Her mind spun, craving the pieces of the puzzle she was missing.
As they neared the entry hall, the squire himself came around the corner, tall and brooding. Elsie was so involved in her own mind that he startled her, eliciting a small gasp from her lips, which she quickly shut. Decorum mandated she not speak to her better first, and she was grateful for the excuse to ignore him.
Unfortunately, Squire Hughes did not ignore her. He stopped abruptly, eyeing Elsie as if he were some bull and she a red flag. His fiery gaze flew to Mr. Parker. “What on earth are you doing with your time, Parker? Who is this woman, and why is she in my house?”
Anger burned up Elsie’s neck. She bit down so many heated retorts her teeth hurt. At least he didn’t seem to recognize her from their brief meeting in London.
“Just an aide to Mr. Ogden, who is doing fine work on your inner courtyard. I’m seeing her out now. I do believe Markson was looking for you regarding your luncheon.”
Squire Hughes’s lips curved in a most unpleasant fashion. Instead of answering, the despicable man merely pushed past the both of them and continued on his ornery way.
Well, I never. She didn’t dare say it aloud, so she merely folded her arms.
“My apologies.” Mr. Parker crossed the entryway and took hold of the door handle. “The squire is very . . . old fashioned.” There was a glint in his eyes Elsie couldn’t quite interpret. “Please do send my regards to young Emmeline, hmm?”
She paused a step from the door frame, taking in Mr. Parker’s aging but wise features. “You know Emmeline?”
He smoothed his cravat. “It is my business to know all things Brookley, my dear.” Did he wink, or was there perhaps something in his eye?
Did he know about her? About them?
Elsie nodded slowly. “Of course. Thank you.”
She walked out, listening for the door to shut behind her. She never heard it click, but when she turned back, it was closed. She paused a moment, studying the front of the house.
Was it a steward’s business to know? And what did he know? And why had he imparted the information about the viscount?
Elsie contemplated the questions the entire way home, never once deciding on a definitive answer for any of them.
“It’s been like this a long time . . . years,” Thom Thomas, known locally as Two Thom, held up a small plaster Christus statue in aged hands that trembled ever so slightly. Part of the Christus’s robe had chipped away, and its left hand had snapped clean off. The old farmhand offered a light chuckle. “Since my boy was still at home. He’s the one knocked it off the mantel, you see. We haven’t displayed it since.”
Elsie nodded as she gingerly took the small statue and its severed hand and fit them together. She’d left the shop again that afternoon to pick up a few supplies, hoping to distract herself from overthinking her visit to the squire’s estate. Two Thom had apparently been on his way to the studio when he spied her on the street.
“Should be an easy fix.” She could probably even do the repair herself, but Ogden’s hands were far more practiced than her own. “I don’t think he’d charge more than a shilling or two, and only that because he’ll have to shape the plaster for the robe.”
Two Thom smiled, exposing two gaps in his bottom jaw. “That will do.” He fished two tarnished shillings from his pocket and handed them to her. “She’ll be so surprised. It’s our anniversary next week. Forty-three years.”
He had already mentioned the anniversary, but Elsie smiled. “It’s a very thoughtful thing to do. I’ll carry it like my own babe back to the shop. You can pick it up the day before your celebration, hmm? Or I can deliver it.”
Two Thom shook his head. “I’ll make the walk. I can get away.”
He shook her hand. Elsie took off her gloves and wrapped the plaster pieces in them before nestling them in her basket.
Turning back for home, Elsie slid the shillings into her chatelaine bag, only to have her fingertips brush a folded piece of paper there. Her first thought was that she needed to stop by the post office and post her letter. The second was that she had not written a letter to be posted.
She let the coins slip from her fingers and pinched the paper’s edge, pulling it free. It wasn’t even a full sheet of paper, but a quarter sheet with a silvery hue, folded tightly and sealed with a crescent moon and bird’s foot.
Heart leaping, Elsie whirled around so quickly she nearly swung the plaster Christus right out of her basket. Two Thom had already crossed the road back to Clunwood. But he’d never been near her chatelaine. No one had. And . . . well, he couldn’t be a Cowl himself, unless he was a fantastic actor. Two Thom had lived in Clunwood all his life and was as simple as a man could be. Yet she was certain her chatelaine had been note-free that morning! Where had she gone, besides . . .
Mr. Parker passed through her thoughts, but he hadn’t touched the bag, had he? Still, he’d known so much about her, more than he should, given their weak acquaintance. She tried to remember how closely they had stood . . . and the speculation only made her heart beat faster. Her fancies were getting away with her! She needed to focus, not dawdle on potentialities.
But if it was Mr. Parker . . . if she could finally know at least one of the people guiding her . . .
She couldn’t read the note here. Not where someone could see. So Elsie tucked the note back into her little pouch and clutched it to her, forgoing the road and cutting through the wild grass behind the butcher shop. She popped out into a cul-de-sac of houses surrounding a well. Spied Alexandra Wright strolling toward Main Street with her arm knit through that of a ginger-haired man—
Her heart thudded once against her chest before dropping to her feet, the note in her pouch forgotten. That couldn’t possibly be . . . not here . . .
But the man turned his head to Miss Wright as he chuckled at something, and in his profile Elsie saw a complete stranger.
The relief was instant, though her heart was slow to reclaim its place in her breast. He merely looked like Alfred. Her former beau hadn’t graced Brookley with his presence for nearly two years. Why should he do so now? Still, she didn’t like being assailed with memories of the man, even if it was hardly the fault of Miss Wright’s companion.
Picking up her feet, Elsie carved out one more shortcut before passing behind the post office and the saddler on her way to the masonry shop. She went in through the side door and did not remove her shoes before venturing upstairs to her room.
Closing the door and leaning against it, Elsie tore open the note.
It is urgent that you break the spell in Kent.
That was it.
She blinked and stared at the paper. Break the spell in Kent? But she had! Not even two days ago. Surely they knew the wine basket had been picked up. Did they think her a failure?
Gooseflesh erupted under Elsie’s fitted sleeves. She had never failed the Cowls. She was too afraid of what it might cost her. Not afraid of the Cowls themselves, but of being discarded. Of being deemed useless. Of losing her purpose. Of never learning the identity of those who secretly employed her. Surely every mission was a test, and once she proved herself . . .
There was no way to reply to the letter. No way to defend herself. No proof and no ability to provide it if she’d had any.
She tore up the letter and threw it into her fireplace, though her hands fumbled with the match. She had to return to Kent. She’d have to buy the Madeira herself—and it was certainly expensive! Would it look questionable were she to return to the servants’ door so soon? Would they want more, regardless of the price?