What the devil?
Ned nudged his horse up toward a group of them. “Mrs. Ledbetter, what are you all about?”
The jolly woman flashed him a broad smile. “Why, a mission of mercy, Mr. Thurlowe. We’ve been called to clean The Garland.”
Alarmed, Ned kicked Hippocrates forward.
Mrs. Warbler stood in the tavern’s front door, welcoming everyone and giving instructions. As he rode up, the old woman stepped forward, her manner one of supreme command. A cadre of females flanked her.
He was outnumbered.
“Mr. Thurlowe, you can see we are busy here,” she said cheerfully.
“Aye, that I can. Where is Mrs. Estep?”
“Ah, the poor young woman is sleeping. She’s had a hard time of it.” She said this to the women around her who took on that look females had of interested commiseration. They were always ready to take up the cause of the indefensible—except he’d wager his horse Mrs. Estep could well take care of herself. See what chaos she had already wrought?
“Unfortunately,” Mrs. Warbler continued, “the building has been basely used, as you yourself know.” Her words sounded sweet but there were glints in her eyes. She held him responsible.
And he hated that she probably knew more about what had been going on than he did. Or that she was right to be outraged.
“We are giving the place a good cleaning,” she finished.
“A scrubbing is more like it. I’ve never seen such a mess in my life,” Mrs. Dawson declared. She stood like a master-at-arms beside Mrs. Warbler.
“Or smelled a worse one,” a woman said from the door, and Ned could have groaned when he recognized Mrs. Summerall. Deirdre.
She wore her silver hair under a sensible mobcap and had an apron around her ample waist and bosom. “We are going to turn The Garland into a tea garden like they have in London. It is an exciting venture.” Heads nodded their agreement. More women joined them.
And then he saw Clarissa.
She came around from the side of the building, a charming kerchief tied around her head. She held a broom and waved her hand in front of her face, coughing at the same time as if she needed some fresh air.
“The smell in the taproom—I can’t stand it,” she complained, her step slowing when she noticed Ned. She flashed him her prettiest smile. “Are you impressed with what we are doing? Everyone wishes to help.”
Not for the first time, Ned considered how little he knew of his intended. Clarissa Taylor was cleaning?
He hadn’t really thought of what she did with her days. He’d never asked, either.
And then, to his surprise, a wagon came down the road with the driver wearing the livery of the Duke of Winderton and none other than Lucy, the dowager herself, sitting on the bench beside him.
She, too, appeared ready to clean.
Ned looked to Mrs. Warbler. She smiled with the satisfaction of a general who had staged a successful coup.
He needed Mars. He needed the magistrate, and he needed him now.
Putting heel to horse, Ned galloped for Belvoir, feeling the eyes of every woman in the village upon him.
Mars was not in. He was in London.
Ned cursed his bad luck. “I need him here,” he told Gibson, the Marsden butler.
“I would be happy to have a message delivered to him,” the always polite Gibson offered.
It was all Ned could do. He scratched out a quick post, Havoc reigns in Maidenshop. The matrons have taken over The Garland. Please return with all possible haste—T
And now what?
Ned stood on Belvoir’s step without admiring the graceful gardens just showing signs of spring awakening that made it one of the most coveted properties in England. Instead, he had a sense of impending doom.
If he was here, Mars would have laughed at Ned’s worries and together they would have made it right. Now he was on his own.
There was nothing left to do except see the patients who had requested Ned’s attention.
He set out to call on the Widow Smethers. The ankle was doing far better today, which gave him hope. Ankle bones could be tricky. He made certain she had a neighbor checking on her and promised to call on the morrow.
He was on his way to his next patient when the Dawson brothers waved him down. They were in their early twenties and not the most industrious of men. He remembered drinking with them the night before. “We hear the matrons are kicking up dust at The Garland,” Mark Dawson said. “Sir Lionel tells us he is outraged. They have no call to enter our domain.”
“We want to know what you are going to do about it, sir,” his brother, William, said. “You are the chairman, no?”
“I am. And I’m going to talk to the magistrate. Until then, you lads mind your manners.”
“Don’t seem right, the ladies taking over,” William grumbled. “Sir Lionel said they just walked right in.”
“It isn’t right. However, the Logical Men’s Society has standards and we will follow them until the matrons vacate or the magistrate helps us to regain the building.”
“Why?” William wondered.
“Why what?” Ned asked, annoyed.
“Why do we have standards?”
“Because we are gentlemen.” How many times had he said that to them, and they still stared at him as if he had sprouted two heads. Did they not understand how important the distinction was? “And don’t worry. Lord Marsden should return to the area shortly.”
“Won’t be soon enough,” Mark said. “I liked gathering there. Filled the time. Where are we going to drink tonight?”
It was on the tip of Ned’s tongue to suggest Mark attempt reading a book to fill his time, but he knew better. In fact, he’d personally orchestrated the Dawsons’ joining the Logical Men’s Society. The member numbers had been thin, and wanting to have the best possible numbers in the audience for his lectures, Ned had recruited every single male in the parish he could. One could say that he was also responsible for the wicked, drunken turn the Society had taken, as well. He hadn’t overseen things the way he should.
Mars had warned him that he’d been opening the doors too wide. Ned had dismissed the warning as lordly elitism. After all, if someone hadn’t given Ned opportunities, he never would have advanced his station in life, and he’d hoped to encourage the villagers in the same manner. Now he realized guilt was an uncomfortable emotion. And he knew exactly what Mrs. Warbler would have to say about the Society’s current standards.
“When the earl returns, we will right the matter,” Ned repeated. He rode on to his next call for the day—Kate Balfour.
Usually a midwife would take care of parish birthing matters. Unfortunately, the current midwife for the countryside, Mary Thomason, was ancient and had a habit of drinking more than she should. Consequently, Ned had to see to a number of births, and while he didn’t mind playing male midwife in emergencies, he’d rather not. He enjoyed every facet of medicine . . . but he was keenly aware that the most respected doctors shied away from this sort of practice. Yet, he also liked seeing babies come into the world. So he struggled with wanting to do his best for all of his patients and being that lad who was always judged and found wanting because he didn’t meet the strictures of society. Even for matters that were out of his control, like the circumstances of his birth.