Death Comes to the Village Read online

  “They’ll come back when they are hungry. Now, why don’t you help me clear the table and get Miss Anna started on that huge laundry pile?”

  It wasn’t until much later that she remembered to search her father’s study for the latest London newspapers to bring for the edification of Major Kurland. Not that he would appreciate the gesture. If he wanted to know all the latest gossip from Town, he could certainly afford to have his own newspapers delivered. His father had married an heiress from the industrial north, and unlike many aristocratic estates, Kurland was thriving.

  Lucy chided herself for her unchristian thoughts and gathered up the printed sheets. The study smelled of brandy, saddle leather, and the bay rum her father’s valet used after he shaved him. She glanced at the rows of books and imagined herself in Anthony’s place being tutored for Cambridge. Her father always said she was far too intelligent for a girl, but he’d never stopped her from reading any of the books she requested, even the slightly scandalous ones. She replaced the stopper in the inkwell. Perhaps with Anthony and the twins leaving, she might finally be able to talk to her father about her plans for the future.

  After checking that her basket held everything she needed for her various visits in the village, Lucy set out. She kept a wary eye on the weather, which was still quite unpredictable and veered from sunshine to clouds within moments. She tied the ribbons of her plain straw bonnet firmly under her chin, and buttoned up her blue wool pelisse. She might look like the spinster aunt she was surely destined to become, but at least she was warm.

  Along the driveway that led up to the rectory, some straggling spring flowers raised their heads toward the bright sunlight. In a few weeks the rest would follow and the flower beds would be a sea of yellow and purple. About ten years previously, her father had rebuilt the rectory in a soft yellow stone that reminded Lucy of the houses in Bath. It was a square and symmetrical building with four rectangular windows to each side of the white front door, very much in the classical style of Robert Adam, whom he had greatly admired.

  The rector had given up trying to repair the two-hundred-year-old house that stood there previously, and had it demolished. Lucy still fondly remembered the older rectory with its diamond-paned windows, wooden beams, sloping ceilings, and winding staircases. As a child, it had felt like living in a fairy-tale castle. She was practical enough to admit that it must have been difficult to maintain for a man with a young and ever-increasing family. The new house still seemed a little ill at ease and out of place, the scars of its construction evident in the hard edges of the new pathways and the lack of large trees.

  Lucy did appreciate that the roof no longer leaked, and that the kitchen had both a proper chimney and a closed stove rather than the huge open medieval fireplace that belched smoke and soot over the food being prepared. Her mother had loved having fires in every room and the light the big rectangular windows provided.

  At the bottom of the driveway, Lucy turned right and headed along the main thoroughfare to Kurland Village. The ground was wet and muddy, and she was glad she had worn her stout boots. There was no one else visible on the road, but that was to be expected in the middle of the day. Despite the sunshine, her breath condensed as she exhaled, and she could still feel the brush of winter’s icy fingers against her cheeks.

  She walked past the first of the thatched cottages that housed the laborers who worked the fields of the Kurland estate. A woman was hanging washing out to dry, and nodded at Lucy through a mouthful of pegs. Lucy smiled and nodded back, aware as the wind picked up and flattened the woman’s gown to her belly that she was expecting another child. Mentally, Lucy added another set of birthing clothes to the list of garments she needed to knit or sew for upcoming happy events.

  The cottages grew closer together until Lucy was in the village proper facing the green and the square of buildings huddled around it. The ice had finally thawed on the duck pond, and Lucy was pleased to see that several of the local birds had returned to claim their spots at the side of the weed-choked pond. Something large Lucy couldn’t quite identify stuck out above the surface of the water like an awkward elbow. She should speak to Major Kurland about that. It was his responsibility to keep the pond from becoming stagnant and overgrown.

  In truth, she had no inclination to speak to Major Kurland about anything that might raise his ire. Perhaps it would be better to take her concerns to his rather obnoxious land agent. At least he might listen to her, even if he chose not to do anything.

  “Miss Harrington?”

  Lucy turned from her contemplation of the duck pond to find Mrs. Weeks, the wife of the baker, waving at her from the door of her shop. The fragrant scent of baking bread laced with a hint of cinnamon sugar tantalized Lucy’s nostrils. When she was a child, Lucy had often saved her pennies and sneaked down to the village just to buy an iced bun or an eccles cake from the bakery.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Weeks.” Lucy stepped into the baker’s store and closed the door against the chill. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  Mrs. Weeks folded her arms across her chest. “I was wondering if you wanted me to make the cake for the rector’s birthday.”

  “I would love you to make it, Mrs. Weeks, but there is the little matter that Mrs. Fielding might take offense.”

  “She always takes offense, but there is no denying that her cakes aren’t as light as mine.”

  Lucy had heard variations of this argument her entire life. The rivalry between the baker’s shop and the rector’s cook had started before Lucy was born, when her mother had inadvertently begun the tradition of having a special cake made as a surprise for her husband’s birthday. She’d asked Mrs. Weeks to make it, and Mrs. Fielding had never forgiven her. The problem was that Mrs. Weeks did make a far superior cake, which Lucy’s father much preferred.

  “Please make the cake, Mrs. Weeks,” Lucy said, cutting through the other woman’s long discourse on what Mrs. Fielding had said to her, and what she had said back. “I’m sure it will be as delightful as always.”

  She’d placate Mrs. Fielding by keeping her busy cooking a sumptuous dinner of all the rector’s favorite foods, and hope she wouldn’t notice the addition of an extra cake. Of course, she’d notice it eventually, but by then it would be too late for her to do anything about it. The strategy had worked quite successfully in the past few years and Lucy was confident it would be successful again—as long as Mrs. Weeks didn’t boast of her triumph too loudly after church on Sundays.

  Lucy realized that Mrs. Weeks was still speaking and tried to pay attention.

  “My Daisy, Miss Harrington.”

  “I’m sorry, what about your Daisy?”

  “She’ll be wanting a new job soon and I was wondering if you’d have anything up at the rectory for her. She’s a sturdy, hardworking girl, and she knows her place.”

  Lucy tried to recall Daisy and remembered thick braids, brown eyes, and a permanent scowl. “Does she not wish to work in the shop with you?”

  “Not anymore, miss. She says she wants to go up to London and become a lady’s maid.”

  “And you do not want her to do that?”

  “She’s my youngest, and I was hoping to keep her by me for a while. I don’t think she is ready to move up to London yet. She disagrees with me, of course. In fact, she’s still sulking in her bed upstairs after our latest argument.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Eighteen, miss.”

  Lucy reviewed the current staff of the rectory. “If my brother goes up to Cambridge, and the twins leave for school in the autumn, I will probably have to reduce the staff rather than increase it. I’m sorry, Mrs. Weeks. But I will inquire among the neighboring houses as to whether anyone needs a new maid.”

  “Never mind, miss. It can’t be helped.” Mrs. Weeks wiped her hands on her apron. “I’m sure with God’s help, she’ll find something. Now is there anything I can get you while you’re here?”

  Lucy departed with half a dozen iced bun
s and went next door to the haberdasher’s and general store to replenish the contents of her sewing box. She chatted with the proprietor and then spent another quarter of an hour talking to the butcher about the excellence of the Christmas goose and tactfully mentioning that they would not require any more mutton in the foreseeable future. She was aware that she was dawdling because she didn’t want to retrace her steps to Kurland Manor but, eventually, even she ran out of things to say.

  As a child, she’d loved visiting the manor house. The major’s mother had been a charming, welcoming hostess who had encouraged the rector’s children to treat her home as an extension of their own. Of course, Lucy’s mother had gently suggested that this was because Mrs. Kurland was not wellborn and rather too familiar, but Lucy hadn’t cared about that. She’d enjoyed getting away from her mother and running after the two Kurland boys.

  Even then, Robert Kurland had been rather aloof and above their childish games. As the oldest son and heir, he’d had none of his younger brother’s carefree spirit and had stopped taking any notice of the crowd of village children who gathered to swim and play in the extensive grounds of Kurland Hall. And, after starting at Eton and his brother’s death, he’d withdrawn from them completely.

  She trudged up the long drive to the major’s ancestral home with all the anticipation of a cavalry unit sent uphill to dislodge some enemy cannon. The military cant made her catch her breath and wish painfully for Tom, her other brother, the one who now lay in the family crypt by the church awaiting the resurrection.

  She forced herself to think of more cheerful matters. She was secretly glad that Major Kurland hadn’t followed her father’s example and replaced the Elizabethan manor with a modern stucco box. The house was shaped like an E, with thick beams, narrow windows, and fantastically tall, lopsided Elizabethan chimneys in the grand manner of Hampton Court. Local legend said that many of the internal beams had been salvaged from the destruction of King Henry VIII’s naval ships, which would explain both their thickness and their inconvenient curves.

  Generations of Kurlands had added to the manor house, some more successfully than others. It now resembled something of a hodgepodge with stairs that led to nowhere, large windows where once had been arrow slits, and a beautiful park laid out by Capability Brown.

  Lucy knocked on the old oak door and frowned fiercely at the worn Kurland family crest carved into the panel. She should have more sympathy with Major Kurland. He had survived Waterloo, even if her brother hadn’t.

  Foley, the butler, opened the door for her and smiled. “Good afternoon, Miss Harrington. Have you come to visit the major? He’s tucked up in bed again.”

  “Then I won’t disturb him,” Lucy said rapidly. “Perhaps you might like to give him these newspapers when he wakes up.”

  “Oh no, miss. He’s awake and I’m certain he’ll want to see you.” He lowered his voice. “The doctor called, and the major’s been grumpy as a bear and complaining about a lack of decent company all morning.”

  Lucy tried to hang back, but Foley somehow had a firm grip on her elbow and was maneuvering her up the stairs. For such a slight man, he was difficult to stop. She readjusted her basket and stripped off her gloves. It was an opportunity to show Christian charity, and she should embrace it.

  Foley knocked on the major’s bedroom door and opened it wide. “Miss Harrington to see you, sir. I’ll bring up some tea.”

  Chapter 2

  “Good morning, Major Kurland, and how are you feeling today?”

  Lucy fixed on a bright smile and advanced into the major’s large bedroom. The curtains were half-drawn against the weak sunlight, but she could see just well enough not to bump into any of the rather forbidding oak furniture. Major Kurland was sitting up in his four-poster bed against a mound of pillows. Even from the doorway, Lucy couldn’t help but notice his pallor and the lines of pain bracketing his mouth.

  “Well enough, Miss Harrington.”

  Lucy hesitated. “I can come back tomorrow, if it would be more convenient.”

  “I doubt anything is going to improve by tomorrow, so you might as well come in.”

  “But I don’t wish to impose.”

  “Miss Harrington, if I didn’t wish to see you, I would have ordered Foley to deny you admittance at the front door.”

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “You are a voice of bright reason amongst all the doomsayers.” His words held a hint of impatience she had come to recognize all too well.

  “I am?”

  “Indeed. Your optimistic view of life never fails to entertain me.”

  Lucy raised her chin. Perhaps it was time to assert herself with the acerbic major. “If you intend to make fun of me, sir, I’ll leave you in peace.” She waited, her hand clenched on her basket as he continued to look out of the window.

  “I’m not making fun of you. I’ve had an appalling morning being pulled around by Dr. Baker, and I’m in the mood for a little distraction.”

  Beneath his polite tone she sensed something defeated. Did he truly need her company? An all-too-familiar sense of guilt stirred in her chest. Her father would expect her to give the poor man the benefit of the doubt and stay to comfort him.

  She brought out the folded newspapers from her basket and came up alongside the bed. “Father thought you might enjoy having the London papers.”

  He finally turned to face her and flinched away from the papers she brandished at him as if he were a rabid dog about to attack. Heat blossomed in her cheeks, and she stuffed the papers back in the basket.

  “What happened? Your face is bruised.”

  He made a dismissive gesture. “I fell.”

  Without thinking, Lucy put down her basket and perched on the side of his bed to examine him more closely. “What on earth were you doing?”

  He scowled at her. “Nothing that might concern you, Miss Harrington. You are neither my nursemaid nor my mother.”

  “Thank goodness,” Lucy said under her breath.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Unfortunately, his hearing was sharper than she had anticipated. She met his dark blue gaze without flinching. “You are an exceedingly difficult patient, Major, and I am sincerely glad that I no longer have the care of you.”

  His eyebrows drew together. “And I suspect I owe you another apology.” He cleared his throat. “I am a little belligerent this morning. I overreached myself last night. Dr. Baker says I have set my recovery back by several weeks.”

  The bleakness of his tone conveyed far more than Lucy guessed he intended to reveal and impulsively she patted his hand.

  “Dr. Baker is rather a pessimist, Major. I’m sure you’ll recover far more quickly than he predicts.” He didn’t answer her, his attention seemingly fixed on the sight of her ungloved hand on his. “In fact, I should probably leave you to read the papers, and come back when you are feeling more the thing.”

  “Don’t go.” To her consternation he wrapped his long fingers around her wrist. “Despite what you might think, I have come to appreciate your visits, Miss Harrington.”

  “Indeed?” Lucy didn’t try to pull away. Even in his currently weakened state, she reckoned Major Kurland was far stronger than she was, and she had no intention of getting into an undignified wrangle with him. “I am only doing my Christian duty, sir.”

  “Your Christian duty,” he repeated. “Where is your esteemed father today?”

  “I am not quite sure.” Was it wrong to lie about the doings of a rector even if he was her father? “I expect he is tending to his flock in some capacity.”

  “Strange, because my valet told me there is a horse auction in Saffron Walden today and that the rector was set on attending it.”

  Lucy looked prim. “It is not my place to question the actions of my father, sir. I am here because he asked me to visit you.”

  “And you are a dutiful daughter.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Or else you would not have come.”

/>   Silence stretched between them. Eventually, Lucy raised her eyes to meet his, a challenge in hers. “You said that you appreciate my calling on you. If that is truly the case, then I am glad to be of service.”

  His mouth quirked up at the corner, surprising her. “I think that is why I have come to enjoy your visits so much. Despite the meekness of your words, I suspect you would quite like to ring a peal over my head. You are the only person who doesn’t treat me like an invalid who has lost his mind along with his ability to walk.”

  It seemed that whatever had happened the night before had made the major resolve to be frank with her. Lucy decided the least she could do was be truthful back. It was also something of a relief.

  “I truly feel sorry for your injuries, sir, but I don’t believe it gives you the right to behave like a sulky bear to those around you.”

  He released her hand and leaned back against the pillows, his cropped black hair stark against the white linen. “I feel as if a brigade of horses is trampling through my head, my leg is throbbing like the devil, and I ache all over from my fall. A fall that was my own stupid fault as I thought I knew better than my physician. I think I have a perfect right to be ungracious.”

  “With yourself, perhaps, but not with those who are trying to help you. That smacks of self-pity.”

  This was the most unorthodox conversation she had ever had in her life. Whatever had happened to Major Kurland on the previous night had obviously brought him to this point and surely she was honor bound to listen to him? She was sitting, unchaperoned, on a gentleman’s bed while he unburdened himself of his feelings. Feelings she, as an unmarried woman, should not be party to, and that she had never guessed were concealed beneath the major’s tough exterior. But he’d said he valued her presence—that she was the only person who didn’t fuss around him.

  His abrupt movement brought her back to her surroundings. “I am aware that I am not at my best, Miss Harrington, which is why I admit very few people into my presence.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “But as we are acquaintances of long standing, I will endeavor to present at least a veneer of politeness, just for you.”