Caroline drew back her fist and sent it right into Mr. Plumberry’s jaw. He dropped like a stone. Caroline stood there rubbing her knuckles.
His wife howled, dropped to her knees, and shrieked up at Caroline, “How dare you! You don’t deserve that my fine Plumberry lowered himself to come here for that little trollop’s—”
Caroline was shivering with anger, not with cold. She called out, “Tregeagle, Polgrain, do come here and assist the Plumberrys from Mount Hawke land.”
“Don’t you dare touch me!” Mrs. Plumberry yelled. “You miserable—” She was shrieking now constantly, but it was better than the horrible words that had spewed out of her mouth.
Caroline called out, “North, thank you for carrying Mr. Plumberry into his coach. Could you please dump him on the floor?”
North did just that, indeed he dumped him on his wife’s feet. Mrs. Plumberry leaned out the window, screaming, “All of you will pay for this! Horrid sinners! Look at all of you—just standing there, doing nothing! All of you impious females, wearing white like heathens. My Horace will send all of you to everlasting Hell, you will see!”
Bishop Horton from Truro, who thankfully arrived after the Plumberrys’ coach had rolled down the hill, read the words over Alice’s grave that Caroline and Owen had written together. His voice was deep and rich, reaching even to Mr. Dumbarton’s smallest child, who stood at the very edge of the Nightingale cemetery, unwilling to come closer.
“Alice would like that,” Owen said. “The bishop of Truro here, for her. I always wished my voice was deeper and richer, just like the bishop’s.”
The morning was cloudy, windy, the air cold and damp, a perfect day for misery, Caroline thought, standing close to North, her arm through his. Her knuckles hurt, which was wonderful. There were nearly fifty people at Alice’s funeral. Alice would have liked that too, Caroline thought. Alice probably would have flushed scarlet with embarrassment, lost her nearly excellent English grammar, and said, “Lawks, Miss Caroline, would ye jest look at all the toffs? And jest plain ordinary folk too. It pleases me, Miss Caroline, it surely does.”
Caroline didn’t feel the tears slipping down her face until she tasted the salt and felt North’s gloved finger wiping her cheek.
35
IT TOOK CAROLINE a good three days to realize she was being followed. She was visiting the seamstress in Goonbell, fetching small blankets and wrappers for the babes, when she made her move.
She quickly slipped into an alley between two buildings and waited. Sure enough, not two minutes later, she saw the long shadow of her follower. Her heart pounded. She pulled the pistol from her pocket and waited. She was ready. No more fear, damn the wretched person.
It was Timmy the maid and he nearly dropped to his knees with fright when she grabbed his arm, whirled him around, and stuck the pistol in his face and shouted, “What are you doing? Why are—”
She stared down at the boy, whose mouth was unbecomingly open, eyes terrified. “Timmy, whatever are you doing following me?”
“Er, my lady, ye done scar’t the stuffing out o’ me. Could ye move the popper from me puss?”
“What? Oh yes, I’m sorry for scaring you.”
“Aye, and wit’ me own popper, leastways it were mine until after ye took it back from me.”
She slipped the pistol back into the large pocket of her thick brown wool cloak. “Why are you following me? Oh goodness, I hadn’t even considered… You’re my shadow, my protection. His lordship set you after me, didn’t he?”
“Aye, I suppose there ain’t no ’iding it now that ye caught me fair and proper.”
“Very well. Do you have any idea who tried to hurt me? Remember when we went back to find that wire and it was gone? Have you heard anything about any wire, Timmy, anything at all?”
“Nay, not a bloody thing, beggin’ yer ladyship’s pardon, and that’s wot’s drivin’ ’is lordship ’round the bend, so to speak. The way ’e thinks is if it weren’t old Mr. Coombe what popped the ladies, then who’s trying to pop ye?”
“Your choice of words could use some improvement, Timmy,” she said, then pulled him from the alley.
“Ye know, yer ladyship, Flash Savory an’ Cap’n Carstairs don’t know a thing either, can’t figure out who’s doing all these evil things. Then there’s ’is lordship, the Earl of Chase. Now, ’e’s got a bonny brain, ’e ’as, but even ’e don’t know who’s doing aught.”
She only sighed. “I know, even the Duchess is stymied, and that’s something. Now that you’re here, you can help me fetch the parcels for all our babes.”
He looked horrified.
“Come along, Timmy, I did catch you fair and square, you said so yourself.”
“No, ma’am, I said it was fair an’ proper.”
“Come along, Timmy.”
That evening at dinner, there were only four at the table, the Nightingales and the Wyndhams. Miss Mary Patricia, Evelyn, and Owen were all upstairs fussing with the babies. Little Owen was eating like a stoat, and the good Lord knew, Tregeagle was heard to say on a deep sigh, that the little blighter’s lungs were just dandy.