Page 3 of The Villain’s Fatal Plot (Gravesyde Village Mystery #1)
THREE: VERITY
Faith—now Verity Porter —thanked the kind banker, Mr. Bosworth, for transporting her. She all but leapt out of the curricle into what she prayed would be her new home, one completely different from her old one. If her former governess was happy in this tiny village... so could she be.
The past ten days had not fully knitted the bones in Verity’s foot, but her new walking stick suited the identity she was trying on. She might not know exactly who she was any more, but she had acquired a new name and was about to find a new home. Limping clumsily, she climbed the stairs to the mercantile. The kitten in her cloak pocket stuck its small head out, and she soothed it—and her nervousness—before entering the shop.
These past days had been a nerve-wracking, terrifying trial by fire, quite literally, but safety was almost at hand. A week of astounding accomplishments had given her a semblance of confidence. But she was still raw and a little fragile, and now her plotting had delivered her far outside familiar environs. She needed the reassurance of an old friend.
Miss Edgerton had promised to give her guidance should she ever escape London. It had taken time for cautious Faith to gather her wits and create a bold new persona, one with the courage to buy a coach ticket and leave behind all she knew, but having little choice, she’d done it. She wasn’t witless. Once she’d verified that her uncle was still alive, she knew she couldn’t tolerate being his lackey any longer.
She watched Mr. Bosworth turn his carriage around at a sad, dead patch of weeds in the middle of the rutted street. He’d pointed out the drive to Wycliffe Manor as they passed, as if she might know the owners, but she knew no one except her former governess.
The mail coach from London had been a horrible journey, but she had remembered Miss Edgerton did her business in Stratford, so Verity had stopped there. After she’d brought the contents of her satchel to his bank for deposit, the banker had been very helpful and informative. Wealth had many uses. He’d promised to tend hers carefully.
She let her eyes adjust to the dim interior of the store until she located the gray-haired, diminutive shopkeeper behind the counter. He watched her with suspicion, rightfully so, she supposed.
“Good afternoon, sir. I am Mrs. Porter. My former governess, Miss Edgerton, has asked me to call. Could you direct me to her home?”
He appeared reluctant to do so. She’d never lived anywhere except the city, but she recognized the clannish protectiveness of a small community. The wharf area wasn’t that different from a small town.
“And would you have any flowers or sweets I might take to her as a gift? I’ve traveled a considerable distance and was unable to bring much with me.” She’d left her new piece of baggage by the door—a lovely tapestry to hold the remains of her childhood and new acquisitions for her future.
“Aye, she likes these here.” He poured a paper of licorice candies. “You’d have to ask Mrs. Lavigne for flowers, but she’s up to the orchard today. Besides, Annie has a yard full of flowers. ”
Annie? The lovely, softspoken, well-educated governess she remembered had been reduced to Annie? Come to think of it, she had never known Miss Edgerton’s first name, only that it began with A, since that was how she signed her letters. Faith/Verity had been fifteen when her father’s death had ended her schooling.
Since then, their correspondence had been limited to those times when Faith could steal stationery from her uncle’s office. Unwilling to cost her governess too much in postage, she’d kept her letters to a single sheet, and Miss Edgerton had returned the favor. Although, since the post mostly belonged to her uncle, Faith had paid for it with his coins.
“Then the candies will do, unless you know of anything else she might like?” The tiny spark of the personality she’d crushed for ten years lurked behind her veil. Faith would have smiled ingratiatingly because she had little to spend. Verity —was trying on her mother, who had impressed with wealth and generosity.
“I’ve some of the manor’s first apple crop here.” He pointed at a basket on the counter. “Reckon she’d like a taste of those.”
“And so would I, excellent. I’ll take two. If you will just direct me, I’ll be on my way.” She left coins on the counter in excess of her purchases.
“Picket fence with the roses, just past the green and across the road. Tell her I expect her elixir to arrive in Monday’s delivery.” He bowed, all smiles now.
“You are a gentleman, sir, I thank you.” She’d ascertain his name another time. These past days, she’d lived in dread of being arrested for theft and had traveled apprehensively with strangers to an uncertain future. It was lonely being dead to all she knew. She had exhausted her bravery.
Miss Edgerton had been offering a safe haven for years. At least she knew one person in this wicked world who accepted whoever she was. Verity hoped her wise governess understood her circumstances once she explained.
She tucked the gifts into her cloak pocket and rubbed Marmie’s now-clean head. Without the sack of coins, her satchel was much lighter. She limped down the dirt street in the direction of the weedy patch of dirt implausibly called the town green, studying her surroundings with interest. This might be her new home. Curtains twitched as she passed but she encountered no one on the rutted street. Accustomed to the crowded noise of the city, she didn’t know how to take the emptiness of the village.
Terrified of her uncle coming after his money, she’d nervously watched over her shoulder the whole time she’d spent gathering the beginnings of her new life. Not until the newssheets reporting the fire came out had she been able to unclench and breathe a little. Faith Palmer had been officially declared dead, even though they’d found no bodies. She was relieved that no one had lost their life.
Rather than mourn his niece’s loss, her uncle had condemned the new fire company for not putting out the flames, for what little good that would have done. He no doubt planned to sue the city and the fire company and anyone else his attorneys recommended, if only to recover lost funds.
So she knew the drunken miser was alive and kicking. Here in the village, she’d see him coming from half a mile away. She really didn’t expect him to care where she was. And even if he did, he wouldn’t know about Miss Edgerton. She simply couldn’t shake years of walking on eggshells.
The rural air was fresher than the city. Autumn smelled different, of old leaves, pine, and wood smoke, with none of the stench of sewers and rotting fish. Although there was a faint fragrance of manure...
She found Miss Edgerton’s garden gate and admired the cottage yard of autumn blooms. She couldn’t identify most, but the wealth of colors and peaty scent was welcoming. The gate opened without creaking. Moss grew between the flagstones. More greenery danced along the border. She recognized some of it as herbs she’d seen in the market. She usually bought her dinner from carts and knew little of cooking beyond eggs and rashers.
Living in the country, she’d have to learn how to cook. She feared she lacked qualifications, but she hoped Miss Edgerton might show her a place where she might become a teacher. At home, she’d been helping a few of the locals learn to read. A school of young students, where she could go to her own small house at the end of the day, sounded like heaven. No more living in cellars at the beck and call of others. She might not know Latin or science, but Miss Edgerton had taught her well, and her father’s books had taught her more. She wasn’t ignorant.
The half-timber and wattle cottage appeared freshly painted, the mullion windows recently cleaned. Accustomed to the tall brick edifices of the city, Verity thought the cottage quaint and charming, but she did wonder about the thatched roof. Surely that wasn’t safe?
The door had been painted a sparkling red to contrast with the black timbers and white wattle. She used the brass knocker tentatively, at first, then a little harder when she heard no response.
She was wondering if she ought to go around back and was examining a narrow stone path through the tall flowers when she thought she heard a cry. Marmie must have heard it, too, because she stuck her head out of her pocket.
Swallowing hard, she tried the door latch and found it unlocked. Pushing the door open, she called, “Miss Edgerton? It’s me, Faith Palmer. Are you here?”
She hadn’t dare write for fear her uncle would learn she was alive.
Another cry that sounded distinctly like help followed. Panicking, Verity dropped her satchel at the door and rushed into the low-ceilinged cottage, watching for the usual threats of men or fire, finding no more than a pleasant parlor with two sofas and a rocking chair. The mullioned bay window lit the interior.
Another cry, one that almost sounded like relief and Faith had her crossing the rush carpet, heart in throat.
On the sofa, the one with its back to the door, lay Miss Edgerton, an arm dangling over the edge, her head bent awkwardly as she appeared to struggle to push up with the arm under her. “ Tea,” she whispered. “Papers. Under... bor. . .sssss.” She collapsed and quit moving.
Verity screamed. Falling to her knees to help her former governess, finding her completely limp, she screamed again, while tears rolled down her cheeks, unchecked.