Page 40 of The Tart’s Final Noel (Gravesyde Village Mysteries #3)

Thirty-six

Minerva

“Do I sing for my supper with the village folk or stand as a representative of the manor?” Minerva asked, hanging on to Paul’s arm as they took the short path from the parsonage to the inn.

It was already dark at this hour and starting to sleet.

After Sunday services, she’d spent the afternoon nobly visiting the housebound.

She’d left Patience decorating the chapel for tomorrow’s Christmas mass and hadn’t had time to nibble her way through whatever feast Elsa had prepared for tonight’s festivity.

“You have a lovely voice. Sing,” Paul ordered. “It will be good practice for tomorrow, where I trust you will sing prayers and not God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”

Minerva laughed. “Patience’s pagan greenery might warn of local preferences. She even has mistletoe, if you look closely.”

To welcome his noble guests, Rafe had illuminated the inn yard with every lantern and candle he possessed.

A barouche and curricle indicated the manor inhabitants had arrived.

Minerva sighed her pleasure at the festive sight.

“It feels so good believing we have the criminals locked up and may truly celebrate. Please do not tell me otherwise.”

“Hunt has Cooper in the crypt. The scoundrel is in a state, threatening to bring charges, demanding that he see a lawyer and Lord Chatham. Damien has explained there won’t be any trial until after Boxing Day. His legal services have been refused,” Paul added wryly.

“Brydie sent her first batch of hot-cross buns to the prisoners because she didn’t like the way they turned out. I assume that didn’t sweeten their dispositions.” Seeing Patience and Henri approaching, Minerva halted outside the inn door to greet them.

“I’ve asked our carolers to gather in the stable. Shall we join them?” Patience asked, clearly planning on singing for her supper, despite also being one of the manor owners.

Delighted to have company, Minerva sent Paul inside with Henri. Her brilliant husband sang like a croaking frog.

“Is Brydie coming? I brought Willa’s recipe book.

She thinks it might have a better recipe for buns than she’s found.

We really need to have it copied out and perhaps sent to a printer as a memorial to Willa and her bakery.

” Minerva trailed behind the statuesque gardener, while fumbling in her cloak pocket for the tattered volume.

“Clare knows printers. Who has a fair hand for copying?” They halted in the stable doorway to admire the gathering crowd of eager revelers.

Even Verity and the orphans had joined them. The orphans clung to Verity while all the other young ones raced about in unbridled excitement. Fletch towered over the corridor leading to where the horses were stabled, blocking the valuable animals from mischief.

“Do you know anyone with a fair hand for copying Willa’s recipe book?” Patience was asking Verity.

“I have a fair hand, and Mr. Birdwhistle, but we don’t have much time with school starting in a week. If you want it soon and are willing to pay, Mrs. Mayfield has been copying out Rafe’s tattered notebook of recipes. She might like the extra coin.”

Minerva handed over the thick volume. “Talk to Mrs. Mayfield, please. This past week has been so busy, I haven’t had the time to even look for the recipe Brydie wants.

The handwriting is execrable.” Minerva knew, as a librarian—not a cook—she was being uppish over a tattered and handwritten old recipe book. It held no value to her.

Wearing warm wool and an apron instead of her usual fashionable attire, Verity worked the book into her capacious apron pocket. “Rafe might like to see the recipes, thank you.”

As official leader of the church ladies, Mrs. Jones clapped her hands. “I think we’re all here now. Shall we start with God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen?”

Minerva snickered. This would definitely be a merry evening that would leave half the parish hung over for Christmas services on the morrow.

“I’ll take Daphne and Danny back inside. We only came out so they wouldn’t be afraid when a mob shows up at the door.” Verity ushered her charges from the stable ahead of the singers, slipping in through the inn’s kitchen door.

Knowing what she did of the orphans’ parentage, Minerva worried for her friend. But this was Christmas Eve and they had much to celebrate.

With the newly-formed choir to hold the tune, the motley group paraded through the inn yard singing.

By the time they reached the inn’s front door, Rafe was there in his best uniform coat to welcome them.

A reception line of finely-dressed ladies and gentlemen ushered the carolers into the pub as if this were the manor and they were the hosts.

The children broke rank first, racing to admire the treats set out.

Under the direction of Patience and Mrs. Jones, the rest of the carolers ran through their practiced tunes, with everyone joining in on a final Deck the Halls.

The Huntleys made a brief welcome speech and the dowagers actually handed out the first wassail cups, enjoying the opportunity to play ladies of the manor again.

“Verity should be here, enjoying this,” Minerva murmured to Paul when she realized Rafe was here but his wife was not. “Let me see if she’ll trust the children with me for a bit.”

Paul scanned the crowd. “Brydie and Kate aren’t here?”

“They wanted to spend Christmas Eve at home, out of the weather. So much has happened. . . they need their routine. Besides, their chickens need feeding.” Minerva grinned and gestured at Rafe.

“Verity stole Willa’s hens and rooster, with Brydie’s aid.

Damien and Rafe have to decide if they must pay Parsons for theft. ”

Paul laughed. “Now that Cooper is out of Willa’s cottage, Parsons has moved in, says he’s guarding it. We’re still trying to determine who owns it. Go, help Verity.”

Minerva kissed his freshly shaven jaw. “I am glad you are not a curmudgeon about commandment breaking.”

He shrugged. “Chickens would have starved or been eaten if left alone. Verity will take care of them and Rafe will feed the hungry with their eggs.”

“I love your pragmatism.” Minerva left him to his parishioners while she traversed the hall to the Russells’ private quarters. She could hear the children giggling in their room and knocked on that door.

Verity answered, holding an iron poker at her side. “Is anything wrong?”

Her anxiety was so strong that Minerva wouldn’t have told her if there had been. “Everyone is having a wonderful time. As the curate’s wife, I shouldn’t be indulging in punch, so I thought you might like to enjoy the festivity for a while. Will you trust me with Daphne and Daniel?”

Verity bit her lip, cast a glance to the pair bouncing from bed to bed in some game, then down at her faded attire. “I should, I know. But Daphne is finally talking and I—” She gestured helplessly.

“Ah, then might I join you? If we could have them talk a little about that day, it might help the captain to ask questions later. Then you can put them to bed and I’ll read to them while you take a look at Willa’s recipe book to see if it might be copied.

” Minerva knew she was manipulative, but sometimes, people needed a little shove.

Verity nodded and let her in. “They’re playing some game their mother taught them, but it’s time for them to settle down. You’re good at questioning. I’ll see if the book is legible enough for copying. The ink looked terribly faded.”

Should Minerva and Paul ever have a child, they could learn a lot from Verity’s calm authority.

She watched in awe as Verity persuaded the excited duo into their night clothes.

They brushed their teeth in the wash basin and wriggled beneath the covers, still giggling and hiding under sheets.

They were a joy to behold after this week of tragedy.

When Minerva sat on the chair between the beds with their book, their heads popped out to listen. As a librarian, she approved. Books were a form of magic.

Verity settled at the small school desk Rafe had brought down from the manor attic. She lit a candle to better study the battered ledger. But the instant she set the leather tome on the desk, Daphne cried, “Mama’s book!”

“Is not,” Daniel said in scorn. “Mama’s is prettier.”

Minerva exchanged a glance with Verity. They had only brought children’s books from their home, until the disposition of the estate was settled. She hadn’t noticed a thick leather ledger like this one, but then, she had been looking for documents.

Verity rose with the recipe book in hand. Minerva set aside the fairy tales. Did they dare hope the orphans were ready to talk?

Settling on Daphne’s bed, Verity showed them the heavy notebook. “Your mama had a book like this?”

Daphne nodded uncertainly, wrinkling her nose. “Mama’s had pretty drawings. That’s nasty.” She picked at the peeling leather.

Drawings instead of recipes? Possibly a journal or family tradition?

“Told you.” Daniel sat up against his pillows. “Mama’s had shiny gold letters with her name. It had pockets inside.”

Pockets? Minerva studied the cover. It did, indeed, seem to have hints of gold lettering.

The darker leather where the letters had once been might have spelled Bartlett, which made sense, if this contained the bakery’s recipes.

Willa hadn’t been able to read it, so she’d thrown it on top of the cabinets, out of her way—because Willa never threw anything away.

She opened the pages—yellowing vellum, wrinkled and stained from decades of use, with nearly indecipherable scribbling. But the journal had once been lovely and expensive.

Daniel leaned over to examine it. “There.” He pointed at the thick cover. “Mama kept Papa’s letters in there. She read them to us sometimes.”

Heart breaking as she imagined the loving mother attempting to teach her children about the father they’d never known, Minerva ran her fingers over the brittle edge.

She hated disturbing the binding, but there did seem to be extra padding and a slit on the edge.

There might once have been a gold edge to protect it but that was long gone.

“Do you know where your mama kept her book?” Verity asked as if she were just keeping the conversation going, while Minerva pried at the opening.

“In the wall, by her bed,” Daniel reported matter-of-factly.

“Where the bad man couldn’t find it,” Daphne added in satisfaction. “She said not to tell the bad man.”

“Well, we’re not men and we’re not bad.” Verity tucked the blankets round them more securely. “So you did the right thing by telling us. We’ll find your mama’s book and give it back to you. Did you ever see the bad man, Daniel?”

Minerva pried loose pages from the slit.

Daniel shook his head.

“I did.” Daphne wrinkled her whole waif-like face into a frown. “He was mean. He yelled at Mama. She cried and called for Elton, but he didn’t come.” A tear streaked down her cheek.

“I wasn’t there or I’d hit him, like I did yesterday,” Daniel said fiercely. “I’d have beat him up.”

“You are both very, very brave, and we’re all proud of you,” Verity assured them, hugging Daniel. “Did the bad man leave after your mama yelled?”

Daphne shook her head tearfully. “He put a pillow on Mama’s face and she went to sleep. Then he opened her desk. We were never ever to touch her desk, so I yelled at him.”

A pillow? Minerva exchanged a horrified look with Verity. “Is this the same bad man who took Daniel yesterday?”

Daphne nodded emphatically. “He said if I talked, he’d put a pillow on my face too. I don’t want a pillow on my face.” Then she sobbed and threw herself into Verity’s arms.

Mrs. Turner hadn’t died of her illness. Cooper had smothered her.

Shaken, Minerva finally pried the papers loose from where the years had stuck them to the leather binding. Unfolding them, she stared wordlessly, then handed them to Verity.

The marriage documents the Bartletts had sent to Willa for safekeeping.

A choir of half-drunken singers in the pub broke into a rousing rendition of Joy to the World.