Page 14 of The Heart’s Choice (Cotton Cops Mysteries #1)
Chapter 13
Fire
B ea did her best to avoid Sandiford’s mother, who seemed determined to scowl at her each time their paths crossed. She suspected Roger had told her about the incident at the Grange, but didn’t know how to explain her foolish reaction to the mother of the man she’d rebuffed. She couldn’t explain it to herself. It was uncomfortable living in the house ruled by a woman who clearly held her in low esteem. So much for Meg’s assertion Lucinda Sandiford was intent on playing Cupid. The thought should have been amusing but Bea wasn’t amused.
On the other hand, Roger’s mother seemed to go out of her way to be friendly to Bea’s parents, always asking her father about Mrs. Parker’s health, and even visiting the sickroom on occasion. She complimented Arthur on the success of his literacy classes. Bea was afforded no such accolades for her sewing and mathematics classes, of which she was justifiably proud.
Annoyed with herself for craving even a word of praise from Sandiford himself, she was surprised when he dropped into the mathematics class unannounced. She and her pupils were in his study, so she could hardly object.
She was unnerved when he folded his arms, braced his long legs, and watched from the rear for a while. He really was a sinfully attractive man. That naughty thought sent icy heat flooding through her veins. She breathed more easily when he turned his attention to the shelves of leather-bound tomes that lined one wall.
She had become fond of his study. This was evidently where he smoked cigars in the evening. The pungent aroma lingered. She pictured him relaxing in one of the red leather armchairs in front of the hearth, perhaps reading a book, perhaps thinking of her—good thoughts, she hoped.
He made decisions in this room, and she didn’t envy him the difficult choices he faced now.
The lesson over, she dismissed her students, holding her breath when Sandiford sauntered over to his desk where she was gathering her teaching materials.
“You’re a gifted teacher, Miss Parker,” he said.
“Thank you,” she replied, her heart rejoicing. “I find it helps if I use visual aids they’re familiar with.”
“Like the cotton cops,” he said, holding up one of the spindles wound with thread.
“Yes, I hope you don’t mind my borrowing them from the mill. Mr. Smethurst got them for me. He said it would be all right.”
“Capital idea,” he replied. “Your efforts are helping more than you know. Carry on.”
She watched him leave, perplexed by the rapid beating of her heart. Why was she incapable of speaking with Roger Sandiford without craving his kiss?
* * *
Leaving the study, Roger clenched his jaw. Beatrice Parker and Miles Smethurst? Surely not. His overseer might still be a murder suspect, yet she’d felt comfortable asking him for help. Perhaps the problem wasn’t that she considered herself superior, but rather inferior to the likes of a mill owner.
Annoyed to admit feelings of jealousy, he quickly dismissed the preposterous idea, but resolved to keep an eye on Miles Smethurst. He was the only employee still being paid full wages, though he had precious little to do these days. However, he was good at his job. Docking his wages might result in him looking for work elsewhere. When the American war finally ended, Roger didn’t want to find himself getting the mill up and running again without an overseer—if the building hadn’t been repossessed by the mortgage holder.
At least local troublemakers had stayed away from his factory, thanks he was sure to the relief measures he’d put in place. Or perhaps they were afraid of bumping up against a killer. Rumor had it John Smythe was one of the ringleaders of the unrest. Smythe probably harbored a grudge against Roger for sacking him after the smoking incident. He hoped the fellow wouldn’t find support among the workers if he took a notion to suggest an attack against Broadclough. He idly wondered if Smythe had an alibi for the night of the murder, but Halliwell had likely pursued that avenue of inquiry. Nevertheless, it might be as well to double the night watch at the earliest opportunity.
* * *
Bea hadn’t yet fallen asleep, though it must be well past midnight. Earlier in the day, Glenda had reported that Belmont Grange was more or less habitable. Bea welcomed the prospect of moving to a home of her own, but leaving the Sandiford household meant not seeing Roger every day. It also had ramifications for the lessons she conducted. It would be risky to travel into town in the dilapidated carriage they’d found in the derelict stables, and they had no horse in any case.
Strident male voices suddenly broke the silence. Loud footsteps. People running, shouting. She tumbled out of bed when someone rapped on her bedroom door. The cries were louder now. FIRE! FIRE!
“Miss Parker, the mill’s on fire. We must get your mother out of the house now.”
Hastily shrugging on her wrapper, she cracked open the door. “Roger!” she gasped, her eyes drawn to the smattering of dark curls visible at the open neck of his shirt. It was the first time she’d seen him in shirtsleeves and without a neckcloth. Her mouth fell open as desire rippled through her.
He stared hungrily at her disheveled appearance, longing darkening his narrowed eyes. “Beatrice,” he rasped.
The spell was broken when the door to her parents’ adjacent room opened. “What’s going on?” her father demanded.
Resolute now, Roger strode past him. “We must get Mrs. Parker to safety in case the fire spreads to the house.”
“You should be fighting the fire,” Bea told him, as she watched him scoop up her mother, counterpane and all, from her sickbed. “We’ll take care of ourselves.”
Clearly intent on his mission, he ignored her. She and her father followed him downstairs, out of the house and into the mill yard. The housemaids huddled together, the flames from the fire highlighting the fear on their faces. Dressed in her usual black bombazine, Lucinda Sandiford stood apart, stony-faced as ever, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
An army of men had formed a line, passing buckets of water.
Roger set Bea’s mother on her feet. “I have to go,” he shouted over the din.
Bea nodded as she and her father propped up her mother. “We’ll see to her.”
He ran off to join the fight.
Smoke billowed, making it difficult to breathe. As Bea peered into the gray clouds, it appeared to her that the fire was confined to the storage shed housing the soup kitchen.