“Indeed?” said the older woman in a tone laden with well-placed suspicions, and Gemma knew she didn’t need to say more.
The older woman took charge. “Miss Taylor, cross the road to my house and tell Jane we will need a set of fresh sheets here. Also, when you return, bring the tea caddy and the sherry bottle. Tell Jane I want a full one. She needs to bring glasses, as well. We require fortification. I imagine we will not find a bottle here because everything appears to be drained dry.”
“Yes, Mrs. Warbler.” Miss Taylor hurried to do her bidding.
Gemma tried to halt her crying. It took several minutes before she could finally right herself. She reached for the pocket of her dress for a kerchief or something to blow her nose. There was nothing. She had to settle for the back of her glove and that was the most humiliating moment of all.
It almost put her back into another fit of tears, except for Mrs. Warbler’s crisp, “Here now, we can’t make things better if you are going to continue to blubber.”
Dear God, that was exactly what her gran would have said. Still, Gemma had to indulge in a fit of self-pity. “You won’t believe me. Not after what I heard Mr. Thurlowe say.”
“Young woman, I am more clever than to listen to what a man says. Are you going to tell me your side of the story or not?”
Such a challenge could not be ignored.
“I’m not usually like this,” Gemma said in her defense, raising her head. “I am actually quite practical.”
“Does the rest of The Garland look like these two rooms?”
“Worse.”
“Then I don’t blame you for having a fit. I’m Elizabeth Warbler, the neighbor across the street. I’ve seen the goings-on here.”
At that moment Miss Taylor, breathing heavily from her haste, returned holding a bottle and several glasses. “Jane will be here momentarily,” she reported. “However, I thought to carry this myself.”
“Excellent idea,” Mrs. Warbler said. She took the bottle, broke the wax, and looked around the kitchen. “Ah, a knife.” She dared to take one off a dirty plate. With a curl of her lip, she searched for something. Then, not finding it, she removed her lace cap and cleaned the blade of the knife.
“Your cap,” Gemma protested. “You will ruin it.”
“Priorities, my dear. We need substance.” She uncorked the bottle handily with her knife and then poured generously.
“Oh, that is too much for me,” Miss Taylor demurred. She was a lovely woman, perhaps the same age as Gemma. Her hair was the color of the richest honey and her green eyes were trusting, but she didn’t strike Gemma as anyone’s fool.
“Oh, posh,” Mrs. Warbler countered. “I have a feeling you will need more than this once we see the whole of the place.”
“You will,” Gemma assured her. “It is a disaster.”
“Then drink up,” Mrs. Warbler ordered, handing glasses to the two of them.
Gemma couldn’t determine the older woman’s age. She must be firmly over fifty. Her skin was thin but still retained a creamy unlined texture. Her short gray hair suited her face, bringing the kindness of her gaze to the forefront. She was tall, thin but not unfeminine.
She looked to Gemma. “You say you are practical. Well, you haven’t taken a sip yet, and you need it. It has been a trying morning. However, nothing compared to my being up half the night.”
“Up half the night?” Miss Taylor echoed.
“You can’t imagine what was going on here last night,” was the answer before Mrs. Warbler downed her glass.
Gemma was not one for spirits in any form, except when the occasion did call for something. She tasted the sherry, found she liked it, and followed Mrs. Warbler’s action of swallowing it neatly. Rich liquid flowed down her throat. It settled in her empty belly. She placed her hand against her abdomen, afraid she would disgrace herself . . . until she experienced a spreading of warmth.
Mrs. Warbler had poured herself another glass. She was obviously no stranger to enjoying good sherry. “Miss Taylor?” She offered the bottle.
“I’m fine. I think I shall fetch water for tea, if I can start a fire.”
“Excellent idea.” Mrs. Warbler handed the bottle to Gemma. “Help yourself.”
At that moment a serving woman joined them in the kitchen. She was of middle years and held a tea caddy in one arm. Her other arm was full of sheets. She pulled up short at the sight of the kitchen. “Oh, dear.”
“I know,” Mrs. Warbler agreed. “I would say that this kitchen wasn’t cleaned after Old Andy’s wake, except we saw to it, didn’t we, Jane? The two of us together. It was a late night.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“The Logical Men’s Society has destroyed this place.” Mrs. Warbler clicked her tongue.
“Men are beasts,” Gemma said, repeating her new refrain, and a fine one it was.
“Right you are,” Mrs. Warbler agreed. “Oh, and for introductions, this is Jane, the steadiest of souls in the village.” Miss Taylor returned with a full kettle of water and set it on the hook.
“And this is Miss Clarissa Taylor. She is promised to our good doctor.”
Gemma would have offered her condolences, except her manners were returning.
Miss Taylor had the good sense to appear slightly embarrassed. “His outburst was uncharacteristic of him,” she offered. She and Jane began building the fire. Apparently, the maid knew wood was stacked somewhere outside and had fetched it. “He forgets himself sometimes.”
Gemma chose not to answer because any comment she would have made about Dr. Thurlowe would have been a rude one. Instead, she took another sip from the sherry.
Her limbs had relaxed. Her tears had dried on her cheeks and she held the sherry bottle by its neck in her lap. She didn’t even realize she had it until Mrs. Warbler gently took it from her. “So Old Andy was—?” the woman prodded.
“My uncle. My mother’s brother.” She looked at the women in the kitchen. “I didn’t know he’d died until two days ago.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t know,” Miss Taylor said. “That must have been a shock.”
Was it? Gemma feared she was beginning to expect death at every turn.
Jane made a triumphant sound at having the fire going. Suddenly too tired to move, Gemma watched as the maid swung the hook holding the kettle over the flame.
“So what is your story?” Mrs. Warbler said. “Do you have a name? Are you married?”
“My name is Gemma Estep and my husband is dead.” And before she stopped to think, or because of the sherry, she blurted out, “I don’t mourn him, I can tell you that. He gambled away my father’s fine house in Manchester and I knew nothing about it until a family arrived to move in. I was put out immediately. My husband didn’t even help me move. He was in London. He was always in London. Always away, and I certainly didn’t matter to him.” She wouldn’t mind another spot of sherry, except perhaps she’d had enough . . . ?
“Did you know that he was of such low character when you married him?” Miss Taylor asked, her tone shocked.
“No, he was a captain in the Horse Guard and Lord Latimer is his brother. When I was introduced to Paul, he acted the very model of a gentleman,” Gemma said. “Father was quite taken with him. Actually, Father was not well and hadn’t been for some time. I believe he was most anxious I marry before he died. He wanted to ensure I had a proper husband. Paul Estep appeared in society and, well, he swept us both off our feet and out of our money.”