Mrs. Warbler’s interest was immediately piqued. “What do you say, sir?”
“We have a squatter. There is a woman who claims to be related to Old Andy. She says The Garland is hers.”
The matron frowned. “He had relatives? I never heard him speak of one.”
“Neither have I. However, she is in there and she claims she is here to stay.”
“What are you going to do?”
“First, speak to the Reverend Summerall. She says he knows of her existence. We shall see about that.” In fact, he couldn’t wait for the conversation.
“And if he knows her?” Miss Taylor asked.
Ned frowned. “He won’t know her. She is a jade, an opportunist. I know her type—”
The door of The Garland opened. Mrs. Estep stood there and the fire in her eyes let him know she’d heard every word he’d just said.
Good.
And then, before he knew what was what, Mrs. Estep took control. She spoke like a town crier laying down the law. “The Garland is now closed.”
“Closed? What do you mean closed?” Mrs. Warbler said.
“I mean the doors will be shut until I am ready to open them again.”
Ned lost his temper. “This is not your establishment. Your claim has not been acknowledged.”
Her answer was an infuriating smile. “I will nail the door shut if necessary.”
“You can’t. We’ve scheduled a lecture here. The world’s leading authority on the cosmos is giving a talk on his paper outlining—”
She slammed the door on all of them. Then there was the scrape of wood as the bar was thrown into place.
Silence settled upon all of them. Clarissa broke it. “Who was that?”
Ned gave up any pretense of control. Who the devil did that woman believe she was? “The most ill-mannered creature you could ever hope to meet. I forbid you to have anything to do with her. Do you understand?” He pointed his finger at Clarissa in the same manner Mrs. Warbler had used on him. “She is an impertinent piece of womanhood. And I assure you, Mrs. Estep”—he raised his voice as he used her name because he knew she was listening—“doesn’t know with whom she is dealing. I understand women like her.” Women like his mother, who took advantage of every man who crossed her path. “She will be out of there before nightfall.”
Then, because no matter how rude Mrs. Estep was, he always remembered his manners, Ned excused himself, saying over-politely, “Mrs. Warbler, Miss Taylor, I beg your pardon. I must speak to the Reverend Summerall immediately.”
Without waiting for a dismissal, he mounted and rode toward the church. Wherever Mrs. Estep had come from, he was ready to send her back there.
Clarissa was accustomed to watching Ned ride off. It was all he ever did.
She struggled to not shout after him that yes, he was rude. How dare he order her around?
And why was he so angry at this Mrs. Estep? One of the things she admired about him was his compassion. He never pressed anyone to pay for services. The whole village knew that often, if a patient needed food or a bit of help, he’d see that they received it.
Now he wanted to turn out this woman?
She looked to Mrs. Warbler. “Do you have any idea what is going on?”
“Absolutely none,” the older lady said. “However, I shall find out.” She stepped forward and knocked on the door.
No answer.
She tried the latch.
“Mrs. Estep threw the bar on the other side,” Clarissa reminded her helpfully. “Should I go around back?”
Mrs. Warbler didn’t answer. She stared at the door as if she could open it with one of her pie-eyed glares before knocking again.
The Matrons of Maidenshop were a remarkably stubborn group of people. Clarissa had observed that, when it came to wanting their way, they would beat on a brick wall until it fell or their fists were bloody. Clarissa preferred a different action.
Without waiting for permission, she climbed down from the cart, tied up the pony, and went around to the back. The kitchen door was wide open and she cautiously took a step inside, before stopping in shock. The room appeared as if there had been a fight and it smelled of rotting food and something else unsavory.
No wonder Mrs. Estep was out of sorts.
“Mrs. Estep—?” Her words broke off in a screech of terror as a trio of mice came out from a hidey-hole and went charging across the floor, heading right for her. Clarissa did not like mice, rats, snakes, or anything that scurried or slithered across the ground. Her fear was irrational. She had no idea why she reacted that way, but react she did, hopping away from the furry creatures.
With a warrior’s cry, Mrs. Estep leaped out of a side-room door with a broom. She lifted it like a weapon and brought it down upon the mice. Unfortunately, they were quicker. They raced away, running a full circle around the kitchen table and sending Clarissa up onto the chair.
Undeterred by their quickness, Mrs. Estep went after them with ferocity. While Clarissa cowered, Mrs. Estep chased the mice around the chair until they confounded their pursuer by dashing back into the crevice in the wall.
Mrs. Estep placed the broom in front of it as if to bar the danger of their escape and turned to Clarissa . . . who suddenly felt very silly. Her face burned with her embarrassment.
She climbed down from the chair perch but before she could offer apologies, Mrs. Estep threw her arms wide to take in the room. “Can you believe this? Men are beasts. They are base and disgusting. You will not believe what they were doing in my uncle’s bed—”
Mrs. Warbler interrupted them by rushing into the kitchen through the back door, having obviously surmised where Clarissa had gone. “I heard a scream.”
“It was me,” Clarissa confessed. “I saw mice . . .”
But Mrs. Warbler was not listening. Instead, she looked around the room in horrified surprise. “What in the name of all that is holy has happened here? This is revolting.”
In a tight voice, Mrs. Estep said, “Yes, it is.” Then she burst into noisy tears.
And if there was ever a way to bring women to your side, it was that action.
Chapter Five
Gemma never broke down, not in front of strangers. It was the English side of her. Or perhaps the prideful Scot. Either way, she knew how to behave.
Oh, she would shed a tear, but to outright bawl? No, never, and yet, here she was.
She was exhausted, hungry, and on the verge of being completely defeated. Her confrontation with the bullish Mr. Thurlowe played to her every fear. In a village like this, the doctor was practically royalty. Certainly, he had access to the gentry and that meant the magistrate. Who would that authority believe? The doctor? Or herself with a rightful claim?
Or at least she hoped her claim was legitimate. She actually wasn’t certain. Instead, she had been operating on sheer nerve . . . because what other choice did she have?
If she couldn’t have The Garland, she had nowhere else to go.
Hands guided her to sit in the chair. Over her head, the women whispered about the battle of the mice and Gemma’s complaint about something having happened in her uncle’s bed that had upset her.
“What is wrong with the bed?” the younger woman queried.
“The sheets,” Gemma choked out and then refused to go on because it was so disgusting.