “No, your letters must have gone astray.”

  I held up the one in my hand. “Sorry.”

  “Oh, is that for me?” He smiled at the woman. “Madam Lezré, are you certain you will not need any further escort?”

  “Young man, you have already gone far out of your way. I’ll settle myself in the inn here, where I’ve stayed before, and will get all my things ready for the expedition into the Fair. You see your friend and don’t you fret about me. There’s more than honey in my sights, let me tell you.” She patted him once more on the shoulder and stumped away towards the Arms.

  Hal regarded me narrowly. “Is that truly a letter for me? I am entirely astonished. Also relieved to find you at last. I was worried you might have—” He made a face. “Anyhow, glad to be wrong there.”

  Mr. Dart did not say anything, but then he didn’t have to.

  I cleared my throat, but before I could formulate either apology or question a cat ran out in front of the horses. I stepped back out of the coachman’s way as he made to soothe them, and trod on someone’s foot behind me.

  “Oh, I am dreadfully sorry,” I began, turning, only to find that I had stumbled into my aunt. She was evidently preparing to be polite in return when she saw it was me, and instead of either smiling or speaking went a pinched white and jerked back her skirts.

  Here came the next hand at Poacher, I thought. I bowed. With a heel-click and a curlicue hand gesture with my hat. “I do beg your pardon, Lady Flora.” My uncle was staring down his nose at me from her other side, so for good measure I bowed to him as well. “Good evening, Sir Vorel.”

  “Good evening!” Mr. Dart chimed in, sketching a bow. My aunt and uncle looked frigidly at us both.

  “Mr. Dart,” Sir Vorel said curtly at last, nodded at me with the barest possible minimum of courtesy, then swivelled his wife on his arm to lead her to the inn.

  I sighed and turned back to Hal, who was watching this mortification with interest. “Charming people,” he said, grinning.

  “Oh, entirely.”

  Mr. Dart looked at me and then at Hal. I moved out of the coachman’s way again as he lifted down trunks, valises, sacks, and a few wicker baskets smelling incongruously like smoke. I sneezed reflexively and reached for a handkerchief. “Hal, this is Mr. Dart—Mr. Dart, this is—”

  “Hal Leaveringham,” said Hal firmly. It was the name he’d given when we were ambling around Erlingale, before the somewhat awkward conversation when Marcan, met by servants sent by his father, confessed he was the Count of Westmoor and Hal, after a robust evening spent teasing Marcan, eventually admitted that yes, it was spelled Leaveringham like the castle and he was actually the Imperial Duke of Fillering Pool.

  “Aha!” said Mr. Dart, shaking the hand Hal had held out in eastern fashion. “It is indeed pronounced Lingham, is it? We were talking about you just now.”

  “Were you?” Hal said doubtfully. “Seems a frightful coincidence.”

  “Nevertheless true,” Mr. Dart assured him.

  “Do you live here, Jemis? I mean, if you are being disdained by the local gentry I presume you’ve been here longer than a week.”

  “Barely,” I replied, laughing along with Mr. Dart. “Whatever are you doing here, Hal?”

  “Oh, looking for my great-uncle, who’s gone walkabout, and investigating a business opportunity or two. Yes, my good man?”

  This was the coachman, who had one of the crates in hand. I sneezed again and looked doubtfully from the crate to the golden ring I had acquired last week and which generally served to suppress my sneezing. The coachman nodded deferentially at Mr. Dart before addressing Hal. “Staying on again, sir? Or do you want your luggage down?”

  “I thought this was the end of your route?”

  The coachman smiled and touched his cap. “I go back north from here, aye, but up through Yellem before I get back on the king’s highway through Middle Fiellan.”

  “Perhaps I shall explore Yellem one day, but it will not be today nor even tomorrow. Thank you.” The coachman pulled down the last item from the roof of the coach, a battered leather and canvas knapsack I recognized from our walking tour. Hal exchanged this for a coin of some sort, ostentatiously rejected the crate (to the coachman’s mirth, this evidently being in the way of a running joke), and then turned expectantly to me.

  “So! I am looking for my great-uncle, you have been here barely longer than a week but this is enough to raise hackles. What next?”

  “We could go to the Ragglebridge for a drink,” I suggested.

  “Not the—what is it? Ah yes, the Ragnor Arms?” Hal laughed, reading the sign and then waving at the stout woman as she emerged to collect the crates. “But yes, let us. Riding coach is thirsty work.”

  “You said that about walking.”

  “It was. We are not all so sober and respectable as you this summer, Jemis.”

  Mr. Dart laughed. “I think we will get along—Mr. Leaveringham. As I was about to say earlier, why don’t we go to Dartington? You’re not working this weekend, are you, Jemis?”

  “No, only on market Saturdays.”

  Hal gave me a curious glance, no doubt wondering what the ‘work’ was when I was still dressed as a young gentleman—but I had not, during those teasing conversations, mentioned anything of my family, and he and Marcan had probably assumed (and quite correctly) that it was neither so titled nor so grand as theirs.

  There would be a lot of explanations about my family tonight.

  “Perfect,” Mr. Dart was saying. “You’ll be very welcome to stay, both of you. Have you any other baggage, Mr. Leaveringham?”

  “Do call me Hal. No, the rest ended up in the river at Otterburn, and my valet’s taken it back to Fillering Pool.”

  “I smell a story,” Mr. Dart said, and took Hal’s arm to lead him towards the north gate. I picked up Hal’s dropped knapsack, which was heavy, and trailed on after until Mr. Dart suddenly interrupted his merry account of the various charms of Ragnor Bella to ask if I wanted to go home for anything.

  “I suspect I shall need at least a change of clothes,” I said dryly, and we turned turned down the side street towards technically-my-stepmother Mrs. Buchance’s house. When we reached it, the door was ajar and the sound of much commotion spilled forth, along with the smell of baking.

  “Mmm,” said Mr. Dart. “Is it tea-time yet, do you think?”

  I frowned at him and pushed open the door. Mrs. Buchance was standing in the front hall, bouncing a wailing Lamissa in her hands while trying to finish a conversation with her sister-in-law Mrs. Inglesides, a pretty plump woman who appeared to be increasing. Ricocheting around them, up and down the stairs, in and out of the dining room, and chasing a mysterious barking dog were my sisters and a handful of small boys I supposed were Mrs. Inglesides’s children.

  Sela, the younger of my two half-sisters, came barrelling around the hall corner, saw us, squealed, and launched herself at me. As I caught her, she cried, “Jemis is home!” in piercing tones.

  There was a moment’s pause as everyone turned to stare, and then Lamissa started to wail again and all the mobile children, accompanied by the dog, clamoured up to us. “Did you bring us anything?” Sela asked, squirming in my arms so she could bat her eyes at me.

  “Not tonight,” I said apologetically.

  “What about a story?�
� Lauren began, interrupted first by Sela saying, “You have to say please,” and then by several boys who all began shouting out suggestions for what story, except for the smallest boy, who poked me in the leg. I set Sela back on the ground and leaned over the boy, who whispered, “Toby ate a whole cake,” and then buried his head in my breeches, overcome apparently at this revelation.

  Not having any idea whether Toby was a step-cousin or the dog, I opted not to say anything. Lauren and Sela started dancing, the dog reappeared, barking, and Mrs. Inglesides’ voice went louder and louder as she tried to make herself heard. She was saying something about baking and the Dartington Harvest Fair. I tried to extricate myself from Zangora, who was swinging off my arm, and glanced at my friends.

  They both looked utterly stunned.

  I grinned at Mrs. Buchance. We’d more or less progressed, over the past week, to calling each other ‘Jemis’ and ‘Ellie’, at least in the house, when we didn’t forget and go more formal. It made me feel less of a lodger, for which I was grateful.

  “Now, children,” she said, “leave Jemis alone—oh, and Mr. Dart! How wonderful, we were just trialling some recipes for the Fair. You’ll have to help us eat them.” She nodded at her sister-in-law, who nodded back decisively, as one with a secret, and then began to gather up coats and hats and wooden toys from where they lay strewn about the hall.

  “I should be delighted, ma’am,” replied Mr. Dart gravely.

  I managed to disentangle myself from the overwrought boy so that I could let my friends across the threshold. Mrs. Buchance handed me Lamissa, who had, incredibly, fallen asleep, and turned to greet Mr. Dart properly, whereupon she saw Hal. “Oh!” she said again, this time more uncertainly. “You’ve brought another friend?”

  Despite his outfit, Hal stood like a duke, and, being dark-skinned and long-nosed, looked like one, too. He bowed politely to Mrs. Buchance. “Hal,” I said, flustered as Lamissa fussed slightly, “Mrs. Buchance and Mrs. Inglesides. Ellie, this is Hal Leaveringham, a very good friend of mine from Morrowlea. He came on the mail coach.”

  She curtsied, her expression welcoming if confused. “Will you be staying with us, Mr. Lingham?”