Page 15 of The Heart’s Choice (Cotton Cops Mysteries #1)
Chapter 14
Losses
“T he shed’s a write-off,” Smethurst told Roger the morning after the fire. “We’re fortunate the flames didn’t get to the mill or the house.”
“I don’t believe the intention was to destroy the mill,” Roger replied, his throat parched by the lingering acrid stink of smoke. “They wanted to send a message to the workers who’ve come to rely on the soup kitchen.”
Smethurst nodded thoughtfully. “Will you start it up somewhere else?”
“Of course,” he insisted. “The workers won’t see their children go hungry. They’ll still come. This is the work of a radical. The way to make sure our workers don’t join him is to carry on providing what relief we can.”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Mr. Sandiford, but it will all be for naught if the mill’s repossessed.”
Roger should have been annoyed by his overseer’s comment, but the man had been loyal and deserved to know where they stood. “When I made the last mortgage payment, I spoke to the manager at the Westminster Bank. It seems we have a bit of breathing space. The mortgage holder died recently and his heir has yet to be told of his inheritance. Some problem tracking him down.”
“So, let’s ’ope the Americans come to their senses soon.”
“Or God grants us an unexpected windfall. I might have persuaded Joshua Brownlow to release some of the raw cotton he’s had in storage in his warehouse. His son’s courting my sister.”
“I’d sooner depend on the Americans than that greedy bugger. Hoardin’ to drive up the value.”
“He is demanding a steep price,” Roger confessed. “He wants two shillings a pound for cotton he bought for eightpence a pound. Charging three times as much is to be expected from a merchant, I suppose.”
They shared unflattering opinions of Joshua Brownlow, even suggesting he was a man capable of murder, but Roger was no closer to knowing if Smethurst was pursuing Miss Parker.
“I suspect John Smythe o’ startin’ the fire,” Miles remarked.
“That will be hard to prove,” Roger replied. “The police are having enough trouble tracking down a murderer.”
“Aye,” Miles agreed. “And they still ’ave me ’ammer. Could Smythe also be the killer?”
Roger found that possibility worrisome.
* * *
Before the fire, Bea thought her mother’s health was improving. The unfortunate incident took a toll, and Bea could no longer deny Abigail Parker was fading away. It was apparent she’d lost the will to live. Glenda’s mournful face confirmed her suspicions. The physician summoned by Lucinda Sandiford shook his head and confessed he wasn’t hopeful of a recovery.
In the course of a few days, the cough got worse. Every breath became a wheeze. Waking moments were few and far between. “It’s the laudanum,” Bea’s father insisted, but Bea accepted the real reason. Her mother was slipping away. Her father just didn’t want to admit the trek north had irreparably damaged his wife’s already fragile health.
The move to Belmont Grange was postponed.
Desperate to escape the pall of impending death hanging over her mother, Bea continued to teach the sewing and mathematics classes. When it became common knowledge that Abigail would never leave her bed, one of the women volunteered to help tend her. “Nursed me own mum at the end,” Charity told her.
Worn out and heartsick keeping vigil every night, Bea accepted. She eventually overcame Glenda’s strident objections. Convincing her father to leave his wife’s bedside was more difficult, but he finally agreed to get some sleep.
Ultimately, the wheezing stopped abruptly in the early afternoon exactly a fortnight to the day after the fire.
Bea grasped her mother’s cold hand, raised it to her cheek and wept. Abigail Parker would never stroke her daughter’s hair again.
* * *
Another death, this one closer to home, affected everyone in the Sandiford household.
Philippa sulked because the mourning interfered with the planned announcement of her engagement to Josiah Brownlow, son of the merchant hoarding raw cotton.
Lucinda saw it as an ill omen that presaged disaster. She gave up helping with the reestablished soup kitchen, and spent most of the day in her sitting room.
Arthur Parker took his wife’s death hard, repeatedly blaming himself for bringing her north when he knew her health was frail.
Miss Parker seemed determined to put on a brave face, but red-rimmed eyes told of prolonged weeping.
Many of the factory’s workers showed up at the door to offer condolences. It was a testament to the affection they felt for Arthur Parker and his daughter. They appreciated the pair’s efforts to provide relief at a difficult time.
As for Roger, he longed to take Beatrice into his arms and kiss away the hurt. Having scraped together ￡25 to make the mortgage payment, and more or less guaranteed of a delay in proceedings if he defaulted next month, he offered to foot the bill for the funeral. The undertaker owed him a few favors.
Standing behind the family in the small cemetery on the windswept moor, he watched Beatrice shiver and sway as her mother’s coffin was lowered into the ground. He almost wished she would swoon so he could rush forward and catch her, but acknowledged sadly that she was made of sterner stuff.
He bristled when a young man he didn’t recognize stepped forward, put an arm around Beatrice’s waist and supported her elbow. He clenched his jaw when she leaned into the stranger, unable to shake the feeling he’d seen the chap before somewhere.
* * *
Bea had only reconnected with Peter Leigh once since they were children, but she was grateful, if somewhat surprised, her cousin had traveled from London to attend his aunt’s funeral. He was rather too citified, too sure of himself for her liking, but he’d made the effort. She hoped he’d come out of duty and not to pursue his astonishing and unlooked-for offer of marriage. Of all the mourners gathered on this cold, damp afternoon, he and Glenda were perhaps the only ones who understood how wrong this all was. Abigail Parker should be laid to rest in the small parish graveyard in her native Dorset, not in a derelict moorland cemetery in Lancashire.
Most of the blackened, indecipherable headstones had toppled over. The only sign anyone had ventured into the small plot was the heap of dirt atop the recently departed Baron Belmont’s grave. A simple wooden cross with his name carved into it was the sole indication of who lay buried there. Algernon Fothergill, Fifth Baron Belmont .
In the few days since her mistress’ death, Glenda had shared poignant memories of first meeting Abigail Parker. Beatrice felt ashamed that she’d never realized the depth of the maid’s love.
His wife’s death had transformed Bea’s father into an automaton. Frowning, he stared into the grave as if he couldn’t believe what was happening. He’d barely spoken a word since the fateful day, and had even lost interest in smoking his pipe and reading his newspaper. Bea was grateful to Roger Sandiford, who’d taken upon himself the onus of arranging the funeral. The headstone he’d commissioned lay beside the grave, ready to be set atop it once the earth was shoveled in. Baroness Abigail Parker struck her as ludicrous in the circumstances, but Sandiford had meant well.
She sensed Roger’s presence behind her, felt it like the pull of a magnet. His mother and sister had also come, though Philippa pouted throughout the uphill trek from the Sandiford brougham.
Bea was about to turn and acknowledge Roger, but Peter stepped forward and kept her upright. Expressing her gratitude would have to wait.
* * *
Lucinda insisted the mourners adjourn to her home for tea and sandwiches. She watched over the maids serving the refreshments like a hawk. Roger deemed it unfortunate she didn’t speak to Philippa about her rude behavior. His sister’s pout and her fiancé’s sour face made it clear they didn’t want to be there. Josiah Brownlow hadn’t even attended the interment. Roger couldn’t fathom what Philippa saw in the pimple-faced chap, other than his family’s wealth.
He was rather more perturbed by the presence of the man who’d been very familiar with Beatrice at the cemetery and who’d latched on to her like a barnacle. He approached the pair and offered his hand. “Roger Sandiford,” he said.
“Peter Leigh,” came the response that accompanied a limp handshake. “Miss Parker’s cousin.”
“Peter came all the way from London,” Beatrice explained hesitantly.
“Good of him,” Roger replied, pleased that she seemed ill at ease. He wondered why a cousin she obviously barely knew had come all the way to Lancashire to attend a family funeral. He’d evidently felt entitled to put his arm around her at the graveside.
“I hear you’ve a murderer loose in your mill, Sandiford,” Leigh said.
Roger might not belong to the upper class, but he knew enough not to broach such a subject in front of a lady. Nor was it a suitable topic for a first conversation with a stranger. “The police have the matter in hand,” he replied.
“Really?” Leigh exclaimed. “I heard Sergeant Plod is floundering.”
Beatrice gasped.
Tempted to punch the southerner, Roger gritted his teeth as her cousin wandered off.
“Peter’s lodging at The Pack Horse ,” Beatrice explained nervously.
Roger knew the hotel well. Leigh must be fairly wealthy to be staying at the most expensive place in town, but his suspicions were instantly forgotten when she laid her gloved hand atop his arm. “Please accept my thanks for arranging everything, Mr. Sandiford.”
He couldn’t help himself. He took her into his arms, inhaled her perfume and murmured, “You’re welcome.”
He expected a hasty retreat and a stern rebuke. Instead, she melted into him, and his heart and body rejoiced.