by Anne Ashley
Oh, but she couldn’t blame Lucy for this bout of ill humour, Emma chided herself, pausing in her kneading of the dough to flick some unruly strands of hair away from her eyes. Her present troubled state was entirely of her own making. She ought to have possessed more strength of character, and resisted right from the start the charm of a certain very personable, violet-eyed gentleman. But how could any female withstand such charisma? she wondered, remembering too clearly the way, after he had escorted her back to the inn the previous evening, he had kissed her hand in very much the grand manner, before they had finally parted company on the landing. That portion of flesh where those lips had fleetingly touched had tingled for an age afterwards, leaving her longing for further and very much more intimate contact.
Silently cursing herself for a weak-willed fool, Emma gave the dough a further vicious thump with her small fist. Undoubtedly gentlemen of Mr Benedict Grantley’s stamp posed a real danger to inexperienced females, most especially those like herself who might foolishly suppose that common sense might offer some protection against peerless displays of masculine gallantry. Try as she might, though, she could not in her heart of hearts regret that he had come into her life. No, her main concern, if she were honest, was that she was finding it increasingly difficult to come to terms with the fact that he would one day walk out of it, and she very much feared that no other man would ever succeed in filling the void.
‘Now who, I wonder, could possibly have aroused such disapprobation that you feel the need to vent your barely suppressed ire on a harmless lump of dough?’
Startled, Emma swung round to discover the being responsible for her present highly irrational state framed in the doorway, his smile of wry amusement making him more appealing than ever. The mere sight of him was sufficient to induce her foolish heart to beat a tattoo against her ribcage. Fortunately, though, her disgruntled mood came to her aid.
‘You shouldn’t be in here, Mr Grantley!’
Much to her intense dismay the testily uttered rebuke had the reverse effect from what she had intended. Refusing to admit defeat, however, as he calmly sauntered into the kitchen, she added for good measure, ‘The landlady of this hostelry doesn’t approve of guests invading the inn’s private areas.’
‘And by the sounds of it, my girl, she’s by no means the only one.’ With the speed of a striking snake, he had her chin imprisoned in his long fingers, giving her little choice but to meet his all-too-perceptive gaze. ‘What’s wrong? And kindly do not try my patience by suggesting that nothing has occurred to upset you,’ he went on when she was about to do just that. ‘When we parted company last night you appeared—how shall I phrase it?—ah, yes, perfectly contented. And yet today I find you—’
‘Out of all reason cross,’ she finished for him, managing to extract her chin from that disturbingly arousing clasp. ‘And so would you be annoyed if you were forced to bake on an afternoon like this one. This kitchen is like a confounded furnace!’
Thankfully he appeared to accept the peevish explanation readily enough, before he once again moved in that smoothly elegant way of his across to the door leading to the yard, and threw it wide. ‘Then let us attempt to make things a little more comfortable for you, my little love,’ he said, and she could only hope that her suddenly increased bloom at the unexpected endearment might be attributed to nothing more significant than her renewed pummelling of the dough.
‘If you sit there, you’ll likely end up covered in flour,’ she warned, resorting again to a waspish tone in a valiant attempt to conceal her rapidly increasing disturbed state. Not surprisingly the tactic was no more successful than before, and he calmly seated himself at the table, smiling up at her in a way that would have had a less determined female’s knees instantly turning to jelly. ‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you!’
‘Be assured I shan’t do that, my sweet scold.’ Benedict noted the swift return of added colour with intense satisfaction. ‘Why, if it isn’t a foolish question, are you baking on such a warm afternoon?’
‘Because Lucy knocked the first batch of loaves over the floor.’
He manfully suppressed a smile. ‘In that case you should be grateful to me for saving you yet more work. I managed to prevent the breakfast rolls from skidding across the parlour floor this morning.’
‘Oh, dear Lord! She gets worse!’ Emma raised her eyes ceilingwards before reaching for the flour jar, only to discover it annoyingly empty.
Proving that he was not utterly useless in a kitchen, Benedict picked up the earthenware vessel, and offered to refill it. No sooner had he disappeared into the depths of the huge and well-stocked larder then Emma was forced to swallow a protracted groan, when an all-too-familiar cheery voice announced, ‘The sight of those lovely bare arms of yours covered in flour sends me all of a tremble, my little darling!’
Emma raised her eyes to discover, as expected, the plump figure of Colonel Meecham entering by way of the stable-yard. Since her arrival at the inn, almost half a decade ago, he had managed to find reasons to pay thankfully short but all-too-frequent visits. With all the guile of an experienced campaigner, he always succeeded in putting in an appearance when her self-appointed chaperon, Martha Rudge, was nowhere in sight to send him packing.
Emma was certainly in no mood for his harmless flirting today, but refrained from making this abundantly clear. After all, there was no possibility that she would ever lose her foolish heart to a portly ex-army officer whose florid complexion betrayed his fondness for the port and brandy. How she wished she could say with any conviction that she wasn’t in the least danger of losing it to a certain raven-haired gentleman of her acquaintance!
All things considered, it might be wise to offer her loyal admirer a little encouragement to stay on this occasion, she swiftly decided, glancing briefly in the direction of the larder, before bestowing a smile of such dazzling brilliance upon her ageing swain that he blinked his small, round eyes several times in astonishment.
‘Emma, you utter darling,’ he announced in a soulful sigh, while ineffectually striving to capture the floured hand which was brushing away those unruly strands of hair again. ‘When are you going to put me out of my misery and marry me?’
‘I would be only too delighted to oblige you, Colonel, if it wasn’t for the fact that it might make your charming wife just a trifle peeved.’
Benedict’s deep rumble of laughter, as he emerged from the larder, had the Colonel swivelling round on the heels of his boots. ‘And who the devil might you be, sir!’ he demanded, resorting to the barking tone he had used to terrify the raw recruits under his command during his days in the army.
‘Thank you.’ Emma relieved Benedict of the filled earthenware jar, before taking it upon herself to make the introductions.
‘Grantley?’ The Colonel’s bushy brows snapped together as he shook the proffered hand. ‘Not one of the Kentish branch of the family, by any chance…? Ah! Met your father once, many years ago,’ he added, at Benedict’s nod of confirmation. ‘Charming rogue, as I recall.’
‘Ha! Must be a family trait,’ Emma muttered, thereby earning herself a painful nip just above the elbow, as Benedict passed behind her to resume his seat. She cast him a darkling look before plunging her hand into the earthenware jar and sending a cloud of flour into the air. ‘Mr Grantley is here on a sightseeing tour with his nephew, Colonel.’
Unlike Benedict, who remained stubbornly seated next to the table, the Colonel took the precaution of edging his chair back a trifle. ‘Are you, by gad! Well, if you’re at a loss one evening, you’re most welcome to sample the victuals served at my table. Can’t miss the house—first in the village, set a little way back from the road.’
‘The Colonel and Mrs Meecham moved into old Squire Penlow’s house some sixteen years ago,’ Emma informed Benedict, as her little stratagem of casting flour about with gay abandon had quite failed to induce him to leave the kitchen, though the look he had cast her, after brushing his sleeve, boded ill for h
er if she pursued the tactic. ‘The villagers often tell tales of the wild goings-on that took place in that house.’
‘Pity there ain’t any now,’ muttered the Colonel, disgruntled, which surprisingly elicited a chuckle from Emma, the first that day.
‘Now, you know you don’t mean that,’ she countered. ‘Both the Squire and his son died as a direct result of their wild ways, so I’m reliably informed. You’re much better living a quiet life with Mrs Meecham.’
‘Aye, I suppose you’re right,’ he answered, but not sounding wholly convinced. ‘And talking of Harriet, I ought to be getting back.’ He eased his large bulk off the chair. ‘Besides which, I don’t want the dragon-woman discovering me here. Where is she, by the way?’
‘Mrs Rudge is busy in the dairy, Colonel,’ Emma informed him, whilst casting a disapproving look, which he blithely ignored.
‘Fiendish female, that, Grantley. I wouldn’t let her catch you in here, if I were you,’ he warned, pausing at the door. ‘And don’t forget to come and dine with me one evening.’
Assuring him that he would be delighted to accept the kind invitation, Benedict turned his attention back to Emma the instant they were alone. ‘Well, at least the Colonel’s visit appears to have put you in a better humour, you provoking little witch. Come, hurry and finish that, and sit down! I wish to know what you’ve discovered from the Ashworths’ cook.’
Although very much resenting the faintly dictatorial tone, she succeeded in swallowing her chagrin. After all, the sooner she told him what he wanted to know the sooner he would leave her to her own devices. Which, of course, was precisely what she wanted, wasn’t it?
‘I’m afraid I didn’t discover that much,’ she freely admitted, seating herself opposite and desperately striving not to allow the warmth of that wholly masculine smile to weaken further the half-hearted resolve to be rid of him. ‘The young maid, Sally Pritchard, hadn’t worked at the Hall for very long, as you already know. Apparently she wasn’t well liked by the majority of the staff.’
‘Was there any reason for this, do you suppose?’ he asked, evidently finding this snippet interesting.
‘Difficult to say.’ Emma shrugged. ‘Her presence might have been resented simply because she wasn’t a local girl. Country people tend to band together. They don’t like it when outsiders are offered situations which can easily be filled by local people looking for work. Sally, it seemed, came to live with her married sister in Andover only a week or two before attaining the position up at the Hall.’
‘Did you manage to find out the name of the sister?’
‘As I thought you might wish to know it—yes, I did. Her name is Tyler. Mrs Wright remembered it particularly because it happened to be her own mother’s maiden name.’
‘And was anyone up at the Hall suspicious over the girl’s death?’
‘I didn’t gain that impression from Mrs Wright, no,’ Emma was forced to concede. ‘Everyone at the house seems to suppose that she died as a result of that fall. She was discovered by the butler, Troughton, lying in the hall at the foot of the main staircase. However, Mrs Wright did mention that she thought it strange that the maid had been using the main stairway. Only the higher-ranking servants were permitted to use it. The rest were instructed always to use the back stairs.’
She couldn’t prevent a smile. “‘But being something of an uppity girl, as you might say, and thinking far too much of herself, besides, she possibly thought she could do just as she pleased.” Mrs Wright’s words, not mine, I hasten to add.’
The masterly mimicry of the local dialect brought a further smile to Benedict’s lips. ‘When was the body discovered?’
‘Early in the morning.’ Her eyes widened in mock horror. ‘And stone-cold dead she were, too.’
‘Assuming she was—er—stone cold, she’d obviously been dead for some time.’
‘Dr Hammond, so I’m reliably informed, seemed to think that she had died late the previous evening.’
Black brows rose in surprise. ‘Obviously he was called in to confirm life extinct?’
‘Oh, no,’ Emma corrected him. ‘He called midmorning, as previously arranged, in order to pay another visit to Clarissa Ashworth. She had been suffering from influenza. Apparently, when he discovered what had occurred, he asked to see the body, which had by that time been placed in one of the outhouses. Mrs Wright clearly remembered that he had asked a great many questions after examining the body—wanted to know precisely where the girl was found, and how she was lying. Which certainly suggests that he wasn’t completely happy about something.’
Benedict nodded in agreement. ‘What were the extent of her injuries?’
‘According to Mrs Wright, apart from the right side of Sally’s head being “all smashed in” from the fall, there wasn’t a mark on her.’
‘From a fall, I wonder?’ he muttered, frowning now. ‘Or was she perhaps bludgeoned to death?’
Emma didn’t attempt to conceal her dismay at the awful possibility. ‘Surely not?’
‘Extensive bruising and broken bones are not uncommon when a person takes a tumble down a flight of stairs,’ he reminded her. ‘Injuries to the neck and head are not uncommon, either.’ His frown grew more pronounced. ‘But just injuries to one side of the head, and perhaps no others…? I wonder if it was this that made Hammond suspicious.’
‘What you suspect, in fact, is that Sally was killed elsewhere, and then placed at the foot of the stairs to make her death appear an accident, don’t you?’ she prompted, flicking away the annoying strands of hair that were continuously flopping over her forehead, adding to the irritations of the day.
The gesture appeared to please him, because his smile returned as he conceded, ‘It’s a possibility, certainly. Did you manage to discover anything about the late Miss Spears?’
‘I gained the distinct impression that the servants never did have very much contact with her, even though she had been employed by the Ashworth family for some years. Governesses and companions,’ she reminded him, unable to resist a wry little smile, ‘are in that unfortunate category where they do not fit in anywhere. They are above the general order of domestics, and yet they are still forced to earn a living and are at the beck and call of their employers.
‘One very interesting snippet I did discover, however,’ she continued, after a moment’s thought. ‘Mrs Wright remembers that one of the other maids overheard Sally Pritchard talking to Miss Spears on the day before Sally died. Apparently, Sally was in one of her “uppity” moods, and was telling Miss Spears that she would soon be in a position to better herself, and that she wouldn’t be spending the rest of her life in service.’
‘Interesting,’ he murmured.
Emma shrugged. ‘If it wasn’t just wishful thinking on the girl’s part, then, yes, it does suggest that she was expecting some good fortune to come her way in the near future,’ she agreed, before changing the subject slightly by asking if he’d discovered anything of interest during his visit to Sir Lionel.
‘I learned something about the Ashworth family’s history, but I require confirmation of certain details.’
‘Why?’ She was genuinely surprised. ‘Surely you don’t suppose that Sir Lionel would lie?’
‘Well, no, not exactly,’ he responded, his tone guarded. ‘You must remember, though, that Sir Lionel has been a friend of the family’s for a number of years, and naturally might feel he was being disloyal if he betrayed too much. I believe what he told me was true enough, but I suspect there is much more to discover.’
‘In that case you could do no better than to take Samuel and Martha Rudge into your confidence. They were both born in the village, and would have heard, or would be in a position to discover, anything you might wish to know. Furthermore they can be trusted to be discreet.’
A loud clatter from the direction of the dairy, quickly followed by Martha’s scolding voice, was sufficient to inform Emma, at least, that Lucy had had another mishap.
‘I th
ink I shall put this batch of dough out of harm’s way, before Lucy returns to the kitchen.’
‘Very wise, Emma,’ he agreed, and noticed that delightful little chin lift fractionally.
‘I cannot recall giving you permission to address me by my given name.’
‘No, you didn’t. And very remiss of you too, I might add, since you gave my nephew leave to address you in that manner. My name is Benedict, by the way. Most of my friends call me Ben. I don’t mind which you use.’
Whilst striving to formulate some withering response, Emma caught sight of a stalking figure crossing the yard. ‘I did warn you that Martha doesn’t take kindly to interlopers invading her kitchen,’ she reminded him, with a certain grim satisfaction. ‘You’re on your own, Mr Grantley.’
Not noticeably abashed by the dagger-look he received from the landlady the instant she perceived him seated at her table, he forestalled any blistering remark she might have been about to utter in masterly fashion by announcing, ‘Ah, Mrs Rudge, the very person I wished to see! I know you are exceedingly busy, but would you and your husband be kind enough to spare me a few minutes of your time? There is something I wish to discuss with you both.’
‘Of course, sir.’ She was momentarily taken aback, and it showed. ‘I sincerely trust that everything is to your—’
‘No complaints whatsoever, Mrs Rudge,’ he interrupted, before rising to his feet in one smooth movement. ‘Perhaps if you would grant me the opportunity to don fresh linen, we could meet in the parlour in—say—half an hour,’ and with that, and the cheekiest of winks cast in Emma’s direction, he disappeared down the passageway, leaving Martha, for perhaps the first time in her life, with absolutely nothing to say.