Damienknewthat.But apparently now that she was about to be his wife, he’d lost his wits.
Scowling, he leaned from the saddle to kiss her hair.She wasn’t a small woman.“Take my crop.”He handed her the leather he kept for shooing sheep from the road.
Relieved they needn’t argue, she clutched the grip, lifted her cloak and skirt, and ran down Willa’s overgrown walk, stalky weeds and shrubs scattering seeds as she brushed against them.
Damien cantered off, leaving the cart under Arthur’s guidance.The boy urged the pony into its version of a gallop, leaving Brydie with the colonel’s imperturbable daughter and whatever had her screaming.
The few times Brydie had visited the baker, she’d always gone to the kitchen door, but Minerva had called from the front.That door was closer.She brushed past the untrimmed holly and privet and reached for the handle.The door opened before she touched it.
A weary stranger blocked her way.In his caped greatcoat, he appeared broader than Brydie but not taller.From the looks of his pale face, she could probably topple him if necessary.
“Does that woman do nothing but shriek?”he asked grumpily.Not waiting for an answer, he staggered up the front stairs.
Oh, well, if that’s the way he meant to be...Wrapping her cloak around her, glad for her gloves since the cottage was chilly, Brydie shoved past the unsteady gentleman and raced up to the front chamber.The manor’s librarian had always been somewhat reserved, but one couldn’t marry a curate and remain standoffish.Minerva knew how to ask for help.
The casual habits of the manor’s inhabitants had filtered down to the general populace.Minerva may have taken the name Mrs.Upton when she married, but she was Minerva to most of the village—especially since the original Mrs.Upton, the manor’s housekeeper, was the curate’s mother.
The petite librarian barred the door to the front bedchamber.“We can’t do anything.It’s too late.If Mr.Sutter has gone for Rafe, then start a fire.Fix tea.This looks very bad.”
Acknowledging not just the status of the curate’s new wife, but also her wisdom in a crisis, Brydie did as told.Sometimes, the only adequate response to a problem was tea.
She had to assume Mrs.Willoughby was dead.The baker couldn’t have been more than forty as far as Brydie knew.Willa had been an adolescent working in the bakery when Brydie was a little girl.They used to buy hot cross buns, and Willa had wrapped them up to keep them warm.They’d been so delicious...
Hurrying downstairs, she passed the stranger still dragging himself up.He didn’t even express bewilderment at her hasty retreat but continued his trudge.
Kindling had been added to the stove and a fire was catching when she reached the kitchen, so she had a kettle heating by the time Rafe arrived, accompanied by Damien.Mr.Upton followed shortly after.All three ran upstairs.Minerva the General could sort them out.
Walking from the far end of town, plump, short Dr.Walker arrived next.Brydie pointed the lady apothecary/physician up the stairs, then turned Arthur away.“The place is full to bursting.Go help Mrs.Russell and keep an eye on Lynly and Rob, please.I’ll be over shortly.”
“I’m supposed to help Mr.Sutter set up an office,” the boy protested.
“And you will do that when he’s ready.Sometimes, we must think of others before ourselves.See if Mrs.Russell needs any help.Rafe may be here awhile.”She watched her tall nephew lope past the hedges, away from whatever grim scene was above.Children should enjoy Christmastide.He was off to school next month.This might be the last one they shared with him as a child.
Brydie found the tea and started a pot.She hadn’t known Mrs.Willougby well enough to mourn more than the loss of her sweet buns.Both Brydie and her sister baked.Since they had few coins, they’d never bought bread, but they liked an occasional holiday treat.She’d have to learn to bake buns on her own.
How had Willa kept those great ovens fired up?Shivering in the drafty cottage, she peered inside one and found a fresh fire crackling.Had Minerva done that?Or possibly the grumpy stranger.
Damien came down first.“Meera says it’s too late for a solicitor and I am unnecessary.”
“But if the death is not natural...”Brydie waited expectantly.If they meant to marry, he must learn to share.
Her intended ran a hand through his thick, golden-brown hair.In this dim light, the silver threads weren’t visible.“Someone stabbed her while she was sleeping.It’s not pretty, and you’re not needed any more than I am.Dr.Walker has a bloodthirsty nature and experience with corpses.She’s sending Minerva down.Have you found anything she might eat?She looks queasy.”
“Then it truly must be bad.Minerva has patched soldiers on battlefields.”Brydie began opening cupboards.
Damien grimaced.“Dr.Walker said bleeding copiously means the victim was healthy.Rafe wants to arrest the stranger who claims to be a cousin, but the man hasn’t even the strength to stand straight much less drive a knife through anyone.It’s more likely the killer bashed in his head.”
Brydie found a biscuit tin and opened it...to a stash of coins, some gold.She held it out to show him.“It wasn’t robbery then, or the thief was incompetent.”
Damien uttered an impolite word.“I’ll start searching the front room.You take this one.”
Searching for something edible for Minerva, Brydie opened another tin that actually contained a few biscuits.The larder was nearly empty since all the flour and whatnot were on the table, ready for the morning baking.
The cottage had a cellar.Feeding people came before clues.Brydie lit a lantern and dared the rickety stairs.Potatoes, eggs, carrots, butter, a container of milk...It was so cold upstairs at the moment, the milk might keep up there, until those ovens heated, anyway.She found a currant cake and a barrel of apples.That would have to do.
Minerva had fixed her own tea by the time Brydie carried up a pitcher of cream, a pocketful of apples, and the cake.The librarian did look a trifle pale.Brydie cut her a slice filled with currants.“You haven’t eaten, have you?”
The curate’s wife shook her head.“I was here to buy bread for Paul’s breakfast.How will I feed him now?I can’t ask his mother to send down loaves.”
