The Lie and the Lady (28 page)

And all it took was one glance in the direction of Mr. Turner and Dr. Gray, who were deep in conversation, and Margaret accepted Blackwell's offer of escort.

Leticia had to trot to catch up to them before they got too far. And she pulled Turner along with her.

“What were you doing, abandoning Margaret to Blackwell's clutches?” she scolded though her panting.

“Blackwell has clutches now, does he?” Turner scowled. “And I had to talk to Rhys—he's been giving me questions to ask Margaret about her research. He knows a great deal more about it than I.”

“Can't even talk to a girl on your own now?” she asked.

“Depends on the girl,” Turner muttered under his breath, and shot her a rueful smile. She couldn't help but laugh.

This “working together” was off to an admirable start.

Of course, they caught up to Margaret and Blackwell in the orchard before anything untoward could happen. Margaret was even laughing—a bit too loudly, but for all the world seemingly entranced by Blackwell. And when she saw Leticia and Turner, Leticia thought she saw for the briefest of moments . . .

Disappointment.

Did that . . . did that mean that Margaret wanted to be alone with Blackwell? Oh dear.

Leticia decided she would berate herself later for her ill-fated advice to Margaret.

And Blackwell did glare at Leticia, as if saying that this interruption was a breach of whatever deal he'd thought he'd fostered. But after one small aside to Blackwell, noting that “Turner was adamant about following after Margaret. And I cannot have her with one gentleman alone, let alone two,” the man returned to his normal, slimy sort of charm.

The rest of the day had gone well enough. Helen and Sir Barty passed a marvelous afternoon of cribbage, the game still being far too close to call. Blackwell lingered as long as he was able, trying to weasel an invitation to stay from Sir Barty, but luckily the man's foot was putting him in a bit of a temper and they decided to call it a day rather early.

The more she thought about it, the more she saw Mr. Blackwell as a danger. Not toward herself—she could handle herself—but toward Margaret. His displays of admiration were so overt, so florid, that they practically smelled rancid. In any other situation he would be laughed at, and then assiduously avoided. But Margaret did not have the experience with men to know that his overtures were foul or how to handle them. He was of the type who would use anything to his advantage, even—especially—a girl's naïveté.

Thus, Leticia knew she could not leave Blackwell alone with Margaret. And since Turner had to be at the mill on Tuesday, Leticia would have to take Margaret to pay calls with her.

“But it's not market day,” Margaret protested. “There is no hope of acquiring fish carcasses. And why Mrs. Emory? You do not even like her.”

“Sometimes, Margaret, I am afraid people must go into town simply to spend time in the company of people they do not like.”

“Yet another social custom I will never understand,” Margaret grumbled.

“And yet again I agree with you, but it must be done. For Mr. Turner's sake.”

“Mr. Turner?” That brought Margaret up short, added pink to her cheeks. No matter Blackwell's influence, it seemed that Turner still had the ability to make her blush—something Leticia never imagined she would be thankful for, but there it was. “What has he to do with Mrs. Emory?”

“You'll find out today,” Leticia said. “Now, I need you to do something for me. While we are with Mrs. Emory and her ilk, I need you to agree with everything I say.”

Margaret again looked skeptical. “What's in it for me?”

“With any luck, an incredibly quick visit to Mrs. Emory and then a tour of a fascinating mechanical wonder.”

That was more than enough to have Margaret agreeing, and as they nestled in among the other ladies in Mrs. Emory's parlour, Leticia could only hope Margaret's agreeableness would last.

“Mrs. Robertson, I am terribly glad to see you. I had hoped to find you in your shop, but it was closed.”

“Er, yes.” Mrs. Robertson glanced at Mrs. Emory. “We are closed on Tuesday mornings. For . . . restocking? Yes, restocking.”

How the store was meant to be restocked when its sole employee was abovestairs attending to the shop owner's whims was left unresolved.

“No matter!” Leticia said brightly, and whipped the magazine pages out from the folio she'd carried under her arm. “I wanted to return these to you.”

“Oh dear—did you not find anything fashionable enough for you?” Mrs. Emory's voice dripped with sarcasm. “Heaven knows we cannot approximate Paris fashions here, us simple folk in the country.”

She tittered as she said this, and a number of the other ladies tittered in agreement.

“Oh, but you can!” Leticia replied, allowing a dazzling smile to smother any slight. “Perhaps you are unable to, but that is why you turned your shop over to Mrs. Robertson, whose skill with a needle is unparalleled, if those gowns in the window are anything to go by.”

Mrs. Robertson blushed under the compliment, and suddenly, all attention was turned to her.

Mrs. Emory turned red for an entirely different reason.

“I thought you were absolutely correct, Mrs. Robertson—the second dress you had in the pile, the one with the lace overlay? Absolutely delightful! I refuse to wear anything else for my wedding.”

“Oh, my lady!” Mrs. Robertson cried. “I knew that would look best on you. Now the drawing showed three rows of flounces on the hem, but I find myself rather against flounces, don't you? We should let the cut and the material speak for itself . . .”

“Yes, of course,” Leticia said, nodding. Then she turned to Margaret. “Margaret, what is your opinion on flounces?”

Margaret's head again came up. “Ah . . . they are rather too showy?”

And she was rewarded with the broadest of smiles from Mrs. Robertson—and Miss Goodhue next to her.

“Oh yes, Miss Babcock!” Miss Goodhue said, not noticing her own dress had three flounces. “I think you're absolutely right—to appear tall and elegant ladies should eschew flounces.”

Margaret looked down at the overeager (and so very much shorter) Miss Goodhue with something akin to bewilderment.

“And with an ivory silk under the lace,” Mrs. Robertson was saying. “Oh, if only I had my pencils, I could sketch it for you right now! We could go down to the shop—”

“Moira!” Mrs. Emory cried. Then an uneasy smile settled on her face. “There is no need for that. It's our day for receiving callers.”

“True,” Leticia replied. “There is no need to go down to the shop. After all, I'll just have Mrs. Robertson come up to Bluestone and take my measurements there.”

From the hue that Mrs. Emory took on, Leticia was reminded that envy indeed had a color. And it wasn't ivory silk under lace.

“That is . . . very good of you, my lady,” Mrs. Emory bit out.

“Pish,” Leticia said, waving that away. “It's not good of me. It's commerce. I am in need of Mrs. Robertson's services. That is, after all, the point of business.”

“It is,” Margaret agreed. Miss Goodhue nodded as well.

“I am surprised you have knowledge of how business works, my lady.” Mrs. Emory's eyes became steely. Really, her attitude of immediate dislike was as stubborn as it was unfathomable. “I am informed that true ladies do not sully themselves with such practices.”

“As a lady, I prefer not to limit myself,” Leticia said, sending a wink toward Margaret, who blinked back her shock. “But really, it's simply common sense. Good work begets business, and business begets more business. And one business helps another. After all, if Mrs. Robertson's work is as stunning as I know it will be, she will have oodles of people asking her to create gowns for them. And that brings people into Helmsley, which in turn has them buying other goods here.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Emory agreed. “However, this is hardly a topic of conversation for this group–”

“Why ever not?” Leticia asked. “After all, there are more women of business in this room than not. And I speak as one of the not. You, Mrs. Emory, own this building. Mrs. Robertson runs your millinery shop. There are women here who manage the business of the home while men go out into the fields. Mrs. Spilsby is the vicar's wife, so while her husband attends to the spirit, she does the practical work of attending to the body through, I'd guess, half a dozen charities. Am I right, Mrs. Spilsby?”

It was Miss Goodhue who piped up from next to Margaret, however.

“She does so very much! The meals we organize for those women having their lying in, and those who are infirm or elderly. Oh, Miss Babcock, I do think they would love your flowers—perhaps we can arrange a showing or to have some sent around with the baskets . . .”

Leticia smiled. “Miss Goodhue will sing your praises, Mrs. Spilsby, even if you will not. However, praise is most certainly due for you sending me young Rebecca. She is a wonder at pastries and cakes. Cook is taking her completely under her wing—I'll be hard-pressed to give her back after the wedding!”

“Oh, thank you, my lady,” Mrs. Spilsby said, blushing. “But I am not her employer, I merely knew she was looking for a situation. She is free to stay on with you if you wish.”

“There! You see, the business of taking care of the town is always left up to the women.”

“Er, had I known you were serious about needing someone to make a wedding cake,” Mrs. Emory began weakly, “my Wendra is widely regarded as the best baker in town.”

Leticia took the opportunity to let her gaze fall over Mrs. Emory's stout form. “I'm sure that's the case, but I know you simply couldn't do without her.” And there was no way she was letting Mrs. Emory's tattletale under Bluestone Manor's roof. After all, now that she had promoted Molly to her own ladies' maid, and made her discretion a condition of the position, she had plugged that leak.

Wendra and Mrs. Emory must be absolutely chomping at the bit for information.

As if to emphasize the point, she reached over and took a little frosted tea cake from the tray in front of Mrs. Emory. Bit off the tiniest corner of it. Then tightened the corners of her mouth, as if hiding a grimace, and delicately put down the tea cake.

And everyone saw.

Silence fell over the room as each of the ladies in attendance contemplated their own tea cake, and one by one put them all down.

Leticia smiled serenely, hiding the fact that she had won the room.

Mrs. Emory did not hide the fact that she was livid.

“I am afraid I do not understand to what your speech tends,” Mrs. Emory said stiffly. “We are simple country folk, after all. The ways of town are completely foreign to us.”

“Well, then I'll talk slowly, for your sake,” Leticia purred. “I grew up in a town very much like this one. And whether living there or in London or in a castle, people need each other. One cannot be prosperous at the expense of another. Everyone must be prosperous together. Especially when you live next door to them. Our fortunes and futures are all tied together.”

A murmur of agreement went through the group.

“That is exactly what my darling Enoch preaches,” Mrs. Spilsby said, nodding.

“And I'm certain everyone here would agree with that sentiment,” Mrs. Emory hastened to assure. “Myself in particular.”

“Then why are you so against the Turner Grain Mill reopening?” Leticia asked. She said it sweetly, but the bite behind the words did not go unnoticed. “After all, it would be nothing but good for the town to have the mill working again.”

“I quite agree,” Margaret said, without any prompting.

Mrs. Emory drew herself up in her seat, puffing herself up. Fire lit her eyes, ready to do battle.

“I would like nothing better for the town to have a working mill again,” she said smoothly. “However, I have no faith that the Turner Grain Mill will ever function properly.”

“Oh really? Why?”

“Other than the fact that the property has burned twice in the last six years? The explosion just last week? The current Mr. Turner never ran the mill before. His father did, but the son went off to war and left for years. And now he comes back with newfangled ideas and steam equipment—and nothing ruins wheat like steam, mind you—trying to tell us all everything will be better than before? What was wrong with the way it has been the past six years? Mr. Blackwell has kept the grain milled in a timely fashion, from what my friends tell me. If the Turners really wanted to do something for the town, they could sell the business to Mr. Blackwell and have him run it—that way we'd have a mill and someone proper in charge. Or burn the property down, since that is what will happen anyway once that nefarious machinery is turned on. And it will likely burn down the entire town this time.

“You say our fortunes and our futures are all tied together, and they are endangering mine.”

“Is that so?” Leticia replied. “So you have no hope at all that the mill will work?”

“No. Although I truly wish it were otherwise. And you can tell them that, my lady,” Mrs. Emory finished triumphantly. “Seeing as how you have become such good friends with them.”

Leticia rose to her feet. “Actually, Mrs. Emory, I think you should tell them.”

“What?” her adversary replied, astonished. “What is this?”

“You say you wish the mill were operational. Why don't we go see if it is?” She held out her hand, the offer of a bargain. In Mrs. Emory's own sitting room. In front of everyone. “Right now.”

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