The Dead Queen's Garden

The Dead Queen's Garden by Nicola Slade Page B

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Authors: Nicola Slade
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pudgy cheeks.
    ‘Certainly,’ nodded Charlotte, as she tucked into some ham from one of Barnard’s prize pigs. ‘I think I’ll make my way into Winchester fairly soon and rescue your unfortunate friend in good time. A private lodging house in St Thomas Street, you said, I believe, Lily? I’ll bring her straight back here unless of course she has reconsidered and has other plans.’
    ‘I doubt she’ll do that,’ said Lily, with a toss of her head. ‘Her note was most urgent and it seems clear that she has nowhere to goat present, with Christmas on top of us now. Besides, from what she said, she has precious little in the way of funds.’
    As Charlotte muffled herself once more in her pelisse and shawl while taking her leave, she threw a deliberate crumb of praise towards her sister-in-law. ‘I am full of admiration, Lily,’ she said, giving the other girl an affectionate hug. ‘I’m sure Miss Armstrong will be eternally grateful to you for your generosity, particularly at this festive time of the year. You are quite the Good Samaritan.’ There, she thought as she clambered into the Finchbourne double brougham and waved farewell to the gratified lady of the manor; that should help to ease Miss Armstrong’s stay. Lily dearly loves to be seen as Lady Bountiful.
    A shout from Barnard made her pause. ‘Here, Char,’ panted her brother-in-law as he galloped up to the carriage. ‘I’ve written a note to Dr Chant, inviting him to stay a day or so if he finds himself detained in Hampshire. It seems only right and proper, poor fellow, it’s not the time of year to be stranded in some hotel or other, particularly in the circumstances.’ He thrust the note into her hand and hastened back to the stables saying, ‘Got to get back to the ratting. It’s going famously, the boy is in seventh heaven.’
    Charlotte smiled as they swung out on to the main road, glad that young Granville was enjoying his sport. Dear Barnard, he would do what was right, if it killed him, bless him, even though Charlotte suspected that neither he nor Lily had taken to the new-made widower.
    The coachman drew up outside a narrow, red-brick slice of a house in St Thomas Street in Winchester, a short distance up the hill from the cathedral, and just off the High Street.
    ‘I’ll wait, shall I, Miss Char?’ asked the coachman who, like most people in Finchbourne, both manor and village, had adopted this informal method of address. ‘Yes, please do,’ Charlotte nodded. ‘I’m hoping to be out quickly but if there looks to be some delay, I’ll let you know.’ She took a deep breath and climbed the two high steps to the door, where she seized the bell handle and tried to ring in a muted manner suitable to a house of mourning.
    A subdued young maid showed her into the parlour and went in search of Miss Armstrong, but to Charlotte’s dismay, she found thatthe stout, middle-aged gentleman standing in the bay window was the bereaved widower himself, Dr Chant. He gave her a curt bow and glowered at her but, after a cursory appraisal, he straightened up and advanced on her with his hand outstretched. Aha, she managed to conceal a sardonic smile, though her outward demeanour remained demure. He has recognised me as a part of the family at the manor and, moreover, has just noticed that my muff is sable and that my rig-out, though plain, is well-made and modish – or at least, as modish as Winchester fashions allow. Whatever grief he was feeling at the loss of the pretty wife who must have been at least twenty-five years his junior, it had not prevented him from brushing his straight grey locks forward so that it disguised his receding hair line, nor was his smooth pink brow furrowed by sorrow.
    ‘I believe we met the day before yesterday, ma’am?’ The voice was unctuous with a suitable touch of gravity and his hand, equally suitably, was warm but not pressing. ‘I regret that I do not recall your name?’ He stroked his neat grey beard then

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