Page 7 of Bane Bloom

Mrs. Foss smoothed the front of her apron. “No one knows, Miss Gray. That is, he went missing.”

“Missing!”

She nodded and looked rather miserable. “Now I feel I’ve spoken out of turn. But I must say it surprises me that they haven’t told you.”

“And me as well,” I admitted. “He was staying at Pine Cottage?”

“He was. We saw him a few times, when he rode to the village for dinner and a pint. Then one night—the wee hours of Hallowe’en, it was—he disappeared.”

I stared at her. “And no one has any idea what happened to him?”

She shook her head. “Thomas said he glimpsed him down by the lake in the hours before dawn. Said he thought he saw him go into the water, if you could imagine anyone bathing in the lake in October!”

“Thomas—the groundskeeper?”

“Aye, that’s right.”

“Do they think he drowned, then?”

“That was considered. But the constable who came to look into it said he would have been found by now, if so.”

I raised my brows. “You look like you’re not so sure of that.”

She hesitated. “The lake is deep.”

My gaze drifted down to my cup, and I rubbed my lips together. I couldn’t help feeling Mr. Harding must have omitted these troubling details intentionally. But why?

Because I might not have come.

This wasn’t exactly reassuring. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I began to suspect I’d been naive.

History

“I’m sorry if I’ve worried you, Miss Gray.”

I looked up. The young woman studied me, regretful and concerned.

Lifting my teacup, I lightened my voice as I replied, “Think nothing of it, Mrs. Foss. I’m glad to know the history. The Society has given me an excellent opportunity, and I’m very much looking forward to seeing the place.”

It didn’t make sense, really, the more I thought about it, the idea the Society would so badly want the glasshouse cataloged that Mr. Harding would feel it necessary to trick me into agreeing to come here.

My hostess smiled doubtfully as I took a sip of my tea, but she said, “Well, I’m happy to hear it. And please—call me Annie.”

I returned her smile. “All right. And I hope you’ll call me Catherine. Or, really, just Cricket. I haven’t been called Catherine in ages.”

Puzzlement lifted her brows. “I’ve never known anyone by that name.”

Laughing, I replied, “I imagine not. It’s a pet name my father gave me when I was a child. I suppose if I’d had a mother she would have put a stop to it, but I didn’t, and it stuck.”

Her face softened, and I wondered why on earth I’d told her that. Her condition, perhaps. Something told me Annie Foss wasn’t a woman who’d ever dream of leaving her child.

“I’m very sorry you lost your mother,” she said kindly. Picking up the tray, she continued, “If you ever feel lonely or afraid in that old place by yourself, you come to us here, and we’ll do what we can to cheer you.”

The unexpected offer tugged at my heart. Despite her youth, Annie Foss had mothered me more over the last quarter hour than my own mother ever had.

“Thank you, Annie.”

I spread jam on a slice of crusty bread, and when she didn’t return to the kitchen right away, I ventured, “Do you know much about the house, or the people who owned it before the apothecaries?”