Page 17 of The Heart’s Choice (Cotton Cops Mysteries #1)
Chapter 16
Whirlwind Of Events
S ubsequent events conspired to keep Roger occupied for several days. The soup kitchen became busier. His mother finally relented and took over supervision of the preparation and distribution of bread and soup. Beatrice continued the classes in sewing and mathematics. She also assumed her father’s role and helped those wishing to learn to read and write. Roger saw her briefly when their paths happened to cross. His brougham whisked her back to Belmont Grange at dusk each day.
Roger cursed Peter Leigh. But for his untimely intervention at the Grange, he’d have kissed Beatrice and made sure she understood he loved her. As it was, the pesky cousin occasionally came into town with Beatrice. At first, he showed great interest in the running of the mill, peppering Roger with all kinds of questions. He lost interest when it became obvious the mill was mostly idle.
Shortly after that, Halliwell questioned Roger about his movements the night of the murder. He claimed to have it on good authority that Roger had worked late in the mill. He refused to name his source but quickly accepted Lucinda’s confirmation that Roger had worked in his study in the house well into the night.
Roger couldn’t rid himself of the nagging suspicion Leigh was the reliable source , though he’d purportedly arrived in Bolton a good while after the murder. Beatrice’s cousin was up to something. If he’d come north in the hopes of profiting from his uncle’s elevation to the nobility, he was sadly mistaken. The Parkers were not wealthy and neither was the Belmont barony. That unfortunate truth brought a measure of comfort, but why would he want to throw suspicion onto Roger?
The Londoner seemed to have made himself at home at Belmont Grange. Roger couldn’t bear the thought of the toff and Beatrice spending evenings together.
He became involved in the hunt for John Smythe when the latter and his gang were seen setting fire to the pump-house at Hampson’s mill. Roger personally thought Smythe had cut his own throat by tangling with Hampson, whose influence brought the entire Lancashire constabulary into the manhunt.
Within a week, the firebrand and his gang were rounded up in Daubhill and sent to the Manchester Assizes for trial, after Halliwell had satisfied himself he wasn’t the killer. Smythe had apparently been setting another fire on the night in question. He probably didn’t realize how lucky he was that Hampson’s vigilantes hadn’t found him first.
In the midst of all this drama, Philippa confided to Lucinda that she was with child. A marriage was hastily arranged and guests invited to a celebratory ball to be held at Sandiford Manor. Roger dreaded the extra expense, though Joshua Brownlow released a quantity of raw cotton from his warehouse. “The least I can do,” Joshua told Lucinda, who promptly chastised him for his son’s transgression.
Roger hoped he’d have a chance to confess his love when Beatrice came to the ball.
* * *
The more Marcus Halliwell thought about it, the odder it seemed that Mr. Peter Leigh had felt it necessary to throw suspicion for the murder on Roger Sandiford. The chap hadn’t even been in Bolton when Pickering was killed, so how could he be aware of Sandiford’s movements on the night in question?
Marcus had never for a moment suspected the mill’s owner, and he’d felt mighty uncomfortable questioning him, but what choice did he have? He had to follow every lead. The superintendent had warned him about offending Sandiford. He hoped his superiors never got wind of it.
It might be worth looking into Leigh, though there was no reason to investigate a man who’d mentioned several times that he’d been in London at the time of the murder.
* * *
In Beatrice’s opinion, the only benefit to her cousin’s continued presence at Belmont Grange was that his non-stop chatter gradually coaxed her father out of his stupor.
She found herself unexpectedly comfortable in the ramshackle house. She even got used to the cats Roger had procured. When she wasn’t offering theories on the identity of the murderer, Glenda, too, bustled about as if she were a servant in some grand mansion. There were still a lot of shortcomings, and the place was drafty, but it had good bones. Sitting by the hearty coal fire, she watched smoke curl into the newly-swept chimney, and filled her head with the prospect of one day restoring the Grange to its former glory. Perhaps when the cotton famine was over and Roger’s fortunes reestablished …
It was a fanciful notion. Sandiford might be attracted to her now, but her late mother had warned that men’s affections didn’t last once they had taken what they wanted. She couldn’t picture Roger behaving in such a devious manner, but it would be well to be wary. She had no experience of men, and Lancashire was very different from Dorset. She assumed self-made men like Roger had to be ruthless in their dealings with others.
The invitation to Philippa Sandiford’s wedding celebration came as a surprise. She and Brownlow’s son had only been engaged for a short time. They struck Bea as a mismatched pair. Roger’s sister was outgoing, frivolous, and clearly ambitious. Josiah Brownlow was gangly, awkward, and plain as dishwater. He had one of those prominent Adam’s apples that attracted the eye and sickened the stomach when it bobbed up and down. Bea suspected it was the father’s fortune that drew Philippa. A knot tightened in her belly when she considered Roger might be pushing his sister to marry Josiah in order to alleviate the Sandiford family’s current financial woes. It was unlikely the headstrong Philippa Sandiford could be forced to do anything, but the possibility was perhaps another reason to be wary of Roger’s advances. Bea was completely out of her depth in this game of romance. The last few weeks had consisted of a whirlwind of exhausting events. She’d never attended a ball and longed to go to the wedding celebration, but it might be as well to decline the invitation. After all, she and her father were in mourning, and a killer was still free.
* * *
When the Parkers declined the invitation to Philippa’s celebration, Roger was keenly disappointed but he understood. They were still in mourning. It didn’t lessen his craving. Watching Philippa and Josiah exchange vows, he wished with all his heart that he and Beatrice were the couple standing before the minister.
As the ball got underway, he was exchanging small talk with the newlyweds when his sister declared, “Well, if it isn’t Miss Holier-Than-Thou herself.”
Roger’s body and heart reacted predictably when he turned to see Beatrice Parker. Even dressed in a simple black gown, she was the most beautiful woman in the room. Her odious cousin was her escort, but Roger knew she didn’t care much for Peter, so he dismissed a pang of jealous annoyance and rushed to greet them. “Welcome,” he gushed, bestowing a courtly kiss on Beatrice’s knuckles and forcing himself to shake Leigh’s hand. “I understood you weren’t coming.”
“Papa won’t be joining us,” she replied. “But Peter insisted we come.”
Thank you, Peter.
“What a magnificent room,” she exclaimed.
“Not really a ballroom, of course,” Roger explained. “This is our formal banquet room. We just pushed the tables out of the way.”
“Perfect,” Beatrice replied.
Leigh looked down his nose. “My best friend in London is the nephew of a duke. His mansion has a real ballroom.”
“Good for him,” Roger replied sarcastically. “May I have the next dance, Miss Parker?”
His hopes soared when she agreed.
“Perhaps you could join the line at the refreshment table,” he told the sulking cousin, as he took Beatrice’s hand and led her to the dance floor.
* * *
Bea would later look back on the first dance with Roger as the moment life changed forever. She wasn’t a good dancer. The opportunity to dance rarely came along in Milton Abbas, and she’d never danced a waltz. Yet, she found herself in the arms of a capable dancer and all she had to do was follow his lead when his hand on the small of her back guided her across the floor. Her feet obeyed the gentle press of his thighs. It was exhilarating and magical.
They didn’t exchange pleasantries. There was no need for words. Eyes and flared nostrils communicated a silent message. She was in love with this man and he loved her. The truth of it caused her heart to race. Her body heated when he smiled his crooked smile.
When, at the end of the set, he asked if he could seek her father’s permission to court her, she had no hesitation in responding with a shy nod.
Her exhilaration banished all thought of Peter’s assertion he had a chum whose uncle was a duke.