Page 70 of The Tart's Final Noel
She opened the pages—yellowing vellum, wrinkled and stained from decades of use, with nearly indecipherable scribbling.But the journal had once been lovely and expensive.
Daniel leaned over to examine it.“There.”He pointed at the thick cover.“Mama kept Papa’s letters in there.She read them to us sometimes.”
Heart breaking as she imagined the loving mother attempting to teach her children about the father they’d never known, Minerva ran her fingers over the brittle edge.She hated disturbing the binding, but there did seem to be extra padding and a slit on the edge.There might once have been a gold edge to protect it but that was long gone.
“Do you know where your mama kept her book?”Verity asked as if she were just keeping the conversation going, while Minerva pried at the opening.
“In the wall, by her bed,” Daniel reported matter-of-factly.
“Where the bad man couldn’t find it,” Daphne added in satisfaction.“She said not to tell the bad man.”
“Well, we’re not men and we’re not bad.”Verity tucked the blankets round them more securely.“So you did the right thing by telling us.We’ll find your mama’s book and give it back to you.Did you ever see the bad man, Daniel?”
Minerva pried loose pages from the slit.
Daniel shook his head.
“I did.”Daphne wrinkled her whole waif-like face into a frown.“He was mean.He yelled at Mama.She cried and called for Elton, but he didn’t come.”A tear streaked down her cheek.
“I wasn’t there or I’d hit him, like I did yesterday,” Daniel said fiercely.“I’d have beat him up.”
“You are both very, very brave, and we’re all proud of you,” Verity assured them, hugging Daniel.“Did the bad man leave after your mama yelled?”
Daphne shook her head tearfully.“He put a pillow on Mama’s face and she went to sleep.Then he opened her desk.We were never ever to touch her desk, soIyelled at him.”
A pillow?Minerva exchanged a horrified look with Verity.“Is this the same bad man who took Daniel yesterday?”
Daphne nodded emphatically.“He said if I talked, he’d put a pillow on my face too.I don’t want a pillow on my face.”Then she sobbed and threw herself into Verity’s arms.
Mrs.Turner hadn’t died of her illness.Cooper had smothered her.
Shaken, Minerva finally pried the papers loose from where the years had stuck them to the leather binding.Unfolding them, she stared wordlessly, then handed them to Verity.
The marriage documents the Bartletts had sent to Willa for safekeeping.
A choir of half-drunken singers in the pub broke into a rousing rendition ofJoy to the World.
BOXING DAY
December 26, 1815
Thirty-seven
Rafe
Christmas Day had been moresatisfying than any day Rafe could remember, even as a child.The highly improper church services with pagan hymns and greenery and the entire village cheering the curate’s message of love had set the mood for the remainder of the day.A dash of snow to dazzle the evergreens had added to the festive spirit.
At home, Verity had crowed in delight over the blue dinner gown he’d asked Lavender’s ladies to make for her, which relieved Rafe no end.He was never certain what women liked.
The orphans opening gifts of new books, dolls, and puzzles brought smiles to everyone’s faces, including the dour old women in the kitchen.
This morning, wearing the formal green, tailed frockcoat Verity had commissioned, Rafe had left his small staff singing, delighted with their bounteous Boxing Day gifts and planning their day off.
But now Rafe grew impatient for justice.
Hunt, as magistrate, had left the prisoners locked up until after the Christmas festivities.The mail was slow and they needed more information.But Fletch had brought a mail pouch today, and the time had come to settle the prisoners’ fates.
Leaving Hunt’s holiday undisturbed until they had answers, Rafe hauled Elton from his cell and borrowed the manor’s study for his interrogation.The curate agreed to sit in as witness—and to keep Rafe from punching the scruffy lout if he didn’t cooperate.
