that the gentleman who turned once again to study her could not help but admire her self-restraint. ‘And you need not summon my maid, sir. I assure you I’ve no intention of causing you or myself embarrassment by falling into a swoon. I should much prefer that you return to your seat and explain to me what happened to Jane. Was she yet a further casualty of the influenza epidemic that has been sweeping through the county in recent weeks? I have learned from the doctor that half his patients have fallen victim at some time or other, and sadly not all have survived.’
Instead of resuming the chair opposite, Joss took up a stance before the hearth. ‘Believe me, Lady Warrender, I wish I could confirm that it was so.’ There could be no mistaking the deep regret in his voice now. ‘Miss Robbins’s death could not be attributed to natural causes.’
He paused to reach down for the glass of burgundy he had placed on the table by his chair, and tossed it down in one fortifying swallow, before adding, ‘She met her end whilst out walking in Marsden Wood.’
For several long moments it was as much as Gwen could do to stare up at him, as she at last began to recall with frightening clarity elements of that conversation she had overheard between this gentleman and his friend in a certain posting-house in Bristol. Then, maintaining that admirable control, she asked bluntly, ‘Are you trying to tell me, sir, Jane Robbins was murdered?’
Almost a week passed before Gwen could even attempt to bring herself to come to terms with the fact that her surrogate sister had died in such horrible circumstances; and in the days that followed she discovered a deal more about Jane’s demise than Jocelyn Northbridge had seen fit to impart.
It was from her newly appointed housemaid, a mine of local opinions and gossip, salacious or quite otherwise, that Gwen learned that Jane had by no means been the only female in recent years to meet her end in Marsden Wood. Although a little reticent at first, the good doctor too had been persuaded to reveal certain other salient facts surrounding the deaths, and Jane’s in particular. From the local vicar, Mr Harmond, one of the few people whom she had agreed to see during this time of deep depression and sorrow, Gwen had discovered the identity of the person who had ensured that Jane had at least received a decent burial and had not been placed in a pauper’s grave.
‘What a complex gentleman Mr Northbridge is, Gillie,’ she remarked, as she led the way out of the churchyard, having at last brought herself to visit the grave. ‘A mass of contradictions! He even went to the expense of buying a decent headstone.’
Unbeknownst to Gwen, Martha Gillingham had thoroughly approved of Mr Northbridge from the moment he had insisted they make the return journey in his own carriage, after that one and only visit to his home.
‘A very solid, dependable sort, I should say, Miss Gwennie.’
‘Yes, and beneath that brusque exterior, he’s surprisingly kind and considerate too.’ She managed a weak smile, the first to curl her lips in days, as memory stirred. ‘One might not suppose just how kind he can be on first making his acquaintance.’
‘I think he’s what’s termed a man’s man, Miss Gwennie. He doesn’t look the type to stand any nonsense.’
Gwen readily agreed with this viewpoint, even though she knew it could be a big mistake to make snap judgements about people. After all, hadn’t she been guilty of doing precisely that, after their unfortunate encounter in a certain crowded posting-house? Whether or not she could ever bring herself to really like him, perhaps only time would tell. But at least she experienced no lingering animosity towards him whatsoever. How could she after the respect he had shown towards her dearest Jane?
‘I must write, thanking him for his kindness, and offering to reimburse him for the expense he has incurred paying for Jane’s funeral. I don’t suppose for a moment he’ll accept any money from me. But the least I can do is offer.’
‘Well, it looks as if you’ll be able to do so in person,’ Martha announced, as they turned into the driveway. ‘Because, unless I’m much mistaken, that’s his carriage standing there at the front door.’
As she had instantly recognised the comfortable equipage too, Gwen didn’t delay, once she had dispensed with her outdoor garments, in joining her unexpected visitor in the front parlour.
Standing over six feet in his stockinged feet, Jocelyn Northbridge was an impressive figure by any standard, and in the confines of a parlour that was only moderately proportioned he seemed more imposing than ever. Yet, strangely enough, as she moved towards him, hand automatically outstretched in welcome, Gwen felt not one iota intimidated by his superior height and breadth. In fact, the opposite was true—she felt oddly reassured to see him standing there before her hearth.
‘Do make yourself comfortable, Mr Northbridge,’ she cordially invited, once he had released her hand, after the briefest of clasps, so that she could indicate the most robustly made chair, the one that was sure to withstand his weight. ‘May I offer you some refreshment? I came across numerous bottles of a very fine burgundy whilst I was inspecting the cellar shortly after my arrival here.’
She was well aware he was studying her every move during the time it took to dispense two glasses and rejoin him at the hearth. Fortunately the short walk from the local church had done something to restore her healthy bloom, even if it could not disguise the fact that a total lack of appetite in recent days had resulted in weight loss, a circumstance that wouldn’t escape his notice, as very little did, she strongly suspected.
This was borne out by the exaggerated upward movement of one dark brow when she placed the two crystal vessels down on the table between their respective chairs. ‘Breaking with tradition on this occasion, Lady Warrender, and imbibing in the forenoon, I see,’ he quipped. ‘I’m relieved to discover you’re prepared to make adjustments from time to time to suit various occasions, and are not bound by monotonous convention or routine. Such persons swiftly become bores.’
Gwen came to the conclusion in that moment that if one wished to rub along with Mr Jocelyn Northbridge even just tolerably well, one must swiftly make allowances for his somewhat acerbic manner and forthright opinions. In view of the fact that she was very much beholden to him at the present time, it wasn’t too difficult a decision to reach to do precisely that.
Which was perhaps just as well, for when, a second or two later, she attempted to thank him for the consideration he had shown in dealing with Jane’s funeral, he interrupted with an expletive of impatience, dismissing her offer to reimburse him with a wave of one large, yet surprisingly shapely hand.
‘Kindness doesn’t enter into the matter, ma’am,’ he continued in the same blunt manner. ‘I had been assured by Miss Robbins herself, when she applied for the post, that she had no close relatives living. Consequently, when the tragedy occurred, I felt duty bound, as she was in my employ at the time, to deal with the matter personally.’ He paused to sample the dark liquid in his glass, favouring the remaining contents a moment later with a look of decided approval. ‘Needless to say I was oblivious to your close association, otherwise I would have taken the trouble to write apprising you of the tragedy. I happen to know she corresponded on a reasonably regular basis with someone residing in the capital, but could find no clue as to this unknown’s direction among her effects.’
‘That would undoubtedly have been Mr Claypole of Messrs Claypole, Claypole and Featherstone. Many of the letters Jane and I wrote to each other during my first years away from this country went astray. But when Percival and I visited Italy in more recent times, Mr Claypole the younger was kind enough to undertake the task of forwarding the letters, which resulted in many more eventually reaching their respective destinations.’
‘I found no letters among her belongings, ma’am. Which, incidentally, I’ve brought with me today. I thought you might like them.’
Gwen felt moved by the gesture. ‘That was kind of you, sir. I thank you.’
He didn’t attempt to throw her gratitude back in her face this time. He merely watched as she sampled the fine wine with what appeared to be a deal less appreciation than he himself had done.
Acutely conscious