Page 17 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
It was all so puzzling, Flora thought, as she sipped her tea. Its scent of rosemary reminded her of Captain Thorne, and she wondered if it would be misplaced to put her trust in him.
He seemed steadfast and loyal, though how could she truly be certain when she had known him but a few days?
Flora drained the last of the tea from her cup, then set it aside to wash later. The kitchen felt suddenly stifling—in fact, the whole house felt as though it was pressing in on her.
“I’m just going for a walk, Helen,” she called out the back door as she tied the ribbons of her bonnet.
Helen, who was beating a rug with the type of anger women usually reserved for errant lovers, gave a silent wave of acknowledgment.
“There’s a fresh remedy in the pot, if you’re feeling out of sorts,” Flora added, for Helen had the look of a girl in dire need of a love potion.
Flora left the house at a brisk pace, following Brackenfield’s drive to the gate. She had no clear destination in mind, though she knew her steps would likely carry her to her grandmother’s cottage before long. Instead of taking the Bath Road, she veered onto the quieter path along the river Churn, hoping for solitude.
Her wish was not granted; she had not gone far when two familiar figures appeared at the bend of the river: Mrs Mifford—resplendent in a fine bonnet and walking coat—and her niece, Miss Charlotte Mifford.
“Why, Miss Bridges,” the reverend’s wife cried as she spotted Flora, “we were just talking about you.”
Mrs Mifford was not known for her tact.
“You’ve probably already heard,” she continued, somewhat breathlessly, “that Captain Thorne came to blows yesterday afternoon on your behalf, in the Ring o’ Bells.”
Flora blinked in bewilderment as she tried to make sense of this news.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs Mifford beamed, mistaking her confusion for enthusiasm. “Poor Mr Marrowbone had to be carried out by five men and the doctor sent for.”
“The doctor?” Flora stuttered—surely not?
Beside her aunt, Charlotte discreetly rolled her eyes.
“Mr Marrowbone was quite well when we saw him this morning,” she assured Flora, frowning pointedly at her aunt. “I believe the only thing Captain Thorne injured was the constable’s pride.”
“The whole village is abuzz,” Mrs Mifford continued, undeterred. “A man does not go to such lengths to defend a lady unless he is invested. And what a timely distraction—it gives people something else to discuss about you, besides the murder accusations.”
“I think what my aunt is trying to say,” Charlotte interjected, her expression pained, “is that no one believes you had anything to do with Sir Ambrose’s murder, and you have the support of the entire Mifford clan behind you. Isn’t that right?”
“Oh, of course,” Mrs Mifford agreed hastily, as her niece nudged her with her elbow. “And even if you had murdered Sir Ambrose, I don’t think anyone would mind too much. There’s a lot to be said for marrying well, Miss Bridges.”
“There is,” Flora agreed, though she doubted even marriage would acquit a woman of a murder charge.
Muted though her response was, it was enough to satisfy Mrs Mifford, who patted her hand in a congratulatory manner before turning to her niece.
“Come, Charlotte,” she cried. “We’ll be late for lunch if you don’t stop your chattering. Honestly, I don’t know how I get anything done in a day.”
Flora waved them goodbye, saving a sympathetic smile for poor Miss Mifford who—judging by her flushed cheeks—had suffered the most during the exchange. She waited until the two were out of sight before she allowed herself a slow, astonished exhale.
Captain Thorne had come to blows with Mr Marrowbone over her? Though Flora abhorred violence—and did not fully understand the context under which the argument had takenplace—she had to admit the idea was rather thrilling. She wasn’t accustomed to anyone defending her against village whispers, much less a handsome naval captain.
She continued her walk, idly raking over her every interaction with Captain Thorne—including several revisits to the moment he’d stood shirtless in her grandmother’s kitchen. Was it possible he felt the same fizzle of attraction as she, or was his motivation to help merely well-bred chivalry?
As Flora had no experience of men or courtship, she found it too difficult to decide. So she placated herself by once more envisioning the captain’s broad shoulders and neat waist.
Which was possibly why, when she spotted him striding along the riverbank—coat unbuttoned, hair wind-ruffled—she had to remind herself to close her mouth.
“Miss Bridges,” the captain hailed her with a warm smile. “What good fortune to bump into you. There is much to discuss.”
“There is?” Flora stuttered, willing her heart to calm its ceaseless fluttering.
“Lord Crabb asked that I search Sir Ambrose’s cottage yesterday,” the captain continued, his tone brusque and businesslike. “I found a letter that confirms his involvement in the investment scheme.”
