Page 150 of Oddity of the Ton
“That’d be Mrs. Riley.”
“Does she live in the village?”
“On the edge—just past the church. My Mary has often said to her it’s wrong for a lady to live on her own away from other folk, but Mrs. Riley seems to like it.”
“And Mr. Riley?”
“He’s passed—though she doesn’t speak of it,” the innkeeper said. “And why should she, is what I say? Killed at Waterloo, that’s what old Cobbers reckons. She says Mrs. Riley’s haunted by something—ye can see it in her eyes. Though we shouldn’t set much store by what an old crone like Ma Cobbers has to say. Some folk hereabouts reckon she’s a witch. But in one aspect, she’s right. A young woman like Mrs. Riley shouldn’t shut herself up in the prime of life just because her husband’s passed, for all that he was a hero.”
“But you don’t know?”
“Lord no, sir—I wouldn’t like to ask. She’s not lived here long, but she’s a part of the village, though some folk hereabouts say that you can never be part of the village unless you’re born and bred here. But she’s liked among them that know her, and she gives some of the proceeds of her painting to the poor. Which is more than Mrs. Fulford does, I can tell you. Mrs. Fulford may portray herself as a paragon of charitable work, but she sits back and lets others do the work while she takes the credit.”
“Who’s Mrs. Fulford?” Monty asked. Evidently in some marriages, it was the husband, and not the wife, who loved to gossip.
“That’d be the squire’s wife. A little too eager to poke her nose in everybody’s affairs. But I daresay her nose will be put out of joint soon, now Mrs. Riley’s here.”
“How so?”
“Mrs. Riley helps the vicar with the church flowers, you see. A fine job she does, much to Mrs. Fulford’s dismay. Everyone in the village knows that Mrs. Fulford wants the vicar for one of her daughters. But Reverend Staines needs a good woman for a wife—not a pampered miss who thinks too much of herself. I can think of none better than Mrs. Riley.”
“Jim—Jim!” a voice cried. “Are ye prattling on with the guests again?”
The innkeeper colored. “Coming, Mary, love!” he called. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir. I must get the place ready—we’ve a large party staying tonight. I’ll have Tom saddle Copper for ye. It’s a fine day for a ride on the beach, but take care of the tide—it can catch ye out if ye ride too far.”
“Jim—where are ye? I need that wood chopped before noon!”
The innkeeper scuttled off, leaving Monty with the portrait—and his conscience.
He reached out and traced the outline of the subject with his fingertip.
“Who are you, Reverend Staines?”
The subject stared back at him with an air of superiority—not a superiority born of arrogance, but arising from him being the better man.
What had Eleanor said? That she always drew the subject as she saw them—not as they were.
Did that mean that this Reverend Staines was, in her eyes, thebetter man?
Then he shook his head. This was mere speculation. Mrs. Riley’s similarity to Eleanor was due to wishful thinking—nothing more.
*
Copper was anappropriate name. The gelding’s chestnut pelt shimmered in the spring sunshine like polished metal. The animal was a fine beast. Not a thoroughbred—it had been bred for sturdiness rather than stamina—but it served as an adequate mount, to the point where it was tempting to ask Mr. Ham whether he’d consider selling the animal.
After pausing at the church with its squat tower and mottled stone walls, Monty steered his mount along the road leading out of the village until he spied a small dwelling—a white cottage with a red roof, surrounded by a garden fence. The garden was a blaze of color, and the air shimmered with the scent of the sea and a heady floral perfume.
Monty slowed his mount to a walk, then dismounted and tethered the animal to the fence. He lifted the latch on the gate and slipped through, following the gravel path to the building, where he knocked on a door surrounded by roses just coming into bloom.
There was no answer, and he knocked again.
Then he stepped back, glancing at the windows for signs of activity. But there was none.
The horse let out a snort. Seagulls squawked in the air above, their slim shapes circling toward the sky. The faint hum of bees filled the air, and he caught sight of their tiny shapes flying to and fro between the blooms in the garden.
Then he heard it—a woman’s laugh.
His skin tightened in recognition, and he glanced about, but there was no sign of anyone. Then he moved along the side of the cottage until he caught sight of the figure of a woman, framed against the backdrop of the sea.
