Page 2 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
Mrs Fitzhenry jerked her head toward Flora, who did her best to look as unassuming as possible.
“Miss Gardiner,” beneath his neat moustache, Sir Ambrose’s lips curled with distaste. “What a pleasant surprise. Mrs Fitzhenry, tea please.”
The housekeeper heaved a sigh of disgust and disappeared to the kitchen, though not before throwing Flora a pointed glare.
Flora followed Sir Ambrose to the parlour room, where he set about clearing away the loose sheaves of paper on the table before bidding her sit.
“What do you need this time, Miss Gardiner?” he queried, as he shoved the pages into a drawer in his desk and closed it with a snap. “Money for ribbons? New gloves? Some jaunty trimmings for your bonnet? At this rate you’ll have your whole inheritance spent before you reach your majority.”
As Sir Ambrose kept a vice-like grip on the purse-strings of her wealth, Flora highly doubted that she would. And he was one to talk about fiscal responsibility, she thought, noting the new—and rather gaudy—gilt mirror above the fireplace, that looked as though it belonged in Versailles.
“I have found myself at something of a loose-end, since I handed in my notice at Crabb Hall,” Flora began, trying to keep any note of blame from her voice. It had been Sir Ambrose’s idea—or edict, really—that she give up her work as a maid. He had deemed such work unseemly for a lady and Flora—who had not known he deemed everything unseemly for ladies—had foolishly heeded his advice.
“If that is the case, then take up embroidery,” Sir Ambrose interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. “There’s nothing more appropriately diverting for a young lady than stitching a nice sampler.”
“I’m already an accomplished embroiderer,” Flora was firm. “I need something to truly occupy my days. I should like to make a request to draw funds down from my inheritance to open an apothecary in the village.”
“My dear,” Sir Ambrose was stunned, “That’s simply not possible.”
“There’s plenty of funds available,” Flora protested.
Her grandfather had left her his house, his land, and a sizable fortune. Mr Treswell, the solicitor, had explained that while most of said fortune was tied up in investments and bonds, there was more than enough liquid cash to see her through until she decided to sell them.
“It’s not a matter of funds,” Sir Ambrose scoffed, patting his brow with a handkerchief, “It’s a matter of propriety. A young lady, playing at trade? I can’t imagine a more ghastly proposal.”
He gave a shiver of distaste to emphasize his point.
“I would not be playing at trade, sir,” Flora answered, desperately trying to quell her rising anger. “I would be helping the villagers of Plumpton. The nearest druggist is in Stroud, which is no help when someone is ill.”
“And that’s their problem,” Sir Ambrose shrugged, “Besides, you are wholly unqualified to open an apothecary. Never mind the fact that you’re a woman, you’ve also no training in the field.”
“My grandmother has taught me—” Flora began but was cut off as her guardian gave a scoff of laughter.
“Your grandmother is nothing more than a charlatan,” he sneered, “She has probably harmed more people than she has helped with her concoctions. In the old days, she would have met an early end and been burned for the witch she is.”
Flora did not often lose her temper but when she did she was liable to say the first thing that popped into her head. Which, unfortunately, was what happened next.
“You odious old snoot,” she retorted as she jumped to her feet. “How dare you speak of my grandmother that way. She has twice the knowledge in her little finger than you have in your entire thick skull—even for all your papers and awards. Oh, I wish someone would murder you, I really do.”
It was a terrible thing to wish on an old man, even an odious one. No sooner had the words left Flora’s mouth, than she wanted to reach out, catch them mid-air, and cram them back inside.
She felt terrible. Her only consolation was that no one else had seen her behave so abhorrently, excepting the abhorrent man himself.
“Ahem.”
Flora and Sir Ambrose whirred to face the door and found an audience of three gathered there. Mrs Fitzhenry, Mrs Wickling—a friend of Mrs Canards—and a tall, handsome gentleman, whose expression gave the impression that he was trying to hold back laughter.
“Sir Ambrose, sir,” Mrs Wickling croaked, “Excuse the intrusion but I met this gentleman ‘ere who needed directions to your house, so I took it upon myself to walk ‘im ‘ere.”
From the look of barely concealed glee on her face, Flora guessed that Mrs Wickling could hardly believe how fortuitous her impulsive act of charity had been.
“Er, I’ll just be leaving then,” she continued, backing away slowly, her eyes still darting between Flora and Sir Ambrose.
“And who might you be?” Sir Ambrose boomed to the newcomer.
“Captain James Thorne, sir,” he answered, in a deep voice with a pleasant timbre. “I am visiting with an old friend, Captain Bonville—excuse me—Lord Crabb.”
Despite the anxiety of her situation, Flora could not help but find the amused quirk his mouth gave as he corrected himself utterly charming. It told her plainly that the captain had known Lord Crabb long before the notion of him becoming a viscount had seemed anything other than laughable.
