CHAPTERNINETEEN
“Found a fellow called Lactantius crying on my bed last night. He was still upset over finding out the world wasn’t flat. But I told him, everyone makes mistakes.”
Mrs Tadlow. Widow, mother and ten-year resident of Ingleford Lodge.
The village thoroughfare bustled with people trudging hither and thither in disregard of the weather. Although cold, the sky was a clear, deep blue and despite admonishments from parents, children sledded and whopped each other with clods of snow. Rosalind crunched her way to the haberdashery to buy some red ribbon for Mrs Merew– Lily. She knew it would take some time to get used to calling her that. For herself, she bought a deep Parma violet, which would look lovely on her green bonnet and there might even be some left to trim her stockings. She could just imagine Lucas’s wide grin as his eyes tried to assimilate the colours.
The Green Man beckoned her from his lofty position outside the inn for a warm drink, before her visit to the vicarage. The study was always freezing and she had learned to prepare beforehand. In the past, she had met with the vicar every two weeks to discuss the village needs, whether it be food or repairs to the houses, but over the past month or so, their discussions had been postponed or cancelled, and she now had an extensive list of issues on which they needed to confer.
Passing the main entrance, she headed to a doorway at the side of The Green Man. The inn now had a room set aside for ladies, which Lottie had introduced to much success, and in winter, O’Carroll always had a simmering pot of spiced wine to greet the cold traveller. She looked over to her maid, who was chatting with the curate, a heated blush on her cheeks. She didn’t mind if Caleb started to enjoy life again, but not with her maid.
“Alice. We will go to the inn to warm up before visiting the vicar. Good day, Caleb.”
The door creaked slightly as she entered. No one else was seated, for which she was pleased as Rosalind felt the need to be alone today. She wasn’t despondent, in fact quite the opposite: she wanted to wallow unaccompanied and peaceful in her joy.
“Miss Trewent, a pleasure. Wot can I get you?” Lottie stood in the doorway, a happy smile across her lips and a twinkle in her eye.
“Oh. Good morning. I honestly feel as though my nose has frozen off, so a warm, spiced wine and maybe some cake, please.”
“Aye, right away. And…” Lottie hesitated, her apron twisting in her hands. “You was right, Miss Trewent. About…you know.”
She did indeed. “I am so pleased. Plenty of rest, mind. Make sure that cheeky husband of yours looks after you.”
“He’s a nightmare already. Won’t let me do nowt or even walk up the stairs, silly sod, and him with his leg. Sure ’twill wear off eventually, especially when I’m large.”
“Enjoy it, Lottie.” She smiled and watched the girl positively skip down the passageway. The door opened and Alice finally entered, rosy-cheeked and bright eyed – it couldn’t all be due to the weather. Perhaps she should have a word with the vicar about the young curate as well.
O’Carroll entered full of his usual cheer. “Our charming Miss Trewent and the lovely Miss Wittle,” he said, bowing to Rosalind and her maid. “Two spiced wines and some of Lottie’s plum cake.” And so saying, he spread the heavenly smelling items onto the white tablecloth – an adornment missing from the main bar.
He sat himself down without invitation, and although she had been looking forward to some peace, Rosalind didn’t overly mind: the man was jovial and good-humoured. “How were the two of them this morning, then? They guzzled a load of Ole Grim last night and we all remember the blacksmi–”
“Yes, Mr O’Carroll, we all remember that calamity. The Earl of Stonebridgewaslooking rather cropsick this morning, but as for the major…” Rosalind felt the wine catch in her throat as she remembered fending off his impatient hands, seeking and demanding in the night. “He was fine.”
A wicked laugh met her choked reply, and she could have sworn that O’Carroll knew exactly what she was imagining. “Good to see him happy, Miss. He’s one of the best. Ya suit.” Rosalind gulped some more wine to cover the rising flush on her cheeks. He suddenly leaned forward, a serious look on his face. “My grandma was blessed, like you.”
“Blessed!” she spluttered.
“Lottie told me ya saw her with babe. And we all remember that child lost in the woods. Dunna worry, I shan’t say a word. Have ya got Irish blood, though? Ya certainly have the look.”
“Actually, I do believe there is some ancestry on my mother’s side, but they left for England and eventually Cornwall.”
“Well, we get around. My grandma, the one who was blessed, always bemoaned her children leaving the Isle.”
“I’m not sure about being blessed, Mr O’Carroll.”
“My grandma was the wisest woman I knew. Everybody from king to beggar used to come and see her, not that you’d be on my grandma’s level, mind, as ya blood’s been diluted.” Rosalind hid a smile at his Irish family pride. “You and the major will do well. Soldiers understand, see. If you’re able to save just one person, then pardon the Gaelic, Miss, we don’t give a bluidy devil’s arse how ya do it.”
“Erm, thank you, Mr O’Carroll.”
He gave her another wink and stood. She had just started on her wine again when the Irish brogue, or was it rogue, she wasn’t quite sure, called back from the door, “By the way, damn good idea that ladder, eh?”
She glared back fiercely, knowing Benedict was due an apology.
Following the housekeeper to the vicar’s study, she hummed thoughtfully in the long passageway. It must be lonely to live in such a large place on your own, and she wondered why he hadn’t shared the vicarage with the curate? Often, if the house was large enough, it was split, especially as the curacy was so low paid.
“Miss Trewent, sir,” the housekeeper announced, opening the door and then retreating from whence she came.
“Oh, yes. I do apologise. I forgot you were coming, Miss Trewent.”
