Page 27 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“What did you think of that, captain?” Mrs Mifford asked pointedly.
“A voice that could still the roughest seas,” James replied firmly, catching Miss Bridges’ gaze and holding it far longer than was proper.
He hoped to somehow convey to her without words just how moved he was. Alas, Mrs Mifford interrupted.
“Something caught your eye, captain?” she enquired saucily.
Before James could frame a reply, Lady Crabb interjected with a bright smile and a steely tone. “What a wonderful evening this has been! I shall call for the carriage, Mama, before we quite tire our guests out.”
Her words carried a note of finality that even Mrs Mifford could not ignore.
The guests began to rise, each thanking their hosts for the wonderful evening and making their farewells.
“You must come to the next meeting of the Parish Ladies’ Society, Miss Bridges,” Mrs Mifford declared, clutching Flora’s hands.
“Mrs Canards had already invited me…” she replied, her tone doubtful.
“Oh, don’t let that put you off, dear. The rest of us are far less reptilian,” Mrs Mifford laughed, whilst her husband mimed covering his ears beside her.
The guests from the inn and Miss Bridges all followed Lord and Lady Crabb to the entrance hall, where a carriage awaited them outside the front door. It was decided that they would drop Flora home first and then the rest of the group would repair to The King’s Head together.
James followed Miss Bridges into the carriage, a pang striking him at the thought of their imminent parting. Yet it did not quite dull the thrill of having her pressed close beside him on the bench, while Mrs Pinnock boomed cheerfully to the compartment about her plans for the next day.
When the carriage halted at the gates of Brackenfield, James disembarked to assist Miss Bridges down. Her gloved hand slipped into his, light yet steady, and he relished the brief contact.
“I’ll be calling on your grandmother tomorrow around noon,” he told her softly. “I hope you’ll be there.”
“I will,” she promised.
Their eyes met and James felt his breath catch as if she had stolen it away like a mermaid luring a sailor beneath the waves.
And then, far too soon, she was gone, her hand slipping from his. The absence of it left him feeling oddly, uncomfortably bare.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FLORA HAD BEENat her grandmother’s cottage since morning, but she had not sat down once. The teacups on the dresser had been shifted from one shelf to another, the jars of herbs dusted, the floor swept and scrubbed—and still she found herself pacing, inspecting every corner for dust.
Her fussing was ridiculous; Captain Thorne had already visited the cottage. Yet she was suddenly conscious of the plain hearth, the worn chairs, the narrow walls, and hoped on this second visit he would not find it lacking.
Or her lacking.
She ran anxious fingers over the skirts of her second-best dress—for she had worn her best to dinner—just as a loud knock sounded on the front door.
“He’s here,” she called nervously.
“Maybe you’ll finally sit down so,” her grandmother replied, barely glancing up from the sock she was darning as Flora hurried down the hall.
She opened the door to find Captain Thorne, freshly shaven and looking every bit as handsome as the night before.
“Miss Bridges,” he greeted warmly, removing his hat.
For a heartbeat she could do nothing but stare dumbly at this tall, broad specimen of a man filling her doorway. Then, recollecting herself with a jolt, she stepped back and managed to find her voice.
“Do come in, Captain,” she said, ushering him into the hallway.
She led him to the kitchen, cheeks aflame. Her grandmother gave her a knowing smile as they entered, though—mercifully—if she had any thoughts on Flora’s flustered state she kept them to herself.
“Tea?” Flora asked brightly as the captain took a seat at the table.
