A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(70)

“I mentioned we had visitors and she insisted,” Mertensia told her.

“She does take an interest,” Mrs. Polglase said. “Her mind wanders more often than it stays at home, but she always likes to hear of the castle folk.” She turned to us. “My mother-in-law used to provide eggs and chicken feathers for the castle from her own flock before she grew too old to manage. Very proud of her roasters, she was.”

“The finest chickens in Cornwall, I have,” the old woman piped up. She stared at us with a suspicious eye. “Have they come for a chicken?”

“No, Mrs. Polglase,” Mertensia told her. “These are our guests at the castle.”

The older Mrs. Polglase pushed herself up just a little, peering out from the assorted blankets and shawls. “Be that Miss Rosamund?” she asked, scrutinizing me with rheumy eyes.

Mertensia sucked in her breath, but the younger Mrs. Polglase merely pushed her mother-in-law gently back onto the pillows. “Now, Mam, you know Miss Rosamund is dead. That is Miss Speedwell, a guest at the castle.”

The old woman gave a fretful toss of the head. “I want Miss Rosamund. She were reading a book to me and she hadn’t finished. ’Twere a very good book too. About elopements and a brothel,” she added with a sharp nod.

Her daughter-in-law tucked in her coverlets tightly, immuring the old woman in the bed. “Brothels and elopements! You’ve no call to hear about such things at your age,” she said firmly. “You need a nice dose of your tonic from Miss Mertensia and a good nap.”

“I need a man,” the old woman said with a long, thoughtful look at Stoker. He stepped sharply behind me.

“Save me,” he muttered into my ear.

“Now, Mam, have done,” her daughter-in-law told her. She gave Stoker an apologetic glance. “Think nothing of it, sir. She does wander in her wits, although she was a bit of a light-skirt in her day.”

“Reading Clarissa cannot have helped,” Mertensia put in repressively.

The younger Mrs. Polglase laughed. “Bless 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.