CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
“My husband, Bertie, has waited for me long enough, and he hates these hard beds at the asylum, says they make his ghost bones ache.”
Mrs Tadlow. Widow, mother and ten-year resident of Ingleford Lodge.
Rosalind glared at her soup. It was a light, silky consommé, but the smell of the other diners’ food was pure torture. Wrinkling her nose, she looked at Lucas’s plate; it was covered with a sumptuous venison pie, the crust a glistening golden colour, and cook had even done a pastry decoration on the top in the vague, very vague, shape of a stag. Her mouth watered as she watched Lucas lift a fork, on which was squeezed tender meat, roast potatoes and a rich, wine sauce.
“It would be nice to think that you are watching my mouth because you would like to kiss me, but I believe it’s the pie?”
Those same glaring eyes met Lucas’s, and Benedict laughed heartily, whilst even Lily smiled.
Rosalind nodded. It was all she could do. The bruising on her throat made talking extremely painful, and although it was now subsiding, it still made her eyes water to talk or eat, hence the soup, again.
Benedict dabbed a serviette to his lips. “I am helping the vicar in his search for a new curate. As earl, I feel partly responsible for the death of those girls–”
“No,” Lily interrupted, “that’s not right. We were all duped by that evil boy.”
“Hmm. Maybe so, but I am making enquiries about a chap I met in London a while back who’s had similar experiences to our vicar…except the gin problem.”
“The vicar has a difficult time ahead of him in besting his demons,” Lucas agreed, “and it will take determination, but he still has a strong faith. He very much wants to finish his book, which will give him a purpose.”
Benedict signalled for another serving of pie. “Word seems to have got around the village, but everyone seems very supportive of the vicar remaining. O’Carroll has been particularly vocal – good man that, even if he does buy venison from poachers, but I’ll put up with him for the ale. Lottie’s father used to water it down,” he said, shaking his head. “By the way…”
Rosalind blew on her soup spoon and refused to look up at Benedict’s words: she was now sure that men said that on purpose.
“It is delightful to see you here for dinner, Rosalind. We have missed you.”
She nodded again. For three days, she had been restricted to bed by Lucas, but today she had rebelled. He’d not actually been around much, as he’d been busy with Benedict – sorting out the burials of the fake curate and Sir Hector, and even making enquiries to try and find the real Caleb Rowland’s family.
They doubted, however, they would ever know who the murderous curate truly was. It was all too easy for a man to disappear in London and if he belonged to a gang, then no one would talk. The only nagging doubt was that he had obviously been well educated, so possibly he’d been a wayward son of a noble or merchant family.
Rosalind gazed at Daphne as the lady smiled and listened to Benedict rambling on about a new stable building; she looked besotted. On hearing of her husband’s death, Daphne had turned ashen and fainted. Rosalind considered her response to be one of relief, although it would have been tasteless to suggest such a thing, and she had no voice, so hadn’t.
“Rosalind will not be able to speak for at least a few more days, I fear,” Lucas said, after another potato.
She glared. Earlier today, he had brought up a book,The Ghost of Colwyn Place, to read to her, but she hadn’t been able to stop sniggering croakily at inappropriate moments and writing down comments on a slate, the scraping chalk apparently driving him to distraction.
Lucas had snapped the book shut and asked her grumpily what she wanted to do instead, hence dinner with the household. Now, there was paper, ink well and quill to her left, in case she had to say something important, but so far she hadn’t needed them. She’d just listened to the conversation and general sounds of contentment over the venison and wine.
Realising that Benedict was talking and everybody was looking at her, she dragged her senses back to the table.
“Mmmfff?” she asked.
“I was just saying, Rosalind, that I have been relishing the peace and quiet around the place. No more senseless bombilation, and the excessive consumption of comfits will no longer depauperate me. Indeed, our rantipole ways are over and there will be no need for pleonasm any more, I trust.”
Benedict sat back, looking smug, and Daphne smiled at him lovingly.
How dare he do that to a mute! The devilish blaggard.
This week, she would learn every word in that damn dictionary but until then… She grabbed her pen, and ignoring Lucas’s groan, scribbled frantically, her quill flying over the paper. Rosalind flapped the finished work in front of Benedict’s face, but he merely shrugged and refused to read it.
With imploring eyes, she waved it in front of Lucas to read aloud, but he’d conveniently picked up a glass of wine in one hand and a forkful of meat in the other.
“I’m gormandising,” he said, smirking.
Lily sat innocently opposite, minding her own business, and before the poor woman could say no, Rosalind grabbed her hand and thrust the paper into it.
“Hmmnnpphh, hhoonnn.”
