Page 10 of The Heart’s Choice (Cotton Cops Mysteries #1)
Chapter 9
Beyond Repair
G lenda was not a small woman. Her bulk took up most of one bench in the carriage. Bea couldn’t very well sit next to Sandiford, nor could he be expected to squeeze in with Glenda, so Bea sat beside her. The hint of a smile tugging at Sandiford’s lips confirmed she looked ridiculous squashed up in a corner of the brougham.
His nose twitched, indicating that he too found the aroma of the maid’s eau de toilette overwhelming.
Unfortunately, her garrulous maid evidently couldn’t resist bringing up the investigation into the murder. “Who do you think did it, Mr. Sandiford?” she asked.
Bea cringed. “I’m sure the police would prefer Mr. Sandiford not discuss the matter.”
“And such a violent crime isn’t a topic for ladies to discuss,” he added.
“Well,” Glenda went on undaunted. “The servants reckon Mr. Smethurst did it. And I agree.”
Bea couldn’t resist a chuckle. “You told me you thought Pickering had killed his own son.”
“But that was before the police confiscated Smethurst’s hammer.”
“They also have Billy Wiggins’ hammer,” Sandiford told them. “What do you make of that, Miss Glenda?”
Eyes wide, Bea’s maid folded her arms across her copious bosom and sulked.
It was tempting to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. As if a respectable man and woman couldn’t undertake a short journey without a chatty servant as chaperone. However, she suspected that even in the north, people would frown upon such a circumstance.
In the few days she’d been in Bolton, she’d learned the conservative Wesleyans largely dictated what was socially acceptable.
The more time she spent with Roger Sandiford, the more she liked him. He was an intelligent and successful man of the world, and there were a thousand questions she thirsted to ask him. Conversations among her sewing circle in Dorset consisted almost entirely of cooking tips, cake recipe exchanges, and the latest colors of embroidery silks.
But Glenda would disapprove. Young ladies didn’t fraternize with members of the opposite sex.
She closed her eyes and smiled when the notion of vibrant colors brought Odlum’s bright yellow pantaloons to mind.
* * *
Despite the unwelcome presence of the maid, Beatrice Parker’s closeness to Roger had resulted in a state of pleasant arousal—until she closed her eyes and smiled. His cock immediately rose to the occasion, a circumstance his long frock coat fortunately hid from Glenda. He’d wager the portly maid knew a thing or two about the male body.
He wondered what thoughts had prompted Miss Parker’s smile. Was she dreaming of kissing him? He licked his lips, praying it might be so. If he kissed her, would she allow his hand to wander to a generous breast? He’d wager it would fill his hand nicely.
The maid’s loud cough caused Miss Parker’s eyes to fly open and brought him back to his senses. Years of struggling to succeed in the competitive world of industry had taught him rigid self-discipline, and he quickly banished carnal thoughts. If only persuading his cock to calm itself were as easy, especially with the object of his desire within reach. “Not far now,” he declared, taking out his pocket watch as if he cared about the time.
Five minutes later, they came to a halt in front of the Grange. The workers had already started clearing away some of the overgrown wildflowers and weeds.
“Lord God Almighty,” Glenda declared, as she peered out the window.
“You should have seen it before,” Miss Parker replied, bestowing a knowing smile on Roger that only hardened his arousal further.
His footman lowered the carriage steps. Roger stepped down quickly and offered his hand to Beatrice before the servant had a chance to assist her. “Let him help the maid,” he thought unkindly, as Miss Parker accepted his hand.
Their eyes met when her feet touched the ground. So much for controlling carnal thoughts and his unruly manhood. Certain of an unspoken attraction in her green eyes, he offered his arm. “Allow me to escort you,” he said, all his financial troubles pushed aside when she linked her arm in his.
* * *
Marcus found the encounter with Billy Wiggins somewhat amusing. The fellow sought him out and handed over his hammer without being asked! However, his actions could be a ploy. He was another employee who hated Malcolm Pickering. The lad seemed to have got up everyone’s nose. Could Wiggins have struck out at the victim in a moment of blind rage? Try as he might, Marcus couldn’t imagine the affable spinners’ gaffer resorting to violence.
He made a mental note to track down John Smythe. Several people had mentioned him as a possible suspect because Sandiford had sacked him for smoking. How Smythe’s resentment might be connected to the killing had yet to be established.
* * *
When they entered the Grange, Bea reluctantly let go of Roger Sandiford’s arm. There was a certain rightness about walking arm in arm with him, as if … but she mustn’t let her thoughts wander in that direction. It would be too easy to come to rely on his solid strength, on his charm, on his crooked smile and beguiling dark eyes.
They were from different worlds, and the gap would only widen once her father took up his position as Baron Belmont. Besides which, there was trouble brewing in the cotton industry, and she didn’t know enough about the local community to be embroiled in solving problems she didn’t fully understand. A shortage of work meant unrest. The Grange might be the safest place to be with a killer on the loose.
When Sandiford excused himself to check on men working on the windows, she approached three women on their knees scrubbing layers of grime on the tiled floor in the foyer. One of them looked pale and haggard. She had a persistent cough that reminded Bea of the tour. They immediately scrambled to their feet and bobbed a curtsey. “Don’t leave off on my account,” she told them. “I don’t envy you the task of cleaning this place.”
“Seen worse, miss,” the young woman with the cough replied, as they knelt to their task once more.
There was something vaguely familiar about the girl. “I’m Beatrice Parker. Didn’t I see you in the mill the other day?” she asked, extending a hand. Women exchanging handshakes was a curious northern custom she felt she should adopt.
“Aye, Bridget Mann,” the girl replied, accepting the gesture with surprising strength.
About to continue the conversation, Bea was thrown off guard when Glenda seized her arm and pulled her away. “Don’t try to befriend them,” the maid cautioned. “You’re the baron’s daughter and they’re working-class skivvies. Besides, one of them could be the murderer.”
Hoping the three women hadn’t heard the insulting remarks, Bea was irritated by the snobbery of a woman who’d spent her life in service. Glenda’s opinion of the killer’s identity changed by the moment. Nevertheless, she deemed the busy foyer an unsuitable place to start an argument with Glenda, who evidently considered herself superior to local working women.
She decided to wander through the main rooms of the house, relieved when Glenda marched off, having declared a desire to inspect the kitchens.
In the drawing room, Bea came across Sandiford. He was watching men installing new panes of glass in the large windows. “Splendid,” she declared. “This room will benefit from the light.”
“Aye, miss,” one fellow replied as he removed his cloth cap. “We’re grateful to thee and Mr. Sandiford fer givin’ us extra work.”
Bea’s legs trembled. How could she have been so obtuse? It had never occurred to her someone must be footing the bill for all this work. In Dorset, parishioners had often done odd jobs for the local vicar without expecting payment. More importantly, she had a new appreciation for Sandiford. He cared about his workers. He couldn’t give them work in the mill, so he was paying them to assist her family. But pride obliged her to make a ridiculous offer. “I’ll speak to my father about defraying your expenses,” she told Sandiford, knowing full well her parents had little money.
His smile fled and she realized belatedly that she’d injured his pride. “That won’t be necessary,” he retorted, his tone as starched as his winged collar.
* * *
Roger often cursed his stubborn pride, a sin Miss Parker was also guilty of. He doubted her father had money to spare. Neither did he, yet he gleefully agreed to cover the cost of new curtains for all the rooms when Miss Parker lamented the woeful state of the moth-eaten rags hanging at the windows.
He had to admire the way she went from room to room, cheerfully insisting the house would be a fine place to live once the grime was removed. She examined ancient pieces of furniture and declared they’d prove to be marvelous antiques once they were restored. He’d have consigned the whole decrepit lot to the rag-and-bone men. Philippa would faint dead away if he suggested she live at Belmont Grange.
Beatrice Parker was made of sterner stuff than he’d given her credit for.
An easy camaraderie blossomed between them as they toured the old house. They laughed at the same things. He’d later regret letting his guard down and giving voice to his feelings. “I’m becoming very fond of you, Beatrice,” he confessed, taking hold of her hand and raising it to his lips. “More than fond.”
He bristled when she snatched her hand away.
“Come now, Mr. Sandiford,” she replied haughtily. “A gentleman would never say such things to a lady.”
Roger clenched his jaw, seething at the insult. “You find it offensive that I’ve revealed my feelings?”
“Surely you don’t think there can be anything between us. We should return to town. I’ll fetch Glenda.”
Roger fumed. As far as he was concerned, that was the last blow he’d ever allow Miss Parker to deliver to his pride.