me the money from the ass’s milk,” she added with a sharp shot from her gimlet eyes.
So that was it, Avedon decided. It was the couple of shillings from the ass’s milk that had turned Sal into a patriot. “There is one here from a retired vicar and his wife,” he mentioned. “They might be company for you.”
“Oh, no, Adrian, that is exactly the kind of people I most wish to avoid. They would expect to be invited to Chenely, you know, and you would not like that. They would look for special treatment because I am a clergyman’s wife, depend upon it. And the lady with lung trouble will want the ass’s milk. We must not forget that. Waste not, want not.”
“The decision ought not to hinge on a quart of ass’s milk a day,” he pointed out with a tolerant smile at her clutch-fisted ways.
“No indeed, but her husband is out defending the country while she is all alone—except for her chaperon. See what a nice genteel hand she writes. Very fine pressed paper, too. She doesn’t mention her husband’s rank, only that he is an officer. He cannot be a colonel, or she would have said. Perhaps a captain. She might be an elderly woman for all we know. And in any case, with her husband’s sister along, there will be no trouble with Tony. She will pay cash in advance—that is a point to consider. The interest on five hundred over the year comes to twenty-five pounds. The vicar mentions terms, you see. They would likely accept a reduction when they find out John is a deacon. Let us accept the officer’s wife.”
“Very well.”
The letter of acceptance was sent out, the Percys’ traveling carriage was loaded up, and they were off to Kent to hide themselves in Baron Bigelow’s secluded cottage, for Lucy to lick her wounds and throw the neighborhood into a tizzy that would make the Lacey affair look tame in comparison.
Chapter Three
“We will not be so very secluded,” Lucy said when the carriage turned in at the proper road. “The last signpost said Canterbury twenty miles, but Ashford is only five.”
Mrs. Percy strained her neck out the window to see their new temporary home. In June the garden was at its peak. The flower that gave the cottage its name grew in profusion. A tumble of pretty pink roses climbed up the lower brick walls of a half-timbered house. Newly cleaned leaded windows gleamed in the sunlight. The honey-colored oak door caught the rays and shone a welcome.
When the ladies alit, Mrs. Percy’s first destination was the garden behind the house. Here she was disappointed. Jobber’s hasty refurbishing had not extended to the rear. A tangle of toadflax competed with ivy on the wall that partially surrounded the garden, nearly hiding the stone. She entered the rounded arch and stared in dismay at what had once been a cultivated area.
Mushrooms sprouted amidst the rank grass, and even nettles, those harbingers of wilderness, had established a foothold around the edges. But amidst the jungle her keen eye discerned the bloom of cultivated flowers. The wilted leaves of daffodil and tulip showed where spring’s glory had bloomed unseen. Phlox and delphiniums and roses vied with the hardier weeds.
“There is work to be done here,” she said with some satisfaction. Bringing order from chaos was a challenge and the very thing to help pass a long summer of isolation. “Look at the rabbits!” she exclaimed as a pair of cottontails stopped and gave her a cool stare.
“And the squirrels,” Lucy added. “The place is a regular jungle.” She lifted her eyes and beheld in the distance a soaring mass of gray stone. Chenely was built on a prominence that overlooked Avedon’s domain. “That must be a noble house,” she mentioned to her aunt. “Perhaps there will be balls....”
Mrs. Percy disliked the interest in Lucy’s voice and spoke on to distract her. “Are those ravens on the battlements? It reminds one of the Tower of London.” As she spoke, a large black bird took wing