Page 4 of The Tart’s Final Noel (Gravesyde Village Mysteries #3)

Four

Verity

At the inn, Verity had Arthur haul two small beds from the room of castoffs she and Rafe hadn’t sorted yet.

They’d spent more time in furnishing rooms for themselves and staff than setting up guest rooms. It wasn’t as if travelers were pounding at their door.

Gravesyde was well off everyone’s beaten path.

Which was why it was exceedingly unusual for unknown children to arrive in this backwater.

“The boy said their carriage had an accident and they left their nanny and a pony on the road,” Verity told Brydie’s nephew. “Since the children found us first, they most likely came from the direction of Stratford. Can you look for the carriage?”

She had been waiting for Rafe to return, but whatever business he was on must be complicated.

“If little ones could walk here, it’s probably not far.

May be easiest if I walk. Old Tess doesn’t move fast these days.

” Arthur helped her straighten the sheets while the children watched warily from a corner.

“Reckon we have some of Rob and Lynly’s old clothes we can bring over that might fit them. ”

“I was hoping they might have a trunk in the carriage, but since the driver hasn’t shown up. . .” Verity wrinkled her nose and whispered, “I’m afraid they may have been abandoned.”

More likely, she was hoping they had been and was setting herself up for heartbreak. But she needed a little hope, just for a little while, until the sadness went away. Rafe didn’t deserve her gloom.

“Anyone who loses little ones isn’t trustworthy.” Arthur nodded knowledgeably. “I should have brought Mr. Sutter’s carriage if there is a trunk.”

“We only had a bag.” Daniel spoke up. “Elton wouldn’t let us take more.”

Daphne looked ready to cry again. Verity had scrubbed their hands and faces, but with no clean clothing, hadn’t tried to do more.

She scooped up the little girl, hugged her, and set her on the freshly made bed.

“We will send Arthur to look for your bag now, and then we will go back to your home for anything else. Do you know where you lived?”

And where to find this Elton so she could slap him? Hard.

“Beanblossom,” Daniel said, testing his new bed. “Mama said if we got lost, to tell people we are the Turners from Beanblossom. Daphne wants her doll and I had important schoolbooks.”

Verity was from London and not familiar with all the villages in the area. Why would anyone call a town Beanblossom? And Turner. . . the name was too common to be of any use. She glanced at Arthur, who shook his head.

“Well, we shall find your home,” she replied with a confidence she did not feel.

She was having significant doubts about her wisdom on any of this.

Children weren’t kittens to be scooped off the street like Marmie.

There had to be someone, somewhere, looking for these two.

They had obviously been well brought up, even if they were orphans now.

After whatever had happened, they still trusted adults to make things right.

Verity wished it were only that easy. “Arthur, why don’t you run up to the manor and ask whoever is about if they might help you find the carriage? They’ll have a horse you can ride.”

The boy brightened and raced off on his errand, leaving Verity to decide what to do with two grief-stricken children.

As if conjured by magic, Brydie’s eight-year-old niece wandered in holding one of her patchwork pieces and a needle. “The thread knotted. Can you fix it, Mrs. Russell?” She studied the children with curiosity.

Ah, a solution of sorts. “Daniel, can you read?”

The boy nodded. “I’m eight and go to school. Daphne is only five.”

“You’re my age!” Lynly exclaimed with interest. “Rob’s twelve and bigger than me but he says sewing is girl work. He’s cutting currants for cake.”

Brydie’s sister, Kate, had brought up her children to help wherever they were.

They were a joy to have around. Verity tested this new pair.

“Daniel, would you like to read a book to Daphne and Lynly? Lynly is sewing a Christmas gift for her mother. Daphne, can you sew?” At her head shake, Verity continued, “Lynly, do you think you might show Daphne some of the things you first learned? And Daniel can read to you while you work.”

They didn’t appear enthused but children needed occupation as much as adults did, especially when dealing with grief and strangers.

She remembered the emptiness after the death of her parents far too well, and she’d been half grown by then.

This way, she could keep an eye on the heartbroken waifs while she did the inn’s accounts.

Listening to children would be less depressing than summing the books.

She already knew the inn’s expenses far outweighed the income.

Her heart lightened a bit while she listened to the boy’s voice sing-songing one of the simple books in her library, while Lynly whispered to the youngest. Verity wondered why the tyke didn’t talk. She’d ask Dr. Walker if she knew any reason for not speaking at this age.

Verity wished Rafe would hurry up and finish his business. She didn’t want to raise her hopes too high if he hated the idea of taking in orphans. Or if he insisted on taking them wherever they belonged. She didn’t want to give them to a family who neglected them—or an orphanage!

The newly installed bell over the lobby door clattered.

That wouldn’t be Rafe. He entered through the kitchen.

Putting down her pencil, she told the children to stay put.

Passing the kitchen, she asked Rob to keep an eye on the children.

He was up to his eyeballs in chopped fruits and his mouth was suspiciously full.

Half-blind Miss Baker seemed serenely unaware of the hungry thief.

“Give some to the others,” she told the boy as he stood and appeared ready to stuff his pockets.

Brydie and her sister obviously didn’t have time for fancy Christmas baking.

Kate worked at the manor, sewing for others.

Brydie looked after the children and helped anywhere she was needed, usually at the inn.

Verity wondered what she had found to do that she hadn’t arrived yet to supervise.

Perhaps she was stealing some time with her fiancé.

Brydie worked hard and deserved a bit of fun.

In the lobby, a skinny young man in a short top hat and shabby coat waited. Rafe really needed to be here to greet strangers, but actual guests seldom strayed this far off the main highway.

“May I help you?”

He hastily removed his hat and twirled it nervously between his fingers. “Are you the innkeeper? I was told I might find a room for a month or two while we set up the new hardware store.” He bobbed a belated bow. “Sorry, I’m Jed Jasper. I’m to be the clerk.”

All the men were eagerly awaiting the new hardware. Finally, the village would have more than Oswald’s antiquated mercantile.

“Mr. Jasper, welcome, I’m Mrs. Russell. My husband is out at the moment. Let me fix you some tea while I send for someone to show you what’s available.” She had no idea what was available to rent for months, but she led him into the newly cleaned pub.

A paying guest! For months. . .

They had never talked about letting rooms as a permanent abode, as they did in towns. The inn had room to spare, of course, but their staff and facilities were limited. Having grown up in a mansion, she knew nothing of such arrangements.

She asked Miss Butler to prepare tea for their guest, then hurried outside.

Rafe hadn’t returned. Neither had Mr. Sutter.

Fletch should have been here while Rafe was out, but for some reason, he must have left for the stable where he trained horses.

What on earth was happening that they’d abandoned incompetent her to handle an entire inn? She couldn’t show men to their rooms.

Hammering in a shed off the stable drew her in that direction.

Mr. Upton was establishing a carpentry shop in the shed, but the curate wasn’t around either.

His assistant, Nate Blackwell, and one of the ex-soldiers from the manor were working on shutters.

She’d met the soldier with the peg leg. . . Cratchit. That was it.

“I have a dilemma, gentlemen.” She waited until they politely put down their tools. Rafe was going way into debt keeping them employed. They had to be respectful. “There is a stranger seeking rooms to let. I need someone to show him about. I really don’t know what a gentleman expects—”

Blackwell was the silent sort. Cratchit, however, set aside his tool and wiped his hands. He had blood on his shirtsleeve and a bandage on his arm. “Needs a place to heat his water unless you want to be carrying up hot water twice a day. Has no valet, does he?”

She hoped Meera had seen to his injured arm, but that wasn’t her concern. “No, Mr. Jasper says he’s just a clerk. We have braziers in some rooms. . .”

Still struggling with his coat, Cratchit limped for the door. “The shutters ain’t in bad shape in that new wing.” He pointed out the stone section extending behind the Elizabethan half-timbered main structure. “There’s only two rooms up and two down, but there’s a solid chimney between them.”

They’d had the chimneys cleaned when they started the restoration. But they hadn’t even talked about opening that wing. They didn’t have enough staff to run all the way to the far end of the inn, especially in bad weather. So they’d not furnished anything. But a room by the week. . .

“I can find a bed and linen, maybe a washstand, in the castoff room.” She was thinking aloud as they crossed the dirt yard. “But no dressers that I remember.”

“Hooks, shelves. I can do that. What do you want me to tell him you’ll charge?”

Anything at all was better than nothing, but she had to be professional. She erred on the low side, just until they learned how much work this involved.