As though Olivia’s gentle words were the final straw, tears slid down Violet’s cheeks. She jabbed at them and sniffed, but the trickle soon became a stream. “Oh, Miss, I’m so sorry.”
Olivia offered a handkerchief. Violet dabbed at the tears, choking back a sob. “This is your own handkerchief, miss.” She held out the scrap of lace, crumpled now, and damp.
“You can let me have it back when you’ve finished with it.”
Violet sobbed, thrusting the damp lace at Olivia. Olivia shook her head. “Don’t be scared. Surely, you don’t imagine anyone will think you stole it. Put it in your pocket.”
Violet stared unblinking at Olivia, but whatever she saw seemed to give her comfort. “Thank you, miss.” She sniffed again but managed a watery smile. “I would hate Mrs. Rivers to think…”
“Well, the housekeeper won’t think anything.” Olivia was firm. “In the very remote chance she wonders why you have my handkerchief, I shall tell her what happened. She knows you’re worried about James and she’ll understand.”
“We-ll. I suppose so, miss.”
“Now,” Olivia said, relieved to see Violet calmer. “Why don’t you explain everything to me? Lord Thatcham believes James is innocent. That’s why he sent for Mr. Roberts, after all.” An idea struck. “We’ll see if we can’t find out for ourselves what really happened. I’m sure that if we put our minds to it, we can find the truth before the lawyer does.”
How delicious it would be to beat Mr. Roberts to the solution to the mystery of the wounded cows. Olivia wouldn’t easily forgive his mockery. It wasn’t her fault she had only encountered one or two cows before. The truth was, Mr. Roberts scared her a little, with those deep-set dark eyes and that intriguing scar. It lent him an air of danger. Olivia didn’t quite trust him.
Oh dear, there she was again, wasting time wondering about that man. She wished he’d stop intruding on her thoughts. She wanted to solve the mystery of the wounded cows in order to help the poor maid, and thinking about Mr. Roberts would not help. “Tell me, Violet, why do they think James is guilty?”
“Well, Miss, last Tuesday, the night the cow was attacked, James was nowhere to be seen. Next morning, when the constable came round, James wouldn’t say where he’d been.” Violet’s voice rose. “I know why he didn’t want to say. It was nothing to do with any cow in a field. It was that Eileen Hodges down at the baker’s. I saw him winking at her last week in church.”
Cheeks flushed, Violet exploded. “If I find out he’s been with that forward little miss, he’ll be sorry, I can tell you. He can have his ring back, that’s for sure and I shall tell him so, that I will.”
Olivia lowered her eyes, holding back a smile. Violet was angrier at James’ dalliance with another woman than at the idea of him attacking cattle. “Wouldn’t James have told the constable if that was the case? He could easily prove his innocence.”
“Ha! It would be his word against that Eileen Hodges’ and she’s a liar, she is. She said he never went to see her that night.” Violet’s eyes narrowed. “I shall pull her hair for her.” Hands tight on Olivia’s handkerchief, the maid screwed it into a damp, creased ball.
“It seems to me we need to look for another solution.” Olivia tapped one finger on the dressing table, trying to think. The Hodges girl may be telling the truth. Violet’s jealousy could have led her into imagining all sorts of foolish things. “Could he have gone somewhere else?”
Violet shrugged. “I don’t know, miss. I can’t think where else he would have gone without telling me.” She sighed. “My mother always said he wasn’t good enough for me. Maybe she was right.”
“Don’t be too hasty, Violet. Just because we don’t know the explanation, it doesn’t mean there is none.” A yawn overtook Olivia. “Oh, dear. I’m too tired to think about it sensibly tonight, and I’m sure you are too. Go to bed and we’ll talk again tomorrow.”
Olivia lay cosily in her bed sheets, pleasantly snug from the hot brick, wondering about the episode with the cow. Why would James hide the truth from his sweetheart? Was Violet right—had he been with another woman? Tomorrow, Olivia would track down this Eileen Hodges and see what she had to say.
She breakfasted early, before Miss Dainty was awake, and set off toward the village. Excitement lightened her step. She’d slept well last night. No dreams of losing her way among trees disturbed her slumbers. Even the image of Daniel’s white, dead face receded. Lord and Lady Thatcham’s calm explanations of Grandmother Caxton’s place on the estate had dispelled Olivia’s lingering fears of the woman. She couldn’t help being old, poor, and plain. At least Olivia hadn’t confided her terror in anyone; in particular, she hadn’t told the supercilious Mr. Roberts.
Ah, here was the road that led through the village. The walk became easier now that Olivia could tread on cobbles rather than plough through the mud of a path still damp from overnight rain. The lane ran through a pretty street of stone houses with low, thatched roofs. A pump stood on the green beside a pond where ducks floated serenely, jabbing at green duckweed on the surface. A couple of boys, who surely should have been elsewhere, slipped pastby, fishing rods strapped to their backs.
Olivia passed the post office. She nodded to the post-mistress—a dumpy little lady with grey hair parted in the middle and drawn back into a neat bun—who leaned on a rail outside the shop, alert to any passer-by. She was probably one of the chief sources of gossip in the village.
Olivia’s nose, yielding to an enticing aroma of hot bread, led her to a small shop with dimpled windows, nestled between a chandler and a haberdasher. For a moment, Olivia was tempted to delay by the rolls of silk, bundles of ribbons, and reels of coloured thread on display in the haberdasher’s window. Selecting dress materials would be a more enjoyable way of passing the time than the interview she had in mind.
She pushed back some of the wild curls already escaping her second best bonnet, with new enthusiasm for personal grooming. The admiration in Mr. Roberts’ eyes at dinner last night had been very pleasant. Perhaps wild red hair was not such a disaster.
She and Miss Dainty planned to visit the shop later that day, for they had important purchases to make, connected with the Thatcham Hall ball. A little thrill of excitement made Olivia shiver. The ball was to be as grand an affair as could be held in the countryside.
With a firm step, Olivia entered the baker’s shop. A bell tinkled as the door closed. A woman of middle age wiped reddened hands on a cloth. Two small, round eyes stared from a stony face. “What can I do for you?”
Olivia drew herself up, using her unusual height, flaming hair and alabaster skin to give an appearance of confidence that she didn’t feel, being quite unused to meddling in the affairs of others. She smiled. Perhaps a friendly approach would prove effective. “I would like to talk to Miss Eileen, please.”
The woman’s red hands rested on broad hips. Wispy eyebrows drew into a straight line above a long, thin nose. “And why might that be?” Almost as wide as Olivia was tall, her sheer bulk threatened to block access to her daughter.
“I’m from the Hall.” Olivia hoped status as a guest of the aristocracy would impress.
“You might be, at that.” Mrs. Hodges, unimpressed, raised her head and bellowed towards the door. “‘odges!”
Chapter Nine
A cloud of flour burst through the door, followed by Hodges, the baker himself. Plate-sized hands on hips, he towered above Olivia. An enormous belly folded over an apron tied at the back. Sweat beaded his brow. His wife indicated Olivia with a jerk of the head. “This person wants to talk to our Eileen.”
“Is that so?” Hodges strode toward Olivia, thrusting his face so close she could make out every pore on the bulbous, red nose. She flinched at the whiff of stale beer. Pink-rimmed eyes, too close together, glowered, and thick lips curled in an insolent sneer. Olivia held her ground, but it took an effort of will. The man grinned. So, he knew who she was. She’d been a fool to think he wouldn’t. Gossip whisked through a
village like this within hours.
Why, the Hodges family doubtless knew the day and hour of her arrival at the Hall, the length of her planned stay and, probably, how much she was worth per year: which was very little! Poor relations of the local aristocracy were clearly not favoured customers here. Olivia lifted her chin, no longer nervous. This horrible man was not going to scare her.
Struck by an idea, Olivia opened her reticule. Hodges folded muscular arms and leaned against the counter, self-important, but his wife’s gaze locked on the bag. Greed widened her eyes.
The bakery seemed airless. The smell of yeast, enticing at first, had become thick and overpowering. Every nerve in Olivia’s body jangled. When would Hodges leave? Surely there was baking to be done.
She cleared her throat. “I wish to buy some of the cakes we ate for tea at the Hall yesterday. Lady Thatcham told me Miss Eileen had made them and sent them to the Hall as a present for Miss Dainty.”
Mrs. Hodges’ eyes gleamed. “Ah, yes. My Eileen used to play with Miss Dainty when they were girls. She did take some macaroons to the Hall, now that I remember, as a present.” She sniffed. “Not that the stupid cook, Mrs. Bramble, was grateful. Said they were heavy. Heavy indeed! My Eileen makes the best macaroons in the whole county.”
Her husband snorted. “Macaroons!” Disgust suffused the word.
As the baker lumbered across the room to the door, the stiff muscles in Olivia’s neck unwound. “It’s Eileen’s cakes that bring me here,” she improvised. “Miss Dainty wished me to thank Eileen, congratulate her on such baking skill, and buy some more—at the full price, of course. She begs Eileen to send the recipe, so that Mrs. Bramble can learn to make them.”
The baker’s wife snorted. “Eileen won’t be sending no such thing. She keeps it all in her head. Can’t write, you see. Always stupid at school, never learned.”
“Oh, dear.” Olivia gulped. “Well, perhaps she could tell me the ingredients, and I can write them down? Unless there’s a secret?” Her laugh, high-pitched, seemed to echo through the room. She winced, but Mrs. Hodges shrugged. “I suppose so.”
Olivia drew a note from her reticule and continued. “Before parcelling up a dozen cakes, perhaps you would call Eileen so I can pass on Miss Dainty’s good wishes in person. I have little time to waste, you know.”
Mrs. Hodges, recognising that the purchase of such unusually expensive items depended upon allowing this woman to speak to her daughter, gave in with a sigh and waddled through a door into a back room. “Eileen! Get yourself out here, girl, and look sharp. There’s someone from the Hall come to see you.”
Thuds came from the next room. What could Eileen be doing? Olivia didn’t have to wait long to find out. The young woman’s voice preceded her into the room, harsh with annoyance. “I can’t get this cream to churn at all.”
Olivia allowed herself a small smile. Mama often said a sour face made the milk curdle.
Eileen appeared at last; a tall, well-built girl with strong arms, a brown face and a sulky expression. She curtsied and pasted a smile on her face. “Good morning, miss. How can I help you?”
Olivia cleared her throat and stood straighter. “How do you do? I have just come from the Hall to buy your famous macaroons. Miss Dainty tells me they are delicious.”
Eileen’s face changed. She would have been pretty were her features not marred by bad temper. She curtsied again, “Thank you, miss.”
“I wonder whether I could possibly sit for a moment.” Olivia wiggled her fingers in front of her face as though overcome by the heat of the morning. She saw a jug on a shelf behind the counter and guessed at its contents. “Could we perhaps take a glass of lemonade together?”
“Come along, Eileen.” Mrs. Hodges waved the heavy apron to shoo her daughter into the room beyond. “I’m so sorry, miss. I don’t know what’s happened to Eileen’s manners today. It must be all the worry—” She stopped in mid-sentence, eyes wide.
That was odd. What was worrying the family? The woman’s lips, set in a firm line, blocked further careless hints of secrets.
Once in the parlour, the baker’s daughter waved Olivia to a sofa whose lace trimmed cushions and immaculate antimacassars guaranteed it a long life in this, the best room. Eileen perched on the edge of an upright chair, eyes narrowed and hands folded, alert and suspicious.
“I came today because of something I heard at the Hall.” Olivia watched Eileen closely, but although the girl’s eyes flickered, she said nothing. “I’m sure you know about the damage to one of Farmer Jones’ cows.”
Eileen’s hands gripped tight, twitched as Olivia continued. “One of the servants at the Hall has been accused of the crime.” She paused. “James, the footman.” Eileen’s hands moved, restless, one thumb circling the other.
“I believe it possible James was in the village at the time of the crime. In fact, you may be able to vouch for him.”
Eileen thought a moment, then shrugged. “Why should I be able to tell you anything about them servants up at the Hall? I have enough to do with my own work, here.”
“Well, I thought you might know James a little.”
The girl gave a harsh laugh. “Oh, yes, I know James. He came around here once or twice. When he had nothing better to do or when he’d fallen out with th-that Violet.” She almost spat the maid’s name, with alarming venom. “They give themselves airs, those up at the Hall. Think they’re above the rest of us in the village, just because they work for Lord Thatcham.” She tossed her head. “I haven’t seen Mr. High and Mighty James for weeks, if you must know, miss, though what business it is of anyone else I don’t know—” She stopped, hatred and insolence draining from her face, leaving crumpled features and eyes glittering with sudden tears.
Sensing an intrigue involving Eileen, James, and Violet, Olivia leaned forward and spoke gently. “I can see you’re upset.”
The girl’s lip quivered. She used the corner of her apron to scrub at her face, but said nothing.
Olivia sighed. “It can be so hard to understand a man.”
Eileen’s head jerked up. She stared at Olivia as if puzzled and then, with a wail, she buried a wet face in the apron. “He told me Violet threw him over, and he never cared for her no more.” The heavy material muffled the girl’s words. Olivia leaned forward, straining to hear. “He swore he’d look after me, he did. Said he’d give me a ring and everything.” Eileen sat up to look Olivia in the face. “I hope they send him to Australia, I do.”
Such malevolence shocked Olivia. The girl’s bitterness was frightening. “Was he with you last Tuesday?”
“He came round to tell me he and Violet were getting married after all, and I wasn’t to tell Violet nothing about…well, you know.”
Olivia nodded. “So he couldn’t have hurt the cow?” Eileen, face buried once more in the apron, shook her head. She muttered something Olivia could not hear.
“Well, all you have to do is tell Constable Stephens, and he’ll set James free again.” Though elated to have winkled out James’ alibi, Olivia thought of a word or two she’d like to say to the man. He’d led these two girls a merry dance. Eileen still sniffled into her apron, a mound of wet misery. “It seems James has treated both you and his fiancée very badly indeed. I’m sure Violet will have plenty to say to him.”
Eileen cried harder. On an impulse, Olivia took a step forward and rested her hand on the girl’s quivering shoulders. “What is it?”
Eileen just shook her head, tears falling too fast for speech.
Olivia hesitated. The plan had been to help Violet find the truth about the untrustworthy footman. Secretly, she’d hoped to steal a march on the mocking Mr. Roberts. What fun, to beat the lawyer to the truth. She hadn’t thought beyond the success of this interview. Now, things were suddenly more complicated. Eileen’s distress seemed so deep, so devastating. The girl was inconsolable.
The possible reason for such misery was so dreadful Olivia could hardly bear to voice it. She cleared her throat,
cheeks burning. “I must ask you,” she murmured, hot with embarrassment. “Are you, by any chance—with child?”
Eileen raised a flushed, wet face but kept swollen eyes averted. Olivia waited as a clock ticked away the silence in the parlour.
At last, Eileen wiped the back of her hand across her eyes and sighed. “Yes, miss.”
Olivia breathed out. This was a serious complication. If James had got this girl into trouble, they would have to marry. Poor Violet would have all her hopes dashed and James’ future as a footman would be in jeopardy. Nevertheless, the first concern had to be the mother of the unborn child. Olivia patted Eileen’s shoulder. “Then, he’ll have to do the right thing.”
Eileen, far from encouraged at the suggestion, made a choking noise. “It’s not his.”
“I beg your pardon?” Olivia felt her jaw drop. “What did you say? Not James’s baby?”
“No.”
Olivia dropped back on to the sofa. Whatever she’d expected of the baker’s daughter, it was not this. What a tangle. No wonder the silly girl was willing to tell lies and let James take the blame.
The question was, what to do about it? Olivia sighed. Could she just walk away? No, she couldn’t leave matters alone. It was already too late. Curiosity had Olivia in its clutch. She could never resist a conundrum. “If James isn’t the father,” she murmured, thinking aloud, “then someone else will have to look after you.”
Eileen shook her head, bitten nails at her mouth.
Olivia resisted the temptation to pull the girl’s hand away. “Come, now. Tell me who has left you in this state and I’ll see what can be done to help.”
“You can’t help.” Eileen’s voice was hoarse. “There’s only one can help me, and that’s not one of you up at the Hall.” The girl glared at Olivia.
Olivia hardly dared ask the obvious question. Why could no one from the Hall help? If it were one of the servants, he would have to take responsibility. Unless the culprit was no servant…“Is the father someone from the Hall?”
Danger at Thatcham Hall Page 6