STEIN WILLARD
© 2020
__________________________________________
I
London
The Baker’s Grill chophouse was bursting at its seams when Oliver Potts stepped through the doors. The smell and atmosphere of the interior hit him square in the face.
He welcomed it.
The chophouse was one of his most favourite places in London, maybe even the whole of England. Entering the eatery felt like stepping outside a dreary, polluted London into a vibrant setting filled with colours, exotic scents and auras. Here, the strict rules of dining were tossed out the window. Dishes, depending on your choice, were sometimes served in a single plate which engendered a sense of closeness and trust between a group of people indoctrinated by ages of detached social values and interactions. Then there was the option of cutlery. It took him a while to get used to the idea of not reaching for his cutlery first, but the rare freedom and option of eating with one’s hands was intoxicating. He personally believed it was the lack of societal restrictions, combined with the food and light-hearted atmosphere that made the chophouse a favourite of the most affluent in London society.
Contrary to the Vauxhall Gardens, the upscale restaurant of choice, the food here was delicious. They served an assortment of dishes from across the world and of late had also introduced an extensive international wine menu. The only thing the chophouse had in common with Vauxhall Gardens was the fare they charged. It was slightly more affordable, but not by much, which served as a filter to keep the clientele restricted to a preferred group.
At least the ownership of chophouse ploughed some of their good fortunes into the community. The cook was known to offer apprenticeships to junior Royals chefs and talented individuals.
It took him a few moments to spot his associates and make his way over to them. They weren’t at their usual table, but it was understandable considering how full the place was today. He preferred their table, because it had a clear view of the kitchen and…
“We thought you weren’t coming anymore,” Reginald Mears, an architect and a close friend shouted to be heard over the din.
Oliver grinned as he slipped into the booth. “I had to do some final touches to a portrait before I came here.”
“Ah, another masterpiece.” Reginald’s dark eyebrows lifted suggestively. “And yet another satisfied female customer.”
“They appreciate the time and skill.”
“I bet.” Charles Clarke muttered as he watched him from over the rim of his wine glass.
Oliver was in no way offended by the gentle ribbing. The three of them had attended Oxford together as architectural students. However, drawing buildings had lost it appeal rather quickly when after a rather vigorous lovemaking session, Oliver had found that he enjoyed drawing his lovers as they slept; thoroughly satisfied and depleted. His career move had baffled his friends, who had warned him that painting was not much of a respectable career for a man like himself. A year into Oliver’s new enterprise, he had managed to sell out an exhibition consisting of volunteers’ portraits. His name reached the ears of the wealthy nobles and industrialists and soon the offers grew in number. Before long, the cost of an Oli Potts painting went through the roof. He was doing exceptionally well in his trade and also taught part-time at the Royal Academy.
And yes, the female attention he generated was legendary. Who was he to look a gifted horse in the mouth?
“Have you ordered yet?”
“We were waiting for you. It would seem she’s back, too, since the place is fuller than the past three days.”
Reginald chuckled. “Yes, and if you look around the overwhelming number of patrons are male.”
Reginald was right. Groups of men were congregated around tables drinking, talking and laughing. The furtive looks they threw to the back of the venue, where the kitchen was located, were also not missed. Oliver served himself from the bottle of wine on the table.
“What shall we order?”
The chophouse offered the option of platters for groups. One only needed to pick a region or country and they send out an assortment of dishes that made your taste buds hum with delight.
“How about something exotic?”
“Like?” He glanced at Charles.
“Asian, perhaps?”
Reginald nodded. “My wife says she can’t understand how I can eat all those chillies and not burst out in flames.”
“Then Indian it is.”
Reginald waved his hand to attract the attention of a nearby waitress. As he placed their order, Oliver found himself glancing at the door leading to the kitchen.
She’s back!
***
Coventry
Paul sighed with pleasure as he swallowed the mouthful. He opened his eyes and smiled at Jeremiah.
“Even if I’m at death’s door, please make sure I don’t miss your wedding.” He held up the glass of brandy. “This is exquisite.”
Jeremiah grinned. “I’ll have a bottle delivered to your house, just so you don’t forget that there are more to be had at my wedding.”
They settled back and Jeremiah watched as his friend lit his pipe. Paul had been discharged yesterday and Jeremiah was relieved to hear that he would heal completely. Had her old friend come out of this permanently damaged, Gordon McAllister would’ve come to a worse fate than what he had suffered recently.
“Did you hear about McAllister?”
Paul blew out a stream of smoke. “I wish I could feel sorrier than I do.”
“This puts him farther back than he had been at the start of all this. No one knows who is responsible and McAllister is not talking.” He sipped his brandy. “Whoever did this seemed to have terrified him.” Jeremiah’s fear that Chester would kill the man, had not come to fruition. Both Hirsh and Chester had strong alibis. Hirsh was having dinner with him and Chester spent the night in the company of Lady Hampton.
“Who wouldn’t be if you’d been dragged from your bed, brutalized and then forced to watch your house burn down.” He sipped his drink. “How is the Viscountess?”
Jeremiah smiled. He couldn’t help doing that every time the woman’s name came up. Their favourite pastime nowadays, his and Abigail’s, was to guess the contents of the letter. Jane and Abigail’s visit to Hampton Hall yesterday had proven that the Viscountess had been affected by the missive. The woman had been distracted and Abigail found that Chester’s name had come up more times than she could remember. Geon, the dazzling succubus, had read the situation right.
“Lady Hampton’s recovery is coming along well.”
“That’s a relief. The poor woman has had her share of misfortune.” Paul peered at him through a haze of smoke. “Has the restriction order been authorized?”
“Yes. Commissioner Lansing had the documents returned to me this morning. I’ll drive over to the Hampton Estate later today to deliver them to the Viscountess.” No matter the hardship he was experiencing at the moment, Gordon McAllister was still a menace that needed to be dealt with.
They sat quietly for a moment, sipping their brandy. Jeremiah took a deep breath, drawing Paul’s eyes to him.
“I think you have something to say. Why not just come out and say it?”
“I need to ask you something?” Paul lifted a brow. “I obviously can’t get my wife pregnant and…” A look of acute unease came over Paul face and Jeremiah couldn’t help but laugh when she caught on to why her friend was suddenly alarmed. “No, it’s not what you think, Paul. If Margaret doesn’t skin you alive, I’ll probably kill you myself in a jealous rage.”
Paul’s relief was clear. “That’s good to hear.”
“I need your advice on an idea I have.”
“Of course. How can I help?”
Half an hour later, Margaret and Abigail entered the drawing-room with huge smiles. Margaret immediately moved over to Paul’s side. Their love had been what had spurred Jeremiah to find his own life partner.
“I’m impressed by your skill as a horticulturist, Paul. I know who to call when I move into Jeremiah’s house. The garden there begs for attention.”
Paul gave Jeremiah a small grin. “Of course. We can call it a wedding gift, if you like.”
“That’s a wonderful idea, darling,” Margaret exclaimed. “The soothing benefits of a garden are immeasurable.”
Jeremiah shared another look with Paul.
***
Chester wiped her brow as she watched the sheep ambling off. The large volume of animals had forced them to divide the shearing operation into two sessions. Early spring and the end of spring. It would be cruel to leave the animals with all that wool during the hot and humid months. Especially the ewes that lambed during the warmer periods. Before she reached for the next sheep, Chester examined her shears but looked up when she heard the wheels of a cart. She smiled at the sight of the young servant woman.
Lunch was here!
They had an early start at the crack of dawn with a hasty breakfast of gruel and tea. However, the laborious exercise had them starving a few hours later.
“Food’s here,” Mark, the stable boy, shouted excitedly and the men all finished off the animals they were busy with. The cart had barely rolled to a stop when it was surrounded by hungry shearers. Chester hung back, waiting for them to be served first. They had worked hard. She had rounded up her regular helpers to speed up the process. Ten shearers for five hundred animals would see them finished by midnight. That, unfortunately, meant that she might not visit with Florence later. It had become a common occurrence for them to talk until late in the evening and Chester had grown to love those moments.
A smile crept up her face. Florence was a great conversationalist. She was well-read and had an inquisitive mind. Chester delighted in the many questions Florence asked and enjoyed it immensely every time one of her anecdotes made the other woman giggle. Florence was healing fast and Chester liked to think that her attention somehow also played a role in it, albeit a small one.
“Mr Vaughn.”
The soft voice stirred her from her musings to find Betsy standing before her with a plate filled with potatoes, bread rolls and ham cuts. “Thank you, Betsy.” She joined the men sitting in a circle on the grass as Betsy moved between them, serving cold glasses of apple cider. Chester was eager to get back to work and maybe by doing so, might still manage a short visit with Florence. But the men looked happy and relaxed and Chester couldn’t bring herself to cut the break short. Instead, she sat back and let the relaxed atmosphere lull her into a deep moment of reminiscing.
Her favourite topic; Florence Hampton. There had been some subtle, but noteworthy changes after that unaddressed letter. Chester had recognized Geon’s handwriting almost immediately. The intuitive Geon had seemed to know exactly what would stir Florence.
The Viscountess made sure she was groomed before Chester arrived for their nightly visits. Another significant change was that Florence would touch her more often now when she was laughing or excited about something. Chester didn’t draw any attention to the touching for fear that Florence would stop. Those small touches had become as necessary to her as the air that she breathed. It made her whole body heat up and her stomach do wild summersaults. There was no mention of Chester’s declaration of love. It was as if that part hadn’t happened at all.
It saddened her and at times, she was glad that nothing had come of it. The Raven was on its way and although she would miss Florence deeply, there wasn’t much between them to keep her here. Once she was away from here, she would find a way to forget about Florence. There were enough distractions and women out there to help her in her quest.
The sound of the cart driving off, brought her back to the present and she found that the men were already set up to continue with the shearing. Thankful to be saved from her rapidly sombre growing thoughts, Chester joined them.
***
London
Teresa sauntered into the kitchen with a mischievous smile on her lips. Geon knew what was coming even before the woman spoke.
“He’s here again.”
Geon ignored her as she cut into a slab of smoked ham. Her friend was a terrible romantic and so incredibly naïve when it came to men. A pretty face was enough to set the woman’s heart aflutter.
“Have you checked on the line forming outside?” When she bought the chophouse upon her arrival in London almost two years ago, it had simply been a ploy to get closer to society gossip and, in particular, any chatter that pertained to the illustrious Cutthroat Beau. For that purpose, she had to attract the right type of clientele–those who socialized with the people who would know something. Great food, coupled with exclusivity had caused throngs of nobles, gentry, affluent working-class members and some senior military men flocking to the Baker’s Grill. Nobody wanted to be seen as not worthy enough to dine at the most notorious eatery in London.
And it paid off.
She had overheard, through her serving staff, some interesting nuggets of information that she had relayed to Hirsh. That had led to them coming to the conclusion that their time hiding on land was drawing to a close.
“Didn’t you hear what I just said? That handsome devil is back and I’ve already caught him a few times eyeing the door to the kitchen.”
“I heard you. I’m just not interested.”
Teresa planted her hands on her hips. “Why the hell not? He is handsome and very rich.”
“And I’m still not interested. Now, go out there and find a way to clear the tables so we can sit the people waiting outside.”
With a loud sigh, Teresa turned and went off to do her bidding. Alone in that side of the kitchen, Geon stopped her carving. She wished Teresa would stop her matchmaking efforts. They were tiresome. She wasn’t oblivious to her looks—the venue was filled with male customers, as a result. Men from all walks of life and station; and they left gifts and flowers for her. She handed them out at the soup kitchen, where she worked at after the Baker’s Grill closed down at seven in the evening. The women there needed cheering up more than she did.
Francis, the youngest son of the Duke Elmhearst, came over to her. “I’ve finished the Mediterranean platter, Chef. Would you mind doing a quick inspection, please?”
The interns and her employees had taken to calling her ‘chef’ not that it bothered her, but Geon only saw herself as a simple cook. A good one. She nodded and moved over to where the young man had been working. The colours on the platter looked good. She did a few sample tastings.
“The hummus could do with a little more seasoning, otherwise everything tastes delicious. Good work.”
Francis beamed at the praise and she moved on to the six other apprentices. Geon was surprised by how much she enjoyed doing this. Shaping young talent was tremendously rewarding. They were learning fast and if things continued like this then Geon could take more time away from the Grill. Especially now that she had found new friends in Abigail and Jane. She had enjoyed the few days in Coventry and would love to go back again. Chester might still need her help.
Teresa, followed by a tall, skinny man, entered the kitchen. Horace was Teresa’s husband and the unofficial maître d. He didn’t look happy.
“Chef, is there any chance that you could keep Teresa in the kitchen?”
The two were extreme opposites, but very much in love. Whereas Teresa was loud and rough around the edges, Horace was soft-spoken, well-read and serious. They had met when Teresa was working at a local butcher shop. The illiterate butcher’s daughter and a school teacher’s son had an immediate spark.
“What has she done this time?”
“She keeps hanging around that famous artist’s table. The men are starting to become suspicious.”
Geon threw Teresa a sharp look. The younger woman threw her hands up in surrender. This needed to stop.
“Teresa, I want you to collect your things and leave. Do not return until you can bring yourself to stop pestering our clients.”
The kitchen grew silent as everyone stopped working and stared in shock. But none were as shocked as Teresa and Horace. The woman’s eyes were wide as she gaped at Geon.
“Uhm, Chef, I didn’t mean…” Horace stuttered but she cut him off quickly.
“Teresa knows why it has come to this. Don’t you, Teresa?” The woman could only nod. “There you have it. Now, please leave my kitchen and I don’t want you back here until you can convince me that your behaviour has changed.” She turned her back on the pair to test the consistency of the ratatouille one of the apprentices was working on.
***
Lord Percy Bannon, Marquess of Kempton entered the Baker’s Grill and glanced around. He wasn’t surprised to recognize some of his peers in attendance. This place was fast becoming a more sought out eatery than the Vauxhall Gardens. He took a deep breath and with the arrogance of his station as Lord Herbert Owen Bannon, the Duke of Kempton’s heir, he cut through the tables on his way to the kitchen. His father’s close connection to the Royals made him the most powerful nobleman in the country. He never waited in queues and had an acute aversion to the word ‘no’.
He could feel the eyes on him as he passed the tables. It made him feel powerful and invincible as he was about to do what so many of the men here only dreamed of doing. He had bedded women of astonishing beauty and hearing that the cook was more beautiful than his ten most beautiful paramours, had piqued his curiosity.
He had to come see her for himself and then he would make the call. The kitchen was large and he was almost bowled over by a string of servers filing out of the kitchen, their arms piled with trays and platters. It took him some time to get used to the heat in the area.
“How’s the cheese platter coming along, Brandon?”
His body immediately reacted to the low, throaty voice and he searched the kitchen for its owner. Percy’s breath caught as his eyes fell on a tall, willowy woman. A crisp white chef’s hat covered her head, but a few rich copper-coloured locks had escaped the confinement of the hat. With breathless astonishment, his gaze fixed on her face and Percy had to swallow to wet his unexpectedly dry throat. He had always ridiculed the notion that a woman, even one of spectacular beauty, had the power to instigate a war. Helen of Troy was simply a myth. No such woman existed.
Until now.
The woman must’ve felt his intense scrutiny, for her head lifted and Percy was almost driven to his knees at the sight of the piercing icy blue eyes. He fought hard to get his brain to move past the trench it had become stuck in.
“Can I help you, sir?”
He cleared his throat and nodded. “Yes, I’m Lord Percy Bannon, Marquess of Kempton.”
She curtsied. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, milord.”
Emboldened by her acknowledgement of his rank, he approached her. He was a tall man and very few women could look him in eye, but this alluring lady did. She was dressed in an all-white uniform, but it did nothing to hide her full bosom, narrow waist and the full curve of her hips. He could almost see those long legs wrapped around his waist as he broke her in. He licked his lips. A woman was like a high-strung horse to him. She needed to be tamed so she knew who her master was. This woman, with her strong and level gaze, would be a marvel in bed.
“I wouldn’t have believed it, had I not seen you for myself. You are even more beautiful than you are rumoured to be.” He gave her his most attractive smile as he waited for her to react to his compliment. It always worked. Women liked to hear that they were beautiful and admired. Especially by a handsome, rich nobleman.
She cocked her head. “My apologies, milord, but I have a dining area filled with hungry patrons and I do not have the time to engage in a conversation with you at this moment.”
Percy’s mouth fell open slightly. This was not going the way he had expected. But it whetted his appetite for her more. He could retreat now and rethink his approach. She was proving to be a much tougher challenge than anticipated.
He bowed his head and smiled broadly. “I understand. May I come calling after you close down for the day?”
“I have another community assignment afterwards and can’t afford to be late.” The stream of servers was back and with a brief nod, she moved away. With a final assessing look of the tall beauty, Percy left the kitchen. He needed to take a detour to Lady Edna’s house. The older widow would appreciate the visit, especially since his brief interlude with the gorgeous cook had stirred his passions.
The looks he got as he left the kitchen were a mix of disbelief, admiration and envy. Only one gaze held total indifference. He stopped and smiled.
“Potts! Good heavens, man! I didn’t know you also frequented this place.” He looked around as he included the dining patrons. “I can understand why they are here. But you?” He shook his head as he touched his hat. “See you around.”
When he stepped outside, he impatiently signalled for his carriage. Bloody Oliver Potts! The man was the last person he had hoped to find vying for the cook’s attention. If there was one person that could undermine his plan to seduce the cook; it was him.
Women had an almost fanatical response to the man. He was handsome, rich and a very talented artist. His portraits fetched exorbitant prices at exhibitions and the king had commissioned several works from the man, making him a household name around the world. What annoyed Percy the most, was although he didn’t possess any rank, Oliver Potts was considered the country’s topmost sought after bachelor. He stomped his cane on the floor of the carriage and it pulled away.
The bloody man made him feel like an amateur.
***
“That man needs to step in dog poo.” Reginald had a look of utter disgust on his face.
Oliver chuckled as he sipped his wine. The antagonism between him and the young Marquess was entirely one-sided. Lord Percy Bannon fancied himself a Lothario and he seemed to have fixated on Oliver as a potential competitor.
“Why don’t you ever put him in his place?” Charles asked with a quizzical look on his face.
“Why?” He leaned back in his chair. “My indifference seems to drive him mad.”
“But he keeps calling you out.”
“And it’s expected, because he’s a child not only in age, but in life experience, too. We are grossly incomparable to be considered rivals for whatever reason he thinks we are.”
“Oh, we know why he considers you a rival.” Reginald cleared a space on the table as a server arrived with a large round platter. The rounded bowl had circled depressions filled with six different dishes. A separate bowl of rice and one with flatbread accompanied the serving dish.
“Bon appetite, gentlemen.”
This was what made the Baker’s Grill so popular, the sense of closeness it promoted. There was no way that many of the people here would be caught dead eating from one bowl together, outside from the Grill, especially those who had never travelled out of the country to the more exotic East Indies.
The food was rich and spicy, but delicious. They were halfway through their meal when Oliver looked up and found the gorgeous chef standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of her. She was about to make her usual rounds of the dining hall, moving from table to table to enquire about her patrons’ dining experience. Sometimes she even gave them advice on how the dish was consumed in its country or region of origin.
It took all his willpower not to stare at the woman as she worked her way around the room. There was always a sense of heightened excitement in the room when this moment came around. The men were enthralled and the few women in attendance were filled with both envy and admiration.
Oliver sensed her presence even before he looked up. She smiled at them and Oliver felt his body react almost violently to the woman. Her nearness, scent and captivating gaze—everything about the woman—made him ravenous for her.
“Good day, gentleman. How do you find your lunch?”
“Incredible. I never knew I loved spicy food until my friend,” Reginald pointed at Oliver, “brought me here. Thank you for the new experience, ma’am.”
She laughed and the husky, melodic sound caused goosebumps to break out on Oliver’s body. The icy blue gaze landed on him and he smiled. He wasn’t sure if he had imagined it, but the woman’s smile faltered slightly.
“I should thank you for converting your friend, Mr Potts.”
She knew who he was! Oliver struggled to keep his smile neutral instead of the wide grin he wanted to beam at her.
“It would’ve been selfish to keep the secret of such fine dining to myself.”
A strange look came into her eyes as she nodded. “I’m happy to hear you’re satisfied with your meal.”
“More than satisfied, madam.” Charles seemed to have snapped out of his trance. Her gaze slid from his to Charles.
“Good to hear that, sir. Please, enjoy your meal and feel free to come back.”
She moved on to the next table and Charles let out a long sigh.
“Holy cow! That woman will give me a heart attack one of these days.”
Oliver smiled absently as he took the time to get his unruly body under control. He couldn’t wait to get home and take a cold bath to cool off.
“Mr Potts?”
Oliver’s head snapped up to see two young ladies standing by their table. The Grant sisters. He rose and bowed low.
“Good day, ladies.”
Constance, the elder of the two, gave him a smouldering look as she held out her hand. He obediently kissed it.
“You are a very difficult man to get a hold of, sir. Mama said you were busy and that’s why you haven’t responded to our requests, yet. But here you are now.”
“Will you be able to paint us?” Amanda, the more impetuous one, blurted out.
Oliver smiled. “It would be my pleasure as soon as I have finished all the projects I have on my schedule.”
Constance pulled her face. “I would love to see you at work. We overheard the Countess Gilligan say she had been overwhelmed by your expertise.”
Oh no! The look in Constance’s eyes made it clear what she was referring to. He looked away and was shocked to meet the chef’s eyes where she stood two tables away. She glanced away and Oliver was left shaken by the moment. He and the Countess had embarked on a brief liaison while he had been working on her portrait. He found it unfortunate that the woman had not exercised better discretion after the conclusion of their association. Even if it had not been an amicable cessation from the Countess’ side.
“Why don’t you draft a request and deliver it to my secretary. He will give you a better indication of how soon I would be available to accommodate you.”
Constance didn’t like the answer, but she smiled. They were drawing some attention and the two unmarried young women couldn’t afford to have rumours about them doing the rounds. It would drastically reduce their chances of attracting good marriage proposals.
“Yes, we’ll do that. Good day, sir.” They left the venue and Oliver sighed.
“Sometimes I envy your life.”
“Be careful what you wish for, Regi.”
They finished the meal and each when back to their place of work. Not sure he would be able to concentrate, Oliver decided to go home instead of his studio.
***
Coventry
Joshua Pierce looked up when his assistant entered his office and closed the door behind him. The look in the man’s eyes made him remove his glasses and rise.
“Yes, Joseph?”
“The constabulary is here, sir.” The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “They want to speak to you.”
His heart was racing madly, but Joshua fought against the darkness that threatened to overwhelm him. “Why don’t you send them in?”
“Uh…” The man nodded and turned to the door, but he quickly turned back. “They brought the wagon which means that they intend to arrest someone.” Hearing that, Joshua’s legs gave out and he fell to his knees. “Mr Pierce? Sir? Are you unwell?”
No, he wasn’t fine. This was the beginning of the end for him and his career. He climbed to his feet with difficulty and fixed a blurry gaze on his assistant. “Please, can you give me a moment before you let the officers in?”
The young man looked more concerned now, but he nodded and left the office, closing the door softly behind him. Joshua heard raised voices on the other side and fell back in his chair. He took a deep breath before he pulled out the drawer. The pistol handle felt hard and heavy in his hand. It had been a week since his visit to Mortimer’s office. When nothing came of his ill-timed attack of a conscience, he had foolishly thought his confession had been found to hold no merit. He shook his head as he looked at the weapon.
It was the only way this could end.
The only way for his family to salvage something from this mess. He lifted the weapon to his temple.
Damn Gordon McAllister to hell!
***
The voices filtered through his sleep and Gordon groaned when paralysing pain accompanied wakefulness. The voices grew quiet and he opened his eyes to a sea of faces. He recognized Clive Lansing’s face. The man looked anxious.
“Lan…” He swallowed to wet his throat. “Lansing?”
The Commissioner glanced over his shoulder at the men who had accompanied him before he spoke.
“How do you feel?”
Gordon cleared his throat weakly and Lansing filled a glass of water. His body protested when Lansing lifted his upper body to serve him. The pain caused a sudden bout of dizziness and he shut his eyes tightly. After having taken a few sips, he laid back with a relieved sigh.
“Why are they here, Clive?”
Lansing folded his arms and Gordon knew at that moment that he was facing the Police Commissioner and not his friend.
“They are here to arrest you.”
The words sounded loud in the room and even louder in his head. That spineless, bespectacled toad couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Had the man been standing before him, his own broken body wouldn’t have stopped him from wringing Joshua Pierce’s neck. He wasn’t going to go down alone.
“Why?”
“The murder attempt on Lady Florence Hampton.” The man’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I asked you about it a week ago.”
“And I told you that I wasn’t involved.”
“That is not what Joshua Pierce said.”
Bloody Pierce! He held Lansing’s gaze. “He’s lying. Pierce is trying to save his own hide by accusing me.”
“Pierce is dead.”
Gordon’s blood ran cold. “Dead?”
“He took his own life.” Lansing stepped backwards. “The order for your arrest came from the District Parliamentary representative, McAllister. You can make your case to him. An officer will be posted outside your room until you’re well enough to be transferred to the town penitentiary.” He turned and left the room.
The finality of the action wasn’t lost on Gordon. Clive Lansing was ambitious and Gordon had become a liability.
***
Florence lifted her leg and smiled at Abigail. She was excited. Very excited. She couldn’t believe that only four weeks ago, she had been faced with the fate of having to lose mobility in her only functioning leg.
“No pain?”
“No pain.” She felt her eyes well up. “Thank you.”
Abigail shook her head. “You deserve all the praise for being an exemplary patient.”
“Thank you. However, many people deserve a mention. Hirsh, you, Jane, Jeremiah, Elodie and Chester. Everyone aided in some way to my healing.”
Abigail sat on the bed. “I think we should wait another week or two for the leg to grow stronger before we work on the other one.”
Florence was happy to hear that. After four weeks of solid bed rest, she wanted to go out. Move about. Visit the garden.
“When can I get out of bed?”
“Slowly at first. Short walks around the room and gradually the rest of the house. But nothing strenuous.” The blush that came to Florence’s face made Abigail stop as she blinked slowly. She inhaled deeply. “Anyway, I’ve spoken to Elodie about a nutritional regime you should follow to speed up the process of strengthening your leg.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“I don’t doubt that. Now, let’s talk about resetting the other leg. My friend questioned if it would be possible to do the process in London. She is fully booked from next month on, which will make travelling to Coventry difficult. If we’re in London in the coming weeks, she could accommodate us easily.”
London? Florence hated London with its pollution and crowds. But it would be a great opportunity to visit her townhouse there. It had been shut for almost two years now. The last time she had been to the house had been when she disembarked from her American voyage. They had stayed a week or two in London before coming to Coventry. As unappealing as the idea of living in London was, she wanted to be able to dance again.
Maybe with Chester.
She hadn’t seen much of Chester lately, with the shearing and the lambing season coinciding as she had read in the reports. The other woman spent most of her time in the fields. In the past two weeks, she had seen her less than a handful of times. And every time she had looked exhausted, but still she came to see her. The thought always warmed Florence’s heart.
“I have a house in London. Would you be there when she performs the resetting?”
“Yes. Jane would probably also want to come.”
Florence smiled. Her friends would be there with her. That would make London more bearable.
“Then I think…”
There was a knock on the door. “Enter.”
It was Elodie. She was as white as a sheet. “We need you downstairs, Doctor. It’s Chester. He had an accident.”
NO! Florence’s heart clenched painfully. Elodie looked terrified and that was not a good sign. Her maid and friend was not prone to hysterics, even at the worst of times.
“Elodie, help me dress.”
“But…”
“I said help me dress…NOW!”
Abigail, who was already on her way to the door, stopped. “It is not advisable for you to put pressure on that leg for long periods.”
“I know, but I don’t care right now.”
The doctor rushed from the room and Florence looked at her friend. The woman looked terrified and unsure. She forced herself to calm down.
“Please, help me, Elodie. Please.”
The woman nodded and began to gather pieces of clothing as Florence swung her feet off to stand next to the bed. There was a slight twinge of pain, but she could live with it.
“Hurry, Elodie.”
COMING SOON…
