The Lie and the Lady (19 page)

“Oh, I don't know,” Leticia mused. “London is so terribly far. Besides, those dresses in the window are quite smart. Mrs. Robertson, I believe you are a hidden gem.”

“Thank you, my lady!” Mrs. Robertson said, fluttering. Leticia noticed for the first time that Mrs. Robertson's dress was particularly well constructed. It was a calico pattern, but the material was lined up so perfectly at the seams the pattern remained unbroken. A hidden gem, indeed. “Those are actually of my own design.”

“Are they really?” Leticia asked, her face breaking wide. “How marvelous.”

“Moira!” Mrs. Emory shushed. She cleared her throat, trying to regain the high ground. “Moira, why don't you go fetch the magazines? I'm sure the countess would like to compare our country styles to what she saw in Paris.”

Mrs. Robertson shuffled off, while Mrs. Emory turned back to Leticia.

“I am afraid I do not know where your people are from, my lady. Churzy is a European title, isn't it? Not proper English?”

“My late husband was Austrian, yes. But my people come from Manchester.”

“Manchester!” Miss Goodhue piped up. “Do you know the Goodhues of Manchester? They are our cousins.”

“I'm afraid I left Manchester quite young,” Leticia replied.

“Oh.” Miss Goodhue looked downcast. “Well, if you should ever go back and require a solicitor, I'm sure they would give you a good rate.”

Leticia shot a glance to Helen, who shrugged. Even Mrs. Emory looked aghast at this mention of things as menial as money.

“Miss Goodhue came with her sister when she married,” Helen said, providing introductions no one else would. “She is the teacher at the local school.”

“I have fourteen boys and girls, up to age twelve!” Miss Goodhue said, pinking, then fanning herself again. As someone so excitable, perhaps it was good she brought the fan out even on a temperate day like this.

“And you've already met Mrs. Spilsby's husband,” Helen piped up. “He's the vicar at St. Stephen's. He'll officiate your wedding . . . and possibly others as well!”

Leticia ignored the hopeful comment and instead turned her smile onto Mrs. Spilsby.

“If you are the vicar's wife and the schoolteacher, between the two of you I imagine you know absolutely everyone in Helmsley.”

Mrs. Emory cleared her throat, but no comment was made.

“Everyone in need, that is,” Leticia added. “Myself included, as I happen to find myself in need—of a good baker.”

“Is Bluestone Manor's cook not up to your Continental standards?” Mrs. Emory said haughtily. “I'm sure she will be mortified to hear it.”

And if it was up to Mrs. Emory, she would hear it from her. But Leticia simply smiled, knowing the board and all its pieces.

“Oh, Cook is a marvel! But she will be utterly overwhelmed with everything for the wedding breakfast, so we decided it might be best to hire someone to bake the wedding cake. But Cook tells me there is no bakery in Helmsley.”

“It's quite true, my lady,” Mrs. Spilsby said, as if just realizing it. “There is no bakery.”

“Well, who would buy bread from a town without a working flour mill?” Mrs. Emory added, and sent a pointed smile to Helen, who barely managed one in return.

“Perhaps Rebecca . . .” Mrs. Spilsby was saying to her sister. “She's the butcher's daughter, she makes their meat pies.”

“Oh yes!” Miss Goodhue agreed. “She moved on from school a few years ago, but she was always bringing in little pies and cakes for me. Trying to curry my favor instead of learning her vocabulary.” Miss Goodhue giggled again.

Leticia looked to where Mrs. Spilsby nodded, and noticed that two doors down from the millinery, after a print shop, there was a butcher's on the corner. And all four businesses, including the Blessed Thistle, were housed in the same three-story red brick building along the east side of the market square. A building that Mrs. Emory owned.

No wonder Mrs. Emory was so focused on patronage of the town—she had her own tenants, and her success was tied to theirs.

“Do you think the butcher can spare Rebecca?” Mrs. Emory said. It wasn't a question.

Apparently she seemed to think she owned the people who worked in those shops too.

“Let's find out,” Leticia said, keeping her focus on Mrs. Spilsby, even as Mrs. Emory turned a terribly mottled color. “Would you be so good as to introduce me to this Rebecca?”

Mrs. Spilsby and Miss Goodhue both lit up, and were about to nod, when Mrs. Emory burst in between them.

“Perhaps later would be best,” Mrs. Emory said. “Look, here is Mrs. Robertson with the fashion magazines.”

They turned, and saw a breathless Mrs. Robertson clutching the packet of papers to her chest. “I've put my favorite plates on the top,” she said. “And I think the second one would make a truly lovely wedding gown, especially on your elegant frame, my lady. I have some lace from—”

“
MOIRA
.”

Mrs. Robertson stopped immediately and backed away. She held out the packet of papers to Leticia. “Er, please feel free to look over them as long as you like.”

And with a curtsy, Mrs. Robertson stepped back in line behind Mrs. Emory.

“We are terribly late for an appointment.” Mrs. Emory indicated the tearoom behind them. “So, another time.”

“We intend to stop into the Blessed Thistle ourselves in a bit,” Helen said. “I know Lady Churzy wants to see more of the town, but soon enough we will be famished. Perhaps we shall see you there.”

“We won't be staying long,” Mrs. Emory replied, cold. “It's market day—everyone has so much to do. But perhaps you and I should enjoy a visit on a later date, Lady Churzy. I take callers in my apartments on Tuesdays.” Mrs. Emory let it hang in the air. Then, with a curtsy, and a “Mrs. Turner,” and “my lady,” she swept away, dragging the three other ladies in her wake.

Leaving a fuming Helen and a strangely amused Leticia.

“Well, that seems like some sort of concession,” Leticia mused.

“Concession my foot!” Helen fumed. “She wants you to call on her. Meeting in the street for informal conversation is not enough. This way, she can tell everyone the Countess of Churzy came to her parlor. And did you hear what she said about the mill?”

“And all the ladies of the town are in her thrall because she . . . controls their rents? You'll have to forgive me for disliking her, but . . . I really dislike her,” Leticia said on a laugh.

“And what she doesn't realize is that your disliking her is far more detrimental than her disliking you. Or me.”

“There seems to be more to her animosity than my mention of London fashions.” In fact, Leticia mused as she thumbed through the fashion plates in her hand, Mrs. Robertson had a good eye. The second gown in the packet would make an excellent wedding dress.

“She's a jumped-up woman, aiming to rise higher, and you have unwittingly provided a ceiling.”

“How so?”

“She was a dressmaker, and now she's a woman of property. She has all the time in the world to get into other people's business. She started a ladies' meeting, and appointed herself their leader. But it's hard to be the queen bee when there's a countess around.” Helen laughed. “Besides, she had aspirations of a title herself, and you stole that.”

“She . . . she had designs on Sir Barty?” Leticia asked, aghast.

“A rich, titled widower? Half the county had designs on Sir Barty, my girl!” Helen replied, then patted her arm. “Don't worry, you didn't steal him away from anyone. Sir Barty's been very much the lonely bachelor. And I would know—I've been his friend longer than anyone. If there was anyone who did stand a chance with him, it might well have been me, but that would never happen.”

“Why wouldn't it?” Leticia asked suddenly. Sir Barty and Helen seemed quite close, for all their dancing around the business of the mill. If ever there was ripe ground for blooming affection . . .

But Helen's eyes grew inscrutable, and her gaze long. “I was . . . I was very happy with my husband. And I was very close with Barty's late wife. I suppose we thought it wouldn't feel right.”

There were things unsaid, but Leticia decided to leave them that way, and not to prod further. Because she suddenly understood who Mrs. Emory was.

She was Leticia. When Leticia was nineteen, and trying to step out into the world. Trying to prove herself worthy of . . . something. And trying to hold on with both talons to her station, no matter how tenuous.

“So is that why Mrs. Emory dislikes you too? Because of your friendship with Sir Barty?”

“No.” Helen sighed. “When the mill burned—for the first time—her son, Harold, lost his job. We said we'd hire everyone back as soon as we were back on our feet, but he decided to join the navy instead. Mrs. Emory has been bereft without her son since.”

“But if her son has done so well in the navy, then—”

“Exactly, yet still she maintains her dislike. Her maid, Wendra, lives in, and she has two parlors. And it's not as if Harold was a particularly good worker—he was late more often than not, and lazy. I imagine it's harder to be late and lazy though if you are on a ship and will be flogged for not fulfilling your duties,” Helen surmised.

Leticia's eyebrows went up. Apparently the ladies of Helmsley did grudges and dramatics better than she had initially thought.

“But just wait until my son opens the mill back up, and hires a dozen men in this town. And brings in people from far and wide on market days. Then Mrs. Emory will have to stop with her foolishness and act her age. Which is far more advanced than she'll admit,” Helen said, anticipating her triumph. “But I will let him tell you all about it.”

Helen nodded to just behind Leticia. She pivoted, and saw Turner approaching. No, not approaching. Nothing so timid. He was moving idly, but the path seemed to clear before him, putting him fully in her vision.

“I knew he would make time to come today. Oh, but where is Margaret?” the older woman said, casting about in the crowd.

“She's still at the fishmonger's stall,” Leticia murmured, not taking her eyes off Turner. It was as if seeing him was dangerous, but not seeing him was even more so.

“Shall I go fetch her?” Helen murmured to herself. “I should go fetch her. Wait here for us, please, my lady—Leticia.” And with that Helen disappeared into the crowd, hurrying toward the fishmonger.

Leaving Leticia to face Turner alone. In the middle of a crowded market.

“Mr. Turner,” she said, keeping her expression neutral. Uncaring, even. Taking note of their surroundings, Turner managed a quick bow before replying.

“Already sent my mother fleeing, Letty?”

“It is not I who have her running. And I would remind you that we are in a public forum.”

“Would you rather I shouted your name, or would you rather tell me where my mother went?” he said, stopping himself from crossing his arms over his chest.

Leticia sighed. “She went to fetch Margaret. She is determined to see you tuck another flower behind the girl's ear.”

“Yes. I've heard more than enough talk of that today.”

“From Sir Barty, you mean,” Leticia concluded, and Turner nodded.

“It was . . . quite strange.”

Leticia was at a bit of a loss to explain Sir Barty's sudden enthusiasm for matching his only daughter to a lowly miller, so she simply ignored his unasked question and instead asked her own. “What I find strange is that you were at Bluestone at all. Talking to Sir Barty. Without me there.”

“I have spoken to Sir Barty dozens of times without you.”

“Before me. And we have an agreement.”

He held up one hand, causing her to stop, and remember her surroundings. She pasted her best countess smile on her face and gave him a cool nod to proceed.

“Don't worry. I wasn't there talking about you,” he said. “You did not even enter the conversation. I'm a man of my word.”

“Then why were you there?”

“Sir Barty's foot.”

She blinked. “His foot?”

“My friend Dr. Gray is in town and he looked at Sir Barty's foot. In fact, Rhys will be staying at Bluestone for the next few weeks. Sir Barty insisted.”

A trickle of cold ran down Leticia's spine. She remembered Dr. Gray. He had been at her sister's house, the day she had learned about the Lie. In fact, he was the one who brought it to light.

So there was yet another person in Helmsley who knew about their past. And he was on Turner's side. Wonderful.

Turner was looking at her with a bit too much glee in his eyes for her liking, so she shifted the topic of conversation.

“I am told that there was a mishap at your mill last night.”

His gaze immediately shuttered. “A piece of steam equipment was not sealed properly and it blew apart. I would not call it a mishap.”

“Oh? It was on purpose then?”

“Not on my purpose—perhaps on someone else's.”

Her gaze flew up to his. “You mean . . . sabotage?” She kept her voice low. “That's horrid! Are you all right?”

He looked at her queerly before answering. “I'm fine. And the mill is fine. The equipment was easily repaired. But I did notice that you were at the house yesterday.”

“Yes, I was calling on your mother. But I didn't notice anything strange.”

“No. You wouldn't, would you?”

He fell silent, watching her.

“You're . . . you're not asking if I had anything to do with it!” she gasped.

“You're the only person there who I can not vouch for.”

“I was at your house, not at the mill!”

“Which is right across the mill yard.”

“I didn't do anything to your stupid mill, John,” she said with more heat than she intended. Heat enough to make him glance around and take her arm, dragging her three steps away behind the curtain of a fruit stall that had sold out its wares.