A Dangerous Collaboration (A Veronica Speedwell Mystery) Deanna Raybourn (books to read for self improvement .TXT) 📖

you, Miss Mertensia. She has had that book for a decade under her pillow. Miss Rosamund used to read the Bible when she first came calling, but Mam told her she would rather hear about Lovelace than Lazarus, and Miss Rosamund saw no harm in it.”

“Miss Rosamund came often to call?” I asked.

Mrs. Polglase canted her head, thinking. “At least twice a week, miss, I should think. She took a proper interest in the folk around here. As the future mistress of St. Maddern should,” she added stoutly.

Mertensia seemed to have curled within herself during this conversation. She gathered up her things, leaving behind a green glass bottle. “Mind you give her a spoonful of tonic with breakfast this morning, every meal after, and another dose before she sleeps. It will keep her aches at bay. Send to the castle if you need more.”

She turned to go, but not before the old woman pushed herself up again. “Where is Miss Rosamund?” she demanded. She looked accusingly to each of us in turn, narrowing her eyes finally at Mertensia. “Did you take her away? Why did you take Miss Rosamund away?”

Her daughter-in-law tightened her mouth and did not look at Mertensia. “Now, Mam, you know that is not true.”

“I know that is what folk say,” the old woman told her, her expression baleful as she stared at Mertensia. The younger woman shushed her and herded us gently from the cottage. “I am sorry, Miss Mertensia. Her mind,” she began.

“It is of no matter, Mrs. Polglase,” Mertensia told her woodenly.

She set off for the castle without a backwards glance. Stoker and I followed behind, slowly, each of us lost in thought.

CHAPTER

14

We returned to the castle without speaking of the incident in the cottage. As we reached the last terrace, Mertensia turned to Stoker. “You ought to come to the stillroom. I have arnica for your bruises,” she told him tonelessly. He agreed and I left them to it, going to find the household in a state of some excitement outside the breakfast room. Caspian and Helen were standing next to a pile of baggage, arguing strenuously with Mrs. Trengrouse.

“I am very sorry, Mrs. Romilly, but I am afraid there is no accommodation for a trip to the mainland today,” the housekeeper was saying as I entered.

I went to stand near Tiberius as Caspian, his face empurpled with rage, remonstrated severely with the housekeeper. “What sort of balderdash is that? No accommodation? What the devil do you mean?”

“I mean, Master Caspian, that the boat used for trips over is at Pencarron and must be sent for.”

“Then do it, by God!” he thundered. His mother stood at his elbow, pale and silent as her son carried on. She seemed diminished now and content to let him take the helm. He put a protective arm about her. “My mother’s nerves are flayed to shreds. We’ll not stay here another night. Send for the boat.”

“It cannot be done,” Tiberius drawled. His voice was lazy but held unmistakable authority.

“What’s that you say?” Caspian demanded. His obstreperousness faltered a little in the face of Tiberius’ cool composure, but he held his ground. Mrs. Trengrouse shot Tiberius a grateful look. She had held her own with dignity, but she seemed grateful to have the matter attended to by a figure of authority.

“I am afraid, Caspian, that Mrs. Trengrouse is quite correct. The sea is running far too high after last night’s storm. You can signal until your arm falls off, but no one from Pencarron will come.”

“Of all the bloody nonsense,” began the young man. He broke off at a touch of his mother’s hand. “Very well, then. What of one of the local fishermen? They have boats. One of them can take us over.”

“Not likely,” Tiberius said evenly. “To begin with, their boats stink to high heaven of pilchards and crab. Not something your mother would find comfortable, I’m sure,” he added with an inclination of his head towards Helen.

“I don’t mind,” she said in a faint voice.

Mrs. Trengrouse spoke up. “The local fisherfolk won’t go out in these waters, not when the horses are running.”

“The horses? What damned horses?” Caspian was fairly shouting now.

Tiberius replied. “It is a colloquial term referring to the white froth on the edge of the waves, like the manes of horses running in the wind. It simply means the sea is too high and the currents too strong. They will not risk a trip to the mainland when their boats could be dashed upon the rocks.”

“But I can see it!” Caspian protested. “It is less than an hour’s rowing. How dangerous can it be?”

“Between the currents and the hidden rocks? Very,” Tiberius told him. “Even men who have sailed these waters their whole lives won’t take chances on a day like today. Now, why don’t you let Mrs. Trengrouse have the staff take your things back upstairs and come in to breakfast?”

“I don’t want bloody breakfast! I want to get off this island,” Caspian said, purpling more than ever.

“Oh, dear. It seems we’ve missed a bit of theatrics,” Stoker murmured in my ear as he came to stand next to me, munching happily on a piece of thickly buttered toast. Mertensia came in behind, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. The marks on Stoker’s face were shiny with some sort of ointment and he smelt faintly of herbs and beeswax. He looked with some satisfaction at the brilliant bruise that had blossomed over Tiberius’ nose and the slight swelling above the viscount’s eye. Tiberius returned the scrutiny, permitting himself a smile at his handiwork.

Mertensia did not miss the exchange. “My God, Tiberius,” she blurted out. “What happened to you? Did you sleepwalk also?”

Tiberius put a hand to Stoker’s upper arm and gave him an affectionate squeeze right over his stab wound. “I presume Stoker told you that? How informative of him.”

Stoker would not oblige him by wincing, but he gave a growl of warning