A Silent Stabbing Page 2

  “A job well done, my lady.” Eva, Phoebe’s personal maid, carried an armful of children’s clothing, which she added to a pile on the nearest table. It was the fifth load she had carried down from the vestibule of the church above them in the past ten minutes. Eva had had the day off yesterday to welcome her sister, who was visiting their parents in Little Barlow, and it seemed she was determined to work twice as hard today to make up for it. Dearest Eva.

  “The parish truly stepped forward this time, didn’t they?” Phoebe continued scanning the goods piled high on each table. Besides clothing, there were linens and bedding, pots and pans, dishes and cutlery, tinned and jarred goods, sacks of flour, farming tools, and so much more. Toward the back of the room, two volunteers were sorting toiletries. Elaina Corbyn, the wife of a local sheep farmer, and Violet Hershel, the vicar’s wife, spoke quietly together as they organized items and jotted down an inventory of goods.

  Phoebe joined Eva at the children’s clothing table and began separating boys’ garments from girls’. “Now the real work begins,” she said. “First the sorting and then the matching of donations to the requests we’ve received from the families who need our help.”

  “I’m happy to lend a hand, too, my lady.” Eva’s sister, Alice Ward, came down the steps from the sanctuary and set a box on the table marked Cleaning Supplies. A carton of Fels-Naptha soap peeped out over the edge of the corrugated cardboard container. Mrs. Ward so resembled Eva with her dark hair, trim figure, and small, even features, that often Phoebe had to look twice to know to whom she was speaking. Except that Eva, approaching thirty but not quite, still retained the bloom of youth, while time hung a bit more heavily on Alice Ward.

  “I don’t like to see you laboring during your holiday, Mrs. Ward,” Phoebe told her with a laugh.

  “This is pleasant work, Lady Phoebe. And with three children at home, I’m not used to sitting about all day.”

  Phoebe heard a little sigh from Eva. What was that about? Before she could ponder further, booted footsteps sounded on the stone stairs from outside. Two men made their way precariously down to the basement, one backward, the other facing front, carrying a large crate between them. A chilly draft from outside followed them down, prompting Phoebe to tighten her cardigan around her.

  “Morning, Lady Phoebe,” the one facing backward said. “I’ve got pears for you. They’re a little overripe for perry making, but perfectly edible, and there’s no use in letting them rot. Make excellent pies and turnovers, I expect.” Farmer and owner of a local brewery, Keenan Ripley continued taking small backward steps while his older brother, Stephen, guided him to a vacant spot on one of the tables. Unlike Eva and her sister, the brothers could not have looked more different. Keenan sported dusky red hair that curled over his collar, while Stephen’s close-shorn locks were as pale and straight as straw. The brothers set down their load, and Keenan wiped a sleeve across his brow.

  Phoebe went over to inspect the contents of the crate. An assortment of red, green, and gold pears met her gaze. “What do we have here?”

  That they were pears was obvious, but Mr. Ripley knew her question involved specifics. “Some Barlands, Helen’s Earlies, and Blakeney Reds, mostly.”

  “Are you sure you can spare all these, Mr. Ripley? There are a great many here.” She couldn’t help wondering if the fruit was truly unsuitable for brewing Gloucestershire’s unique blend of pear cider, or if Keenan Ripley was in an exceedingly generous mood. She glanced up at both brothers and smiled. “Or should I say, Misters Ripley? I didn’t know you’d returned to Little Barlow,” she said to the elder brother, Stephen. Though she had been a young schoolgirl when he moved away from the village, Phoebe remembered him because he had worked at Foxwood Hall, assisting the head gardener, Alfred Peele. She remembered her grandfather once commenting that Stephen hadn’t seemed at all interested in the family orchard, but would make a fine gardener someday. He had left a couple of years before the war started and hadn’t been back since.

  “Only just back, but you’re right to address your concerns to my brother.” Stephen Ripley shoved a pair of spectacles higher on his sunburned nose. “I’ve not joined him in the brewing business. In fact, Lady Phoebe, I’ll be working at Foxwood Hall starting tomorrow.”

  “Will you? I didn’t know.” What came as a surprise wasn’t so much the news that Stephen Ripley would be joining the staff at home, but that her grandfather hadn’t informed her of the fact. With his heir, Phoebe’s brother Fox, still a boy in his teen years, Grandfather had taken to confiding in Phoebe when it came to matters of estate business. He said she had a good head for figures and organization, and she considered it of no small consequence that he showed such confidence in her abilities. She couldn’t help wondering why he had omitted to mention a new employee. But she carefully schooled her features not to show the slightest smidgeon of perplexity. “Will you be assisting Mr. Peele again?”

  Stephen Ripley’s self-satisfied grin revealed a row of well-formed if uneven teeth. “No, my lady. I’m going to be your new head gardener.”

  “Head gardener . . . ?” She trailed off, once again unwilling to reveal her thoughts. Alfred Peele had served in the capacity of head gardener at Foxwood Hall for nearly two decades. Yes, he was getting on, but the man still stood as straight as the hedges he kept trimmed to such perfection that, from a distance, they appeared to be solid walls of emerald and jade. Phoebe had heard no talk of him retiring—not so much as a wisp of a hint. And obviously Eva had heard nothing belowstairs, or she would have said something.

  Then what had happened? She wouldn’t ask Stephen Ripley. No, it wouldn’t do to question the man directly, not when he had already reached an understanding with her grandfather. It wasn’t her place. But she would ask Grampapa the moment she returned home.

  From the corner of her eye she noticed Alice Ward hovering close by, and realized she might very well wish to chat with the brothers. Eva as well. All of them being of an age, they had grown up together, attended the village school right here in St. George’s basement before the permanent school had been built next door, and before Eva had won her scholarship to attend the nearby Haverleigh School for Young Ladies.

  But they would not exchange more than a few words until Phoebe moved away and busied herself elsewhere. For them to do otherwise would be considered impertinent. Oh, not to Phoebe—she never minded about such things. But the others had been raised to show deference to the Earl of Wroxly and his family, who had presided over the village and its surrounds these many generations.

  “It’s good to have you home, Mr. Ripley,” she said to Stephen, and with a shift of her gaze, said to Keenan, “Thank you so much for the pears, Mr. Ripley. Your donation will bring a welcome as well as wholesome treat to many of our families who could not afford it otherwise.”

  She moved several tables away and began sorting kitchen gadgets: whisks, peelers, crimpers, mashers, etc. Meanwhile, the others did as she expected, with Mrs. Ward and Keenan Ripley appearing to become quickly reacquainted, and Eva and Stephen Ripley trading pleasantries. Mrs. Corbyn and Mrs. Hershel, older than the others, greeted the newcomers briefly but kept on working. Phoebe caught Eva’s gaze and compressed her lips, and Eva nodded in the kind of comprehension they had become adept at over the past couple of years. With any luck, her lady’s maid might unravel the mystery of Foxwood Hall’s new head gardener.

  * * *

  “I heard from Keenan that you’d fought in the war,” Eva said to Stephen. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Alice and Keenan move several table lengths away, just out of earshot. She frowned slightly as Elaina Corbyn, working in the back of the room, took notice, too, and followed the pair with her gaze. Eva turned her attention back to Stephen. “He said you weren’t with one of the Gloucestershire infantries.”

  “That’s so. I was living in Dorset at the time, and joined up with one of their units.”

  Eva found that odd. One would think that at such a time, a man woul
d seek the fellowship of longtime mates, and most especially one’s own brother. But then, Keenan and Stephen Ripley had never shared the kind of closeness Eva and Alice had enjoyed as children. She remembered the boys falling to fisticuffs so often in the churchyard during lunch recess that their schoolmaster, Mr. Thornton, had taken to ordering them to stay on separate sides of the building until it was time to return to their lessons. Perhaps that was typical of brothers, but even now, she felt rather sorry for them.

  Then again, the bond she had shared with Alice seemed oddly frayed of late. Try as she might, she could wring no further information from her sister about why she came to Little Barlow alone, other than her claim of needing a holiday to herself.

  A peal of laughter drew Eva’s attention back to Alice and Keenan. Alice stood with her arms crossed in front of her, her hips askew, her head tilted in interest at whatever he was saying. In rapt attention, one might say.

  Need they stand so close? Especially when, before the war, and before Alice had met Oliver, she and Keenan Ripley had shown a budding interest in each other. Funny Eva thought of that now. Alice had had several beaux before meeting Oliver. In those days, young men and women didn’t step out together as they did now. Mutual affection then was conveyed by much more subtle means. A quiet conversation beneath the canopy of a shade tree following church services, smiles traded in the market square, or a turn or two on the dance floor during a very proper cotillion on a Saturday evening. A pang struck her. How innocent they had all been before the war. How unaware of the upheaval to come.

  “And you, Eva.” Stephen reclaimed her attention. “Have you never left Little Barlow?”

  She sighed and released the memories. “Not for any length of time. Only with Lady Phoebe and her family. So I’ve traveled round England well enough.”

  “Have you? Always at your mistress’s beck and call, seeing little but whatever rooms you’re relegated to in whatever big houses you’re visiting? Haven’t you felt you were missing out?” He rubbed a palm against his chin. Despite his fair hair, he sported heavy stubble that would quickly become a beard if he allowed it to.

  “I’ve been content,” she told him hotly—more so than she’d meant to. She didn’t like anyone criticizing her choices, especially when they were in no position to understand how her regard for the Renshaw sisters—Julia, Phoebe, and Amelia—had shaped not only her life, but the person she had become. Alice was a mother, and at times Eva, despite being not many years older than her young ladies, felt herself equally so. “And anyway,” she said, “here you are back in Little Barlow, where you began. And working for one of those big houses. Won’t you be missing out on more exciting opportunities?”

  His eyes flashed acknowledgment of her sarcasm, but he smiled. “The head gardener’s position is different. I’ll be at the beck and call only of the outdoors—the gardens, the hedgerows, the trees.”

  His blithe answer made her dubious. “Yes, but what really brought you back?”

  Stephen compressed his lips as if to prevent a secret slipping out. The impression persisted as he slid a glance to his brother and then back again. “I have my reasons, which will be clear soon enough.”

  “How mysterious.” Eva did her best to ignore another peel of laughter from Alice. The two women sorting toiletries, however, made no such effort, and watched Alice and Keenan with raised eyebrows. “Tell me,” she said to Stephen, “how did you manage to be hired on at Foxwood Hall without any of the rest of us knowing about it? Why the secrecy?”

  “Ah. That was at Alfred Peele’s request. He decided to retire and didn’t want anyone trying to talk him out of it. So he wished nothing said until a replacement was found.” He pointed a thumb at his chest. “Me.”

  “But if you wish to live here again, why not work the orchard with your brother? I’ve never understood your leaving. The orchard is your birthright. The farm and brewery have been in your family for how many generations now?”

  “Too many, if you ask me. There’s nothing particularly charming about picking pears and crushing them into pulp for cider. It’s backbreaking, boring work and I’ve no interest in it. I learned from one of the best gardeners in Dorset, before and after the war, and I’ve the chance now to use those skills.”

  This time it was Keenan who expressed his merriment with a deep, rumbling roll of laughter that cut short any further inquiries on Eva’s part. Stephen’s answers had left her unconvinced. Had he escaped trouble down in Dorset?

  Her attention once more shifted to her sister. Eva’s eyes widened. Alice had taken a handkerchief out of her skirt pocket and was using it to wipe a smudge off Keenan’s cheek. To hold his head steady, she cupped his chin with her other hand. Mrs. Corbyn and Mrs. Hershel stared openly now.

  Eva couldn’t blame them. This was altogether too familiar, especially for two individuals who hadn’t seen each other in years. Or had they? Her back stiff with indignation, Eva stepped away from Stephen. “Alice, are you ready to go? Lady Phoebe said she would drop you back at the farm on our way to Foxwood Hall.” Eva only hoped Lady Phoebe might be persuaded to leave now, rather than later.

  Alice regarded her and wrinkled her nose. “Mum and Dad’s place is not on the way to Foxwood Hall, silly. In fact, from here it’s in quite the opposite direction.”

  “I could give you a ride,” Keenan offered.

  Eva felt a twinge of alarm. “No, we wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you.”

  “No inconvenience at all. In fact, I need to visit the Corbyn farm out that way.” He paused to nod at Elaina Corbyn. “If your husband’s in,” he said to her, “he and I need to talk about extending the lease terms for your grazing rights to our northeast pasture.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find Fred somewhere about the place.” Mrs. Corbyn held her spine and her upper lip with equal stiffness, her disapproval of the past several minutes obvious.

  A low chuckle came from Stephen. He’d taken on a look Eva didn’t like—a snide and once again secretive look. She wasn’t the only one to notice.

  “What was that for?” Keenan challenged him.

  “Nothing, brother. Never mind.”

  Keenan studied Stephen another moment before turning back to Alice. He offered the crook of his elbow. “Shall we?”

  Alice slipped her hand through his arm and showed her most brilliant smile. “Let’s.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Eva blurted.

  Alice and Keenan had started for the basement steps. They halted, Alice looking mystified. “Why on earth would you?”

  “I . . .” What could Eva say? She had been given time off yesterday in anticipation of Alice’s arrival, but she had no good reason to shirk her duties today—other than to play nursemaid to an older sister who was perhaps showing a want of good judgment. Her shoulders sagged. “Never mind. Tell Mum and Dad I’ll be home for Sunday dinner.”

  Alice nodded and started to turn away, but Keenan lingered. “Mrs. Corbyn, would you like a ride home?”

  Eva’s surge of hope was quickly doused. “No, thank you.” The woman’s chin lifted a sanctimonious inch higher. “I’ll wait here for school dismissal and walk home with my boys.”

  * * *

  Once at home, Phoebe decided against asking her grandfather about the sudden change in the head gardener’s position, at least not right away. Eva had told her what Stephen Ripley said about Alfred Peele not wanting anyone to know about his retirement until it was too late to urge him to change his mind. His fears were not unwarranted, for Mr. Peele was a popular man on the estate and many individuals, both above and below stairs, would be sorry to see him go. Phoebe would be one of them.

  But surely there would be some form of send-off—a reception or a tea in the servants’ hall, with Phoebe and her family making an appearance to wish the man well. Grampapa would shake his hand, discreetly transferring an envelope of cash into his palm. But Eva had heard of nothing of the sort being planned. It was all very odd.

  The person to sp
eak with, she decided, was Mr. Peele himself. To that end, she changed out of her pumps and into a sturdy pair of Wellingtons, traded her lighter cardigan for a thick, cable knit to ward off the late afternoon chill, and made her way across the parterre gardens, past the brook, the pond, and the old, decorative folly.

  On the way, she noticed the fallen column at the front of the folly, and the crumbling top step that led inside the small interior. Moss grew along the Greek-inspired structure’s north wall, and ivy crawled over the roof. While some follies were built to simulate a Greek or Roman ruin, such was not the case here. No, the once pristine, miniature temple had fallen into disrepair during the war years, when extra funds went to supporting the soldiers and there had been no men to spare for such trivialities. Even Alfred Peele, well into middle age though he was, had served as an ambulance driver for much of the war. She wondered whether Grampapa had any intentions of restoring the place, or would have it cleared away.

  At last she came to the two-story gardener’s cottage set snugly into the edge of the wood just beyond the manicured portion of the property. She knocked at the blue-painted door loud enough to be heard should Mr. Peele be upstairs or at the back, in his kitchen. She didn’t think he’d be working, not when he was leaving tomorrow. When a minute passed in silence she knocked again. Surely he hadn’t left yet, without saying good-bye. Stepping back, she looked up at the golden stone façade and saw that an upstairs window stood open.

  “Mr. Peele?” she called out. “Are you in? It’s Lady Phoebe.”

  The front door opened, startling her with its abruptness. She nonetheless offered up her friendliest smile. “There you are. I wanted to—oh. Mr. Ripley.” Indeed, the man standing on the threshold bore no resemblance to the gray-haired, stocky, aging Mr. Peele. She and Eva had left Stephen Ripley not an hour ago at St. George’s. How on earth had he gotten here so quickly? “What are you doing here?”

  His wheat-blond eyebrows went up in amusement as he regarded her through his spectacles. “I believe I mentioned starting work tomorrow, Lady Phoebe. So . . . here I am.”