Page 36 of The Tart’s Final Noel (Gravesyde Village Mysteries #3)

Thirty-two

Minerva

“We are holding the Christmas Faire,” Minerva insisted Saturday morning over the vociferous objections of the manor gentlemen.

“Our parishioners have been working night and day on their projects. If Rafe refuses the use of the inn, we’ll hold it in Willa’s house or the chapel or in the mercantile, if necessary. You cannot stop us.”

Paul looked pained but her husband knew better than to argue unless she was suggesting immoral activities.

Heaven forbid that she should ever suggest dishonesty.

She might indulge in lying, cheating, and deception, but she would never actually tell him and strain his patience.

He knew that. She’d married him for his perceptivity and his brilliant ability to adjust to being married to someone like her.

. . The reason she wished to reward his patience and understanding with a hearty breakfast. Someday. It was the very least she could do.

Damien was the one pacing the drawing room in fury. “We have a killer on the loose! Elton could very well be lurking in the da. . . deuced inn. He could take any of you hostage if he thought it would bring him the orphans. We don’t know what he’ll do!”

“If he’s very lucky, he’ll only get himself kicked into next week,” Brydie retorted.

Minerva almost snorted at this entertaining turn of phrase.

“We are not helpless infants,” Brydie continued, clearly working up a storm of her own. She and Damien had a few issues to resolve before they married. “Rafe and Verity are guarding the helpless in the attic. If it makes you happy, surround the pub with men and swords. We are holding the fair.”

And hoping to lure Elton into the open. Verity had yet to push that one past Rafe. The hard part had been convincing Verity, but now that she understood, the inimitable innkeeper’s wife would bring Rafe around.

Minerva fastened her redingote. She hated being buttoned up but, for a church event, she needed to be respectable.

. “If you really want to be helpful, you’ll lock up Lord Chatham.

I showed you the Debrett’s. He’s a Turner.

And probably a liar and possibly a killer.

When he wakes up, ask him how he’s related to his supposed solicitor and the orphans. His reaction ought to be telling.”

That might protect the orphans. It didn’t explain Willa.

“Elton is the one giving orders and hunting for the children. We have no reason to lock up a viscount,” Paul warned, not pacifying but offering rationality. “Hunt will have someone outside his door. I’m sure it can all be explained if you’ll just have patience.”

Her husband liked to believe the good in everyone, even imbeciles.

Minerva had reason to be cynical. “Your lordling is a ninnyhammer at best, a killer at worst. We need to identify this Turner person, if he exists, and find Elton, whom we’ve actually seen.

” Minerva tied on her bonnet. “Unless you wish to believe Mr. Dryden is hiding in the village as well, I can only think of two men recently arrived who might pass as a solicitor: Mr. Jasper and Mr. Cooper. Neither of them seem likely. The servant may be lying.”

“If you leave the manor, we’ll have to send men down to guard you, which means fewer people here to protect the orphans. This is not acceptable!” Damien shouted, ignoring her perfectly rational argument.

Minerva could understand why Brydie had to fight back. An angry Damien was an autocrat of great beauty, tall and strong and straining the seams of his tailoring with muscle—and protective male instincts. Most women would bow to his wishes.

Brydie was not most women. In amusement, Minerva watched the Viking warrior, her cloud of untamed auburn hair escaping its pins, go nose to nose with him.

“You cannot tell us what is acceptable, Damien Sutter. We are grown women with minds of our own, not slaves. You may suggest and offer aid but you cannot bind us hand and foot and prevent us from going our own way.”

Damien clenched his fists and leaned into the argument.

Minerva ignored them when Paul bent over to whisper in her ear. “I will suggest they call the banns sooner rather than later. If they were alone right now. . .”

As they were quite often, Minerva knew. Two passionate people. . .

She intervened before they could lay hands on each other.

“Come along, Brydie. There is time for you to make some buns in Rafe’s oven, surrounded by servants and church ladies and probably the deacon, since there is nothing he likes more than a good gossip over food.

If Mr. Elton shows his face, we shall slam his nose with a skillet.

And then you may kick him however you like, although into next week might make him more elusive. ”

She grabbed Brydie’s arm, steered her away, and murmured, “I did not dare mention that Clare and Patience and quite possibly, even the dowagers, are attending. I am quite certain there is another lecture in that.”

“We are always arguing,” Brydie said with a sigh, tying the hood of her cloak before stepping into the wind. “I am not certain marriage is for me.”

Minerva laughed. “It’s that or babies without marriage. The two of you simply need to accept your differences. But not right now. We have a thief to catch.”

“And gifts to sell and merriment to be had. I want a real Christmas this year, not another pathetic one where we huddle over coals and warm milk and call it a holiday. We didn’t even have a church to attend!” Brydie set down the drive in determination. “I want glorious hymns and carols!”

“I spent last Christmas hiding from His Grace’s guests, writing letters in search of a particular tome he wished added to his library.

With all those unmarried sons and their friends, his household tends to be very.

. . boisterous. I am looking forward to music and greenery and childish excitement.

” Minerva almost raced toward the village in anticipation.

If they must catch killers, it should be done with merriment, which was ridiculous and proved the holiday spirit had infected her wits.

It was early yet. Rafe’s kitchen staff had the fire going and breakfast cleared away. Under Fletch’s orders, they were mopping and dusting, but he was already gone, having chosen to ride to Stratford for the mail rather than deal with holiday merriments.

“All right, ladies, today we are to be festive,” Minerva declared. “Mr. and Mrs. Lavigne will be bringing in greenery for decorating the pub. Are any of the guests about who might be interested in helping?”

“Mr. Jasper’s at the hardware store,” Miss Butler replied. “Mr. Cooper’s been staying over to the bakery. He was here last night looking for a meal but hasn’t been in yet this morning. Mr. Fletcher told Parsons to chop firewood, so he’s out back.”

“I’ll talk to Jasper,” Brydie offered. “I’ll ask him to fetch Cooper and bring hammers and nails as his tithe to the church. He should meet the community if he wishes to sell to them.”

While Brydie was hunting for hammers and men, Henri and Patience Lavigne arrived in a cart filled with greenery.

This was what Minerva had hoped of her first Christmas in her new home.

Forgetting their grim purpose for a moment, she ran out to delight in the fresh smelling evergreens, exclaiming over pinecones and mistletoe as the inn staff joined her.

“I told Paul I’d meet him over at the chapel to finish up some projects. I’ll be back to help you hang the mistletoe,” Henri promised, kissing his wife.

“Take a few of the wreaths with you.” Patience pointed at beribboned holly and ivy entwined in circles.

“My word, you are a saint,” Minerva said in awe, watching the beautiful decorations being carried off to adorn Paul’s modest chapel. “I should learn how to do that.”

“What, be a saint or make wreaths?” Patience dropped a wrapped bundle of holly into Minerva’s arms. “I believe you’ve missed your chance at sainthood. And making wreaths is why you have parishioners.” Patience was the daughter of a curate. Unlike Minerva, she knew how a proper church should be run.

As they carried in their festive boughs, the widows and single mothers still living in the village bustled from their cottages, bearing their own contributions.

Before long, Rafe’s pub smelled of a forest and scented candles.

Besides the candles, his tables overflowed with baked goods, crocheted ornaments, knitted infant garments and stockings, and anything else that could be put together with what was available.

Minerva crowed in excitement over every addition.

Brought in from his woodchopping, Parsons stood on trestle tables to drape holly over the huge mullioned bay windows. Brydie returned with Jasper, Cooper, and hammers to hang the boughs they were stringing together with ribbons and pinecones.

Once she’d set the men to pounding nails, Brydie cornered Minerva out of hearing of the chattering ladies setting up their tables.

“You mentioned Mr. Dryden earlier. He arrived with Elton and works for a solicitor’s office, does he not?

If Lord Chatham’s manservant claims he saw this solicitor called Turner in London and Stratford, might Dryden be hiding under the name of Turner? ”

Minerva recalled the nervous young man and frowned.

“Mr. Browning says his office does not handle the estate trust, just the sale of the house at the estate’s request. And Mr. Dryden is merely a clerk in his office.

I cannot feature it, not any more than I can see nice Mr. Jasper or lazy Mr. Cooper.

I fear we are being blind and expecting a killer to look like Parsons or Elton or even Gillespie.

We cannot believe a gentleman might be a killer. ”

“Or a woman,” Brydie noted with a grimace. “Jealousy might be a motive, for all we know. Willa was asleep. How difficult would it be to stab a sleeping woman?”

“She’d have to be strong enough to crown Cooper and knock him unconscious. I suppose. . .” Minerva wrinkled her nose in disgust. “I hate thinking like this. Let us not for a few hours, or we’ll be suspecting every one of these good women selling their wares.”

“We’ll wait until Verity arrives,” Brydie agreed, sailing off to the kitchen to finish her baking.

Minerva’s insides clenched at just the thought of the plot they’d hatched.

So, she wouldn’t think it just yet. She welcomed Paul’s parishioners with open arms, exclaiming over beautifully woven wool blankets, glorious currant cakes, jars of honey, and even homemade whiskey.

As they’d hoped, everyone was ready for a little cheer after the dark years of war and poverty.

Once the greenery was hung, including a kissing ball over the pub doorway, and the tables set with tempting gifts, the manor staff arrived with cauldrons of hot, spiced cider for the punch bowl.

The pub, already scented with pine and candles plus the cinnamon from baking, now smelled of delicious apples.

To Minerva’s consternation, the men—in their infinite wisdom—had decided to keep an eye on the viscount’s valet by having him serve the punch.

Gillespie seemed nervous but quite capable at pouring hot cider into tin cups for the ladies crowding around him.

She supposed he was the only person who might recognize Mr. Turner.

Minerva held out little hope of a solicitor lingering in Gravesyde, but if they could catch Elton. . .

They’d stationed as many boys and men around the inn’s perimeter as available, then locked all the inn exits except the one in the lobby.

As curate’s wife and ostensibly in charge of a church fair, Minerva stood at the door to greet their customers.

She expected no surprises from the village folk, but Brydie’s warning about a female killer had raised her awareness.

Most of the local women were elderly, some were very young, but might there be a jealous wife among them?

Half the parish was already inside, hovering over their tables of wares, so it was the manor ladies who arrived as the first customers.

Lady Elsa was busy overseeing the kitchen preparations for Christmas dinner on the morrow, but Clare Huntley and Lavender arrived in a sweep of ruffled pelisses and feathered bonnets.

Having spent most of her life in a boarding school, Lavender was as excited as a child and swept past Minerva as if she didn’t exist.

Clare laughed and watched her go. “She works so hard, it’s sometimes hard to remember that she really isn’t full grown yet.”

“But she’s adult enough to have made Boxing Day gifts for all her seamstresses,” Minerva said, in between greeting a few of the manor maids arriving next.

“I do hope her grandmother has thought of her. Lavender still doesn’t believe that the dowager has softened toward the notion of having an illegitimate grandchild. ”

“The old tabby has been contemplating which jewels she should give Lavender next. I told her the child needed a warm shawl more, so she bought pattern books and, besides the shawl, has knitted booties for Lavender’s dog and stuffed a bed for its basket!

” Clare let her bonnet fall back on its ribbons to admire the pub’s festivity.

“I spent last Christmas trying to scrounge enough coins to buy Oliver an orange and a used mathematics book. Not having to pay for the roof over our heads or the food in our bellies is immensely freeing! I am ready to spread the wealth.”

She sailed into the pub carrying a basket in which to collect her purchases.

The pub was starting to fill with excited chatter and laughter by the time the manor’s grand dames descended in their carriage.

Lavender’s grandmother, Lady Marlowe, and Hunt’s aunt, Lady Spalding, spurned current fashions and clung to the lower waists and heavy petticoats of their youth.

Minerva was amazed the intimidatingly grandiose Lady Marlowe didn’t still wear a powdered wig.

The dowagers had been outraged widows when they’d first claimed their share of the manor. But now, they’d made up with their families and actually condescended to visit the village’s tiny chapel upon occasion. Minerva hoped they’d tithe generously.

“Did anyone bring mince pies?” Lady Marlowe asked, the mole on her lip seemingly quivering in anticipation. “Elsa refuses to make them.”

“Because we do not need all that suet and you refused to try her apple mince.” Lady Spalding pecked Minerva on the cheek. Rounder and friendlier than the baroness, she eagerly sniffed the tempting scents. “This will be such fun! I’m glad you girls thought of it.”

It would be much more fun if Minerva wasn’t watching Verity and Arthur approach with a gaggle of urchins disguised in old shirts, coats, and boys’ trousers—and knew two of them were little girls.