“I trust this information is helpful. I must be off, m’dear. I give you good day. And again, I apologize.” Horace left after a sheepish enough shrug to mollify her.
Jenna glared at the door he passed through, then glanced up at the beaver hat that sat on a shelf over the hearth. Lemuel’s favorite, she’d allowed it a place of honor since his death.
Standing on tiptoes, she snatched the hat down and tossed the furry thing into the flames where it sizzled and blackened, leaving an animal stink. Seething with a grief-tinged aggravation at the death of her marital memories, she stabbed the hat remains with the poker.
* * *
Branek exited the congenial warmth of Odgers’ town home on Pydar Street. The air smelled damp, and the cold crept under his surtout cloak. Dark clouds hid what should have been the last of twilight. He’d shared two glasses of port with the magistrate while informing him of Chenery’s offensive behavior. Odgers promised to have a word with the constable.
He strolled past other elegant homes, and then, farther down, Mrs. Pauley’s shop. The woman was notorious for her cures for the French pox and other afflictions caused by venereal enjoyments and debaucheries.
Branek hunched his shoulders, aware of the danger over where such dalliances might lead. It would seem too soon for propriety, but tonight he’d spoken in passing with Odgers’ daughter, Hester, as his thoughts slipped again to a second marriage. She was a sweet young woman, around six-and-twenty, whom he’d had conversations with before. She’d been betrothed to an army officer who was killed in the colonies four years previously.
Hester seemed to like him, and she had a delightful laugh and an easy charm about her.
Perhaps the next time he visited, he’d bring her some special jellies made by his cook. He smiled at the idea of an agreeable wife who might give him his heir and provide the passion missing from his life.
He reached High Cross, the junction of Pydar and St. Mary’s Streets. Here sat St. Mary’s church, her white granite facade dimmed in the growing mist and the fall of night.
The base of the ancient Celtic cross was all that remained of what gave this area its name. An iron ring was attached to the wood, where bulls had once been tethered for baiting. A vile entertainment.
He continued down Pydar, this portion known as High Street, toward the stables on St. Nicholas to collect Zeus. The rich Robartes and Enys families owned much of the property here. Along with the Boscawens—but their influence in the city was fading. Reputations rose and fell, and could be damaged beyond repair too easily. How well he knew.
Few people were out due to the late hour and weather. The walk refreshed him, though the air thickened with cold moisture. A clap of thunder sounded from the south.
He relished the brief freedom from worries. Even his knees didn’t trouble him too much this evening. At home, he’d continued to drink the ginger tea, on Mrs. Rosedew’s advice.
St. Nicholas Street was up ahead. His thoughts drifted again to the apothecary. He had a strange desire to stop in and see her, to hear her kind voice. His body heated for a moment. What was it that drew him to her? Their mutual plight, or their discontented marriages? But he didn’t need more accusations from Chenery.
He passed one of the opes, a murky, snaking alley that connected to a back street or the river. Rustling sounded, and then a footstep. Branek turned to see a man in a long, dark coat. A few years back a man, scorned by his beloved, had committed suicide on this street. His ghost was said to still haunt the vicinity—if Branek believed in ghosts.
He hurried his pace, as this man could be a footpad. The stranger’s tread picked up as well. Thunder rumbled closer, the shadows grew murkier, the darkness complete. A few lamps flickered on the outside of residences. It began to drizzle, and their footfalls echoed on the damp cobbles.
Branek tensed and moved to the left so the man might pass him, but the stranger slowed too. With a prickle of unease, he walked on, and the other matched his footsteps to a place where the shadows deepened.
Branek whipped around to confront the person who’d now moved closer behind him. “What is your purpose, sir?” He waited for a confused apology, or a demand for money.
A click, a flash of fire and a shot exploded. He felt the punch in his left side, then the stink of gunpowder filled his nostrils. He collapsed against a building’s stone wall.
The scoundrel ran off, not even attempting to rob him.
Branek clutched his side, his mind reeling in shock. His body shuddered; he stumbled, pressing against his flesh as pain pierced through him. His hand came away smeared with warm blood.
Chapter Twelve
Branek lurched along the rough side of the building. Rain dripped off his hat, then seeped and soaked him under his cloak collar. He swiped moisture from his eyes. Every movement stabbed pain into his left side. He bunched his cloak against the oozing wound; slippery blood coated his fingers. Blast, he had to find help!
Staggering across St. Nicholas Street, he saw a dim light in the apothecary shop.
Wincing, he trudged on and pushed open the shop’s door. “Mrs. Rosedew?” His voice croaked out. He shut, then slumped against the door. The front room was shrouded in darkness.
She came from the back where the light had emitted—her figure a silhouette. “We’re closed, but I forgot to shut the bolt.” She stepped forward. “Oh, is that you, Mr. Pentreath? What has happened?”
“I’ve…been shot.” The room seemed to tip. He pressed against the wall and trembled with a sudden chill.
“A-barth Dyw! Where? Where were you shot, sir? In the stomach?” She hurried close and clasped his upper arms.
“In my left side.” He grunted and tried to take a decent breath. The pain pierced like a sword deep inside his flesh.
Mrs. Rosedew slipped her arms around him as he tottered. “Dear me, sir. We probably need a surgeon; oh heaven help us.” She gasped. “Can you stand while I bring you a chair?”
He straightened, then sagged against her. She held him securely under the arms. Her breasts pressed against his chest. Her hair smelled like lemons. “Help me to…to your kitchen.” He was determined not to sink to the floor.
She staggered with him in that direction. “Oh fie, sir. This is terrible. Do you know who shot you?” Her voice was sharp and distressed. “Here, here’s the chair. Sit, gently now.”
He dropped into a wooden chair and moaned at the jolt of pain. “No, I’m afraid I don’t…too dark.”
She knelt in front of him, moved aside his wet cloak, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and pulled his shirt from his breeches. Branek leaned back, his eyes squeezed shut. She mopped up oozing blood with his shirttail and probed her fingers along his skin. He clenched his teeth as pain radiated up his side. The coppery stench of his blood sickened him.
“Lean forward a bit.” She tugged at his hip. He groaned again but moved the best he could as she probed his back with a skillful touch. “Thanks be to God. It looks like a clean shot. There’s no bullet left inside you.”
“Can you doctor me up, Madam Rosedew?” He stared into her eyes and saw tears there. What an amazing woman she was to be able to administer to him without hysterics, yet care enough to cry.
“I’m going to bandage you to stop the blood, an’ then fetch a surgeon. I won’t take any chance I’m not expert enough to tend you.” She bunched his shirt and pressed the material against the wound, then guided his hand over it. “Hold here, sir, an’ press steady.”
Branek grimaced at the burning sting. “I’ll do my best.”
At her long table she pulled down a jar, opened a drawer and withdrew several cloth strips. “I’m going to apply agaric of oak,” she said over her shoulder. Then she started to pound on something. “First, I must make it soft for you.”
She returned and pressed a fungus-like matter over his wound. He sucked in his breath at the pressure. She then urged him to sit forward again, and wrapped a bandage around his middle. Branek grunted and bit back the ache.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you, sir.” She eased him back in the chair, her fingers on his chest, strong yet tender. She moved away then brought him a small glass. “Brandy. Sip it slowly. It will dull the pain. Were you robbed?”
“No, I wasn’t.” For the first time, he wondered about the purpose of the shooting. Without robbery intended, was he himself the target? He sipped the alcohol, relishing the taste, the liquid burning down his throat. His wound throbbed, but the inflaming soreness eased. “Your gentle hand is much appreciated.”
“Someone shot you for no reason?” Mrs. Rosedew slipped on her cloak, her expression anxious. She laid a cool hand on his forehead. “I hope you get no fever. I’ll prepare something to prevent that when I return. Are you cold? Do you need a blanket?”
She fetched one before he could answer and tucked the warm wool snugly around him, then brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. “Are you comfortable, sir?”
“You’re more than kind. Another brandy, please?” Branek held up his glass. He didn’t want her to go, surgeon or no. An additional person here would be intrusive. He saw such compassion in her eyes and felt the sweetness of her gestures. Despite the pang of his injury, his desire stirred—a yearning he hadn’t experienced for a long time. He shifted in the chair and winced.
“Stay quiet, sir. I’ll be as quick as I can.” Mrs. Rosedew handed him the refilled glass, squeezed his shoulder and bustled out.
He gulped down the fiery liquid, sighed, and set the glass on the table near his elbow. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on breathing slowly, in and out. Who wanted him dead? And did it have to do with Sophie’s murder? Dr. Treen out to avenge the woman he’d illicitly longed for? The idea of the pudgy doctor toting a gun and chasing after him almost made him smile. But his assailant had been skinny. Or perhaps someone coveted his debt-laden estate—had he a greedy relation he wasn’t aware of?
He hadn’t realized his own life was in danger.
* * *
The surgeon clipped the last thread of his stitches. Jenna wiped the excess blood from Mr. Pentreath’s skin as gently as possible, and wrapped a clean bandage around him. She and the surgeon helped the squire to the more comfortable leather wing chair. He sat stiff, breath held, his eyes squeezed shut.
“Now, you promise to tell no one Mr. Pentreath was here? Except Magistrate Odgers, since he’ll need to know about the shooting,” she whispered to the surgeon as he put his items back in his satchel. No one needed to know that the squire had chosen to come to her, though the idea flattered Jenna more than it should have.
The man assured her he would be discreet, and she handed over the money Mr. Pentreath had given her.
She let the surgeon out, then pushed the bolt shut and returned to the kitchen.
Mr. Pentreath breathed easier, his skin pasty after the surgeon had put stitches at the entrance and exit of the bullet wound.
She pulled over a stool and sat beside the wing chair where they’d moved him. “I wish I could help you up the stairs so you could lie down, but I don’t wish to rupture the stitches or cause you further injury.”
“It’s quite all right, my dear.” He stared at her, his eyes sleepy, no doubt the effects of the opiate she’d given him for the pain. “You have been a perfect lady of mercy.”
Her body quivered. “Are you hungry? I could heat up a pot of soup.” She held his hand, large and capable. How could his wife have treated him so shabbily? He seemed the best of men, as Sally had insisted.
He squeezed her fingers. “I’m not hungry, only thirsty.” His voice rasped out.
“I’ll give you some of my diluted cider. No more brandy tonight.” She rose and brought him back a cup of cider. “Sip it slowly.”
“Yes, Mother, dear.” He winked at her, placed his hand over hers on the pewter cup, and sipped the liquid. “I do as you command.”
That was good; she’d make certain he thought of her as motherly—and in no other way, though she relished his touch. But such thoughts were dangerous. She knew too well it was an unfair world. “We’ll talk of what happened tomorrow, your attacker an’ all. You must report it to the magistrate.”
“You are an angel. Your husband was a fool to play you false.” His steady gaze made her shiver again.
“I agree with that, but enough for now.” Jenna busied herself and fetched him a pillow and tucked it behind his head. “You best get some sleep, sir. No more talking.”
“Stop calling me ‘sir.’” His words came out drowsy and slow. “We were both played badly. But I knew it earlier, much earlier.”
“I’ll stay right here, to keep an eye on you. Try to sleep.” She dragged in an old rocking chair from the storage room and settled near the fire, not far from Mr. Pentreath. She used to rock her son in this chair. As she eased into the seat, the memory made her smile. She must go and visit him soon.
She’d suffered two miscarriages in the years that followed his birth. Tired of the agony over any more, and busy with the shop, she had drunk a tincture of Queen Anne's Lace seeds to prevent further breeding. Now she had no reason to bother on that score, with no men to be intimate with.
Glancing at her patient, who’d closed his eyes, she worried again over who might have shot him. Someone who wanted his wife dead as well as him, or did he have his own enemies? Of course, a man of means rarely went through life without aggravating people, out of jealousy or a rich man’s stinginess.
Jenna loosened her hair, pulled an old quilt that had been folded on the rocking chair to her chin and leaned back against the hard wood. She needed to tell Mr. Pentreath about Mrs. Sandrey and Nerth, and then about the deacon. Too many suspects, too many reasons. But it could wait.
She pushed the troubles away and rocked slightly, trying to relax. The chair creaked and the fire crackled. Mr. Pentreath breathed deeply in sleep.
For just this moment, she felt content and languid with him nearby. A man who could never belong to her. The bad luck of her birth—to good, but lower-bred people—made the temptation of the squire forbidden. Her throat thickened. When had she slipped from suspecting him to yearning for him?
She rearranged the musty quilt and listened to the rain plunking on the windows. Her muscles softened and she closed her eyes.
Jolted awake, Jenna straightened. The fire had almost burned out; a few hours must have passed. What had disturbed her?
Mr. Pentreath groaned in his sleep, his body jerking. He grimaced with the resulting pain. She stepped to him to test his forehead for fever. He didn’t feel overly hot.
“I should never have married you,” he hissed, grasping Jenna’s hand. “For both our sakes. Didn’t we deserve better?”
Startled by his anguish, Jenna leaned close and stroked his cheek. Her unbound hair fell across his chest. “You’re having a bad dream, sir. Please, calm yourself. She’s gone. You’re safe with me.”
His eyes flew open and he stared at her. “She’s in a safer place than we are, God help us.”
“Go back to sleep, please.” Jenna touched his dark head, resisting the urge to trail her fingers through his wavy hair.
Mr. Pentreath blinked, his brown eyes intent on her. His brow smoothed and a smile started. He lifted his hands, his fingers gentle, and pulled her face to his. Their lips met, so warm and comforting. Jenna sighed, about to pull away, but his kiss deepened. She reveled in the heavy heat that started low in her body. Certain she might never have another chance to delight in his kisses, she kissed him back with fervor.
Chapter Thirteen
Branek stared at the months-old bill from a chemist in Truro. Then in revulsion threaded with alarm, he slapped it on top of the others. His wound brushed the back of the chair and he winced. Only five days past the shooting, the injury was still sore.
“I don’t remember seeing this one before. So we did have arsenic in the house.” He stared up at Will. “Does the meddlesome Mr. Chenery know about this?”
“I didn’t tell him.” Will pinched his lips
, gaze averted. “But perhaps I should have mentioned it. The omission might look suspicious now.”
“Indeed, it might.” Branek cringed, first at the fact of the poison being available, and then at Will’s oversight to report its existence. He eased to the side of his desk chair and massaged the muscles near his exit wound where a burning pain had started. The medication Mrs. Rosedew gave him had kept the worst of the sting at bay until now. “The poison was purchased to kill rats?”
“Mrs. Pentreath authorized the buying of it after Cook complained about the rodents.” Will studied him with deep anxiety in his expression. “I’m more worried that someone shot you, and it could happen again.” He stepped to a cupboard and pulled out a box. “I’ll ready your pistol. If you don’t mind my saying, you should carry it with you from now on.” He placed the case on the desk and pulled out the flintlock pistol.
Branek stared at the gun with its brass barrel and dark walnut stock, once owned by his father. What would his mild, traditional father have thought of the morass surrounding his only son?
Then he mulled over the obvious reality that someone who was in this house had to have administered the arsenic. Chenery would gloat at that news, and try again to push the guilt onto Branek. He grimaced.
“You should rest. You’re up too soon after this incident.” Will clasped his shoulder. “I can assist you upstairs.” His estate manager appeared slightly ill himself, his skin sallow, his face thinner.
“When I try to rest, my thoughts won’t be still.” Branek had insisted on going over the outstanding bills, but Sophie had never said a word about any rats or the solution to exterminate them. But why hadn’t Will, who Branek at least communicated with frequently? He scrutinized his estate manager. “Next time, I wish to be informed of any purchases. How are you faring, Will? You look tired.”
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