Page 5 of The Incident at Ingleton (Beau Monde Secrets #3)

Y oung Mr. Haworth must be up to something, Hester concluded. But what? She had only overheard bits and snatches of his private conversation with Lady Inglewhite, but she’d heard enough to speculate that something criminal was afoot.

She couldn’t imagine, though, why Lady Inglewhite would have anything to do with the crime. A wealthy countess could have no reason to steal—not unless she’d somehow run up gambling debts. Such things did happen; something similar had happened to Hester’s older brother, Lord Crowthorne, who resorted to stealing jewelry at a house party in an attempt to pay off his debts. In theory, Lady Inglewhite could have a secret like that.

But Hester felt certain there must be a better explanation. For one thing, she might very well have misunderstood what little she’d heard. She had not, after all, heard either Mr. Haworth or the countess reveal an intention to commit crimes. Nor had the conversation constituted a confession of past crimes.

Hester knew only that Lady Inglewhite and her cousin shared some secret connected to theft and—if she’d heard correctly—to philanthropy. Philanthropies, she knew, were often managed by a clergyman, or connected to religious organizations. What if Frank was somehow involved in this situation? Or was about to be dragged into it? After Crowthorne’s theft and Hester’s scandalous public kiss, Frank could not afford to be involved in anything the least bit dodgy. Probably he had nothing to do with the case, but Hester resolved to keep an eye open and ear out for any scraps of information related to the matter, just in case.

Since Mr. Haworth was Rose’s cousin, as well as Lady Inglewhite’s, Hester had plenty of opportunities to observe him over the next week. He chatted with Rose after church on Sunday morning, dropped in to visit on Monday afternoon, and dined at the vicarage on Wednesday.

Though Hester kept a wary eye on Mr. Haworth, she didn’t hear him say anything in the least bit incriminating, or even particularly interesting. His conversation tended to focus on the current news from London and Manchester, and on events in the lives of his extended family. Occasionally he discussed recent advances in natural history or medicine, but that seemed to be his only interest outside his work.

The Haworth family had made their fortune through West Indian trade, so Hester assumed Mr. Walter Haworth helped run the family business. Naturally, he couldn’t discuss something as crude as trade or finances in mixed company, so she had very little idea of what work he did. Something to do with refining or selling sugar, probably—wasn’t that the sort of thing merchants in Bristol did?

Neville Butler, Frank’s curate, also paid frequent calls at the vicarage. Unlike Mr. Haworth, Mr. Butler improved upon further acquaintance. On Tuesday, he and Hester had a pleasant conversation about poetry and their favorite poets.

Mr. Butler avowed himself a fan of Percy Shelley and Lord Byron. Hester, on the other hand, preferred the work of Maria Grammar, an obscure poetess from Cumberland. Mr. Butler had never even heard of her work, but that was no surprise. No one Hester met ever seemed to have heard of Grammar’s first book of poems, The Waters of Dreaming. Mr. Butler promised to keep an eye out for any of Maria Grammar’s poems, which was more than most people were willing to do.

On Friday, Mr. Haworth was invited to take tea and play cards after dinner. Rose and Frank teamed up together and thoroughly trounced Hester and Mr. Haworth at a game of whist. Rose celebrated their victory with a smothered yawn, then suggested an early end to the evening.

“It really wasn’t fair,” Mr. Haworth argued. “Since you two are married, you had an advantage in reading each other’s faces. My partner and I don’t know each other well enough to read each other’s signs.” He caught Hester’s eye and shrugged his shoulders. She smiled wryly in commiseration.

“Table talk is a form of cheating,” Frank reminded him. “I hope you are not suggesting that I, a devout son of the Church, cheated at cards?” He arched his eyebrows.

“It wouldn’t even be worthwhile to cheat, since we’re playing for counters rather than coins.” Rose gathered up the counters to return to their box, while Frank shuffled the cards.

Mr. Haworth snorted. “And a good thing, too! It’s never wise to gamble with your relatives. A sore loser might hold a grudge and ruin every family party for decades.”

Rose laughed. “Maybe in other families, but not in ours.” She turned her smile towards Hester and invited her into the conversation. “Does your family play whist, Lady Hester? Or do you prefer other games?”

Hester frowned. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d played a game of any sort with her siblings. “My father does not like us to gamble.” She clamped her mouth shut afterward, hoping no one would ask why.

It had been decades since the current Marquis of Reading lost a fortune on the tables, but there were plenty of people who might still remember his youthful excesses. His gambling might not have been as legendary as his raking, but it was bad enough. Hester did not want to remind anyone of the Bracknell family’s disgraceful past. Sufficient unto the day were the scandals thereof, she reasoned.

“A very wise position,” Mr. Haworth said. “People have lost whole fortunes to the tables.”

“Yes,” Hester said softly. “I know.” She looked across the table at Frank, wondering if he felt as uncomfortable with the topic as she did. But he was occupied with putting the cards neatly in their box, and showed no awareness that the conversation might have wandered onto thin ice.

“I have never understood people who spend thousands of pounds on card games or dice,” Rose said. “If I were going to waste a fortune, I would spend it on hats and jewels.”

Frank chuckled, but he also reached across the table to take hold of her hand. “The wife of a country clergyman probably has few chances to show off Parisian fashions or flashy gemstones. Ingleton is not even big enough to have assembly rooms of its own.”

“It’s true.” Rose scrunched up her face, but a giggle belied the expression of distaste. “I suppose I might show off the latest modes when we dine at the castle, but it hardly seems worth impressing Richard and Ivy. I don’t believe Richard would even notice whether a gown was new or ten years old.”

Frank grinned. “No, fashion is not Inglewhite’s strong suit,” he agreed. “Ivy might notice what you wear, but I doubt she would judge anyone negatively for wearing fashions that are passe.”

Mr. Haworth jumped back into the conversation. “My sister, Freddy, is married to the chaplain at an orphanage, and she sometimes grumbles about the way clergymen’s wives are supposed to dress in accordance with their rank while simultaneously being so spiritual and unworldly that they are above caring for fashion and furbelows.”

“What could be wrong with fashion?” Hester stared at him, puzzled. Women were supposed to dress fashionably in order to show off their family’s wealth and their own good taste. According to Mama, dressing appropriately for a given social occasion was an important skill.

A smile teased at the corners of Mr. Haworth’s mouth. “Nothing is wrong with fashion, unless people spend money on it that should have been spent on something else.”

She thought at first that Mr. Haworth was mocking her, but his voice sounded too kind for that. She wondered what, exactly, he meant by money that “should have been spent on something else.” Maybe he had in mind people who skimped on wages for their staff in order to pay the dressmaker’s bills.

“And I suppose the same is true of most luxuries,” Frank put in. “Eating French cuisine when one’s tenants are starving is bad form. Or it ought to be.”

Hester’s mouth gaped open. “When did you get so serious, Frank? I remember when you spent hours learning to tie a cravat just to impress—”

Frank held up his hand to stop her and chuckled. “Please, Hetty, don’t tell Rose those stories! The Haworths are rather serious people, you know. They will not understand our ways.”

Our ways, meaning the Bracknell family? Or our ways, meaning the ton ? Hester could not tell which he meant. Either way, her brother had provided her with a new way to tease him. For the first time that evening, a genuine smile broke across Hester’s face.

“Very well, Frank. I won’t tell them how many hours you spent searching for the perfect cologne at Truefitt & Hill.” He had taken her with him to run errands that day, promising her an ice at Gunter’s when they were done. She very clearly remembered waiting hungrily for him to find the perfect cologne. Perhaps it hadn’t literally taken hours, but every minute seemed like an eternity to a girl who just wanted an ice.

A flush of red rose on Frank’s cheekbones. “That was back before I was ordained! I was still rather frivolous then.”

“He still wears Spanish Leather.” Rose covered one side of her mouth as she spoke, as if whispering a secret.

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to smell pleasant.” Frank’s blush had faded, but he kept his gaze fixed on the card table. “Don’t we owe it to our neighbors not to stink?”

“I have never cared for cologne myself,” said Mr. Haworth. “The scents seem too strong to me, even when people use only a dab. And when someone wears too much perfume or cologne, it feels like a punch in the nose.” He wrinkled his nose and shuddered theatrically.

“Yes, strong scents give me a headache,” Hester admitted. “I prefer lavender water or rose water.” Those fragrances were more subtle, and they didn’t linger for as long. “I suspect many of the people who wear too much scent really need to make better use of their soap. Scented soap bothers me much less than cologne.”

“Scented soaps are rather beyond most people’s pocketbooks. But maybe advances in manufacturing will make them less expensive.” Mr. Haworth rose to his feet and pushed his chair back.

“Leaving so soon?” A yawn undercut Rose’s protest.

“I need sleep,” Mr. Haworth said, “and so do you, I suspect. But you’ll be dining up at the castle next week, will you not?”

“We will,” Frank agreed. “I’ll be interested in hearing the news from London. Ingleton may know things that aren’t yet in the papers.”

This was news to Hester, who hadn’t heard about the dinner invitation, but she had no objection to dining at the castle. Her interest in the upcoming dinner party only grew when she learned that Mr. Butler would be attending, too. He’d been so busy with his work over the last couple of days that she hadn’t had a chance to chat with him.

That changed the day before the dinner party, when she ran into the curate outside the church. Hester had brought a book and a blanket outside, so she could sit in the shade of the enormous yew tree that graced one corner of the churchyard.

Hester had been looking at the book in her hand instead of where she was going, and she would have crashed into the young curate if he had not caught hold of her arm to stop her. His touch startled her with all the force of a gunshot.

“Lady Hester! Are you quite all right?” he asked anxiously.

She looked up and blinked, surprised to find him standing so close to her. “I am fine.” She glanced down at her arm, still in his grip. She could not decide whether to be grateful to him for protecting her from accident, or indignant because of the liberty he’d taken.

He released her at once, and stepped back to give her space. “My apologies! I did not want you to get hurt.”

“Thank you.” Hester stood awkwardly in place for a moment, not sure what to say in this situation. “I hope you are doing well?”

Mr. Butler smiled broadly, revealing a dimple at the corner of his mouth. “I am doing quite well, thank you.” His eyes drifted down to the cloth-bound book Hester clutched to her chest. “Is that another collection of Miss Grammar’s poems?”

“No, I don’t have a copy of her most recent book. It came out after I’d already left London for the country. I suppose there might be a bookseller somewhere hereabouts that could order it for me.”

“Ah, that’s a shame. I shall have to keep my eyes open for it.”

“That would be very kind of you.” But also, rather pointless. Frank said there was a good bookseller in Lancaster, but Hester doubted it would carry the work of such an obscure poetess.

She nodded politely and began to move past Mr. Butler. To her surprise, he turned on his heel and walked beside her all the way to the shade of the yew tree. As they wended their way past grave markers stained by time or leaning at a tilt, she snuck a quick glance up at Mr. Butler’s face. He wore a pleasant expression, but she could read no hint of what he was thinking.

“Have you ever taken gravestone rubbings, Lady Hester?”

Hester cocked her head. “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Butler.” Of all the things he might have said to her, she had not expected that.

“I had a friend in college whose hobby was collecting tombstone rubbings,” he explained. “He used a large piece of paper and some artist’s charcoal.” Mr. Butler stopped beside a small, upright tombstone to demonstrate. “He’d hold the paper against the surface of the stone, then rub charcoal over it. A record of the engraving would be left on paper. He framed some of the finest ones and hung them on his wall.”

“Interesting.” Hester drew her brows down as she studied the moss-covered lettering on the stone. “But it seems a rather morbid thing to hang on your walls.”

“I suppose it is different if the tombstone belongs to your ancestor,” Mr. Butler suggested. “Or if you have some other local connection. But at least if people take rubbings of the tombstones, there is a record on paper, should the stone later break or be lost.”

How did a gravestone get lost ? Hester wondered. Before she could ask, Mr. Butler continued talking.

“Anyway, if you were to look at the birth and death dates on all these grave markers, you’d see that many of the deceased were young children.”

“Isn’t that always the case? Young children are so fragile.” Hester herself had lost two siblings. One had been stillborn before her own birth, and the other died of croup at only two months old. Hester still remembered the second loss, including the way her mother retreated from the rest of the family to mourn in silence. It had been a dark time in the household.

“Indeed.” Mr. Butler’s face fell into solemn lines. “That’s precisely why I’m interested in the Havisham Hospital plan. I don’t know if you’ve heard of it?”

“Noooo.” Hester felt as wary as a doe scenting an approaching wolf pack. Mr. Butler was about to try peddling something, though she could not have said how she knew that.

“Sir Henry Skelton of Havisham Hall originated the plan,” Mr. Butler explained. “He was inspired by the H?pital des Enfants Malades in Paris. He thought England ought to have a children’s hospital, too. But naturally, founding a new institution requires a great deal of work and a great deal of money, so I have been tasked with soliciting—”

Much to Hester’s relief, an unfamiliar man poked his head out of a side door and called: “Butler! We’re all waiting!”

Thankfully, Mr. Butler stopped in the middle of his fundraising speech. “Ah, my apologies. I have an appointment with some of the vestry members. We shall have to pick up this conversation later.” He bowed to her, then hurried towards the church.

Hester felt strangely relieved to watch him walk away. She’d been right about him trying to sell her something. He undoubtedly wanted money for this new hospital, or infirmary, or whatever he called it. He must have assumed that because Hester’s father was a marquis, she could afford to help support the charity.

Well, the more fool him! Hester had only a modest allowance for clothing, accessories, and other sundries. If he were hoping for a generous donor to endow the new charity, he was barking up the wrong tree.

More disappointing yet was the fear that he’d accosted her and conversed with her only because he wanted to collect money for the hospital. She’d assumed that his walking with her through the churchyard meant he enjoyed her company, that he wanted to spend time with her. Now it seemed he only wanted to hear the clink of a coin in the alms box.

Well, no great loss! It wasn’t as if she’d fallen in love with Mr. Butler. It was only a minor disappointment. She resolved to take the disappointment as a reminder that she needed to avoid romantic entanglements. The best way to avoid further damaging her reputation would be to ignore all the handsome young men around her, even if they did have dimples. Or spectacles. Not that she knew any handsome gentlemen with spectacles, of course, since Mr. Haworth was in trade.

Her heart jumped when she saw the owner of the spectacles approaching, ducking his head as he stepped underneath a low-hanging branch. He touched his hat in greeting, smiling uncertainly.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Haworth.” Hester reluctantly closed her book. “What brings you to the churchyard?”

He cast his eyes about the churchyard, and his smile took on a distinctly rueful turn. “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I came here to visit someone?”

Hester blinked in surprise. Was that... a joke? She didn’t think she’d ever heard serious Mr. Haworth crack a joke. Perhaps he was a little more human, a little less solemn, than he’d originally seemed.

“What I like about the churchyard is how quiet all the neighbors are.” He gestured towards the gravestones surrounding them. “It’s a place where you can hear yourself think.”

The corners of Hester’s lips curled up in a slight smile. “That’s why I came out here to read,” she explained. “It’s a quiet, shady place, where I won’t be interrupted.”

His smile wavered before flickering out. “In that case, I apologize for interrupting you.”

He bowed, then turned and stepped away before she realized that he thought she’d been referring to his interruption. Oh no! She hadn’t meant to snub him. She opened her mouth, intending to call him back, but then thought better of it. She had, after all, come out here in the hopes of enjoying a good book and a lovely spring day. And what did she have to say to Mr. Haworth, anyway?

She picked up her book and stared at the page, trying to focus on Thomas Gray’s melancholy verse. Suitable though the elegy was to her current surroundings, she could not follow a single line. She and Walter Haworth could have nothing in common with each other, which was just as well. She had vowed to avoid all romantic entanglements, hadn’t she? Avoiding one attractive, eligible gentleman would be difficult enough. It would have been even trickier if Mr. Butler had a rival.

Just as well, really.