5 Check-Out Time (4 page)

“I would be happy to accompany you,” Baxter said, moving to open the door for her. “I have a meeting scheduled with the chef, but I can postpone it. There are several matters I need to discuss with him. His breakages, for one. If he were not such an excellent cook, I should suggest sacking him. He has cost us a small fortune to replace the items he has damaged, not to mention the brandy he consumes.”

Cecily crossed the floor to the door, her long cotton skirt billowing behind her. “Please don’t worry, Baxter. Have your meeting with Michel. I can have Samuel take me in the trap.”

“I do worry, madam. The George and Dragon is no place for a lady to go unaccompanied.”

Pausing in the doorway, she looked up at him. “Now that my son is the proprietor, Baxter, I think you can relax a little. I shall come to no harm.”

“It isn’t so much your safety I’m concerned about, but your reputation.”

She frowned, pretending to take offense. “Are you suggesting that my son would own an establishment of ill repute?”

Baxter cleared his throat a little too loudly. “Not at all, madam. I assure you I was merely passing comment on the possible attitude of some of the customers.”

“I hardly think that anyone is likely to look unfavorably upon a mother visiting her son.”

“Quite so.”

Not sure if she’d won the argument or not, Cecily decided to change the subject. “Do try not to be too hard on Michel. I know he has a problem or two, but he has done much to enhance the reputation of the Pennyfoot. A good chef is difficult to find in these parts, and Michel is very good.”

“Yes, madam. As you wish.”

She left, feeling a little put out and not quite sure why.

“Aw right, aw right,” Gertie muttered, “keep your bleeding hair on. I’m going as fast as I can.”

Mrs. Chubb heaved a massive sigh. Whatever she was going to do with this girl she just did not know. “I’ve told you three times, Gertie, to get that tray of silverware back into the dining room. Ethel will be having a pink fit, that she will. How is she going to get the tables laid in time for dinner if she doesn’t have the silverware?”

“Ethel ain’t going to blooming know if it’s there or not.” Gertie picked up the tray and balanced it on her solid hip. “She’s in a bloody dreamworld lately, going around with that dopey look on her face. I don’t know what’s the matter with her, I don’t. Strewth, you’d think she’d be happy now that she’s finally got a blinking man to grab hold of.”

Mrs. Chubb tutted in disapproval. She wasn’t about to admit it, but she’d been a bit worried about Ethel herself. The girl just wasn’t acting normally. She never had been as lively as Gertie and sometimes moved at a snail’s pace, making Mrs. Chubb feel like screaming. But she’d always been dependable. Give Ethel a job and she’d get it done, albeit in her own time.

But lately the girl had been dithering about so long that half the jobs hadn’t been completed. Mrs. Chubb had finished them herself, hoping the lapse was only temporary. It was time she had a talk with the young lady, she thought, watching Gertie stride to the door.

Just as the housemaid reached it, the door flew open, narrowly missing the loaded tray. “’Ere,” Gertie yelled indignantly. “What’s your bleeding hurry, then?”

Michel bounced into the kitchen, waving his fist in the air. “He ’as the nerve to complain about breaking ze dishes,” the chef announced in his fractured French accent. “
Moi,
the most superb cook in the whole of the British Empire. How
can I create ze masterpiece if I ’ave to worry about ze dishes,
s’il vous plaît
?”

“Oh, blimey, he’s orf again,” Gertie muttered, lunging through the door and letting it swing to behind her.

Mrs. Chubb winced as Michel grabbed a saucepan and crashed it down on the cast-iron stove. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. Sometimes she wondered why she kept working at the Pennyfoot at her stage in life. Surely there was an easier way to make a living. Then she thought about Arthur Barrett. There were some compensations, after all.

She wondered if the new doorman had ever been married. A man as handsome as he was surely must have had scores of women after him. She’d ask him. The very next opportunity she got.

The thought of talking to Arthur again gave her so much pleasure she actually smiled when Michel threw a colander onto the tiled floor, no doubt putting a dent in the side of it.

She didn’t smile, however, when she carried a sack of flour across the kitchen, pouring a white trail from the hole cut in the bottom. When she picked up the jug of fresh milk in the larder and found a dead mouse floating around in it, her yell of wrath echoed across the kitchen yard.

Master Stanley Malton was up to his tricks again. He deserved a smacked bottom. Her hand itched to do just that. She should feel sorry for the child, she knew, him having just lost a parent. Apparently his father’s untimely demise, however, had not affected the child’s penchant for mischief.

She could only hope that someday the little scalawag would grow out of his ill behavior before he did something really terrible and caused someone harm.

Shaking her head, she began clearing up the mess, determined to put Stanley out of her mind and dwell on a more pleasant subject. Like Arthur Barrett, for instance.

CHAPTER
4

The George and Dragon had stood for more than two hundred and fifty years on the sharp curve of what was still called the Dover Road, so named for the route the stagecoaches took in the mid-nineteenth century.

Although the more modern horse-drawn carriages and traps had replaced the coaches, and the years had added height to the oaks and elms that shaded the roof, the interior of the inn had changed little since the Cavaliers raised their tankards in support of Charles I.

The same solid oak beams still supported the ceiling, hung with tankards, jugs, and assorted brass pots, making it treacherous for a man of above average height to cross the floor without bowing his head. In fact, more than one man had received a crack on the noggin when a belly full of ale had dimmed his eyes and his attention.

Sir Frederick Fortescue was no exception. Some said that it was due to the constant bashing of his head that the colonel was off his rocker. Others more charitably attributed the man’s decidedly bizarre behavior to extreme pressure under gunfire while serving in the army during the Boer War.

Whatever the reason, the colonel was blissfully unaware of his condition and was often amazed when misunderstood by his acquaintances.

Cecily felt a certain sympathy toward the man, having been witness to many of the tragedies associated with war. She also tolerated the colonel’s unpredictable behavior, since he was a constant guest at the Pennyfoot and one of her most valued customers. As long as he didn’t exactly drive anyone crazy, she was happy to welcome him any time he chose to stay at the hotel.

Even so, when she saw him seated in a corner of the lounge bar, she was inclined to postpone her visit for another time. Conversations with the colonel tended to be lengthy and highly unproductive. Upon occasion, however, he had accidentally provided a valuable clue in his bumbling manner to help her solve a perplexing puzzle.

Not that she expected any help from him this time, she thought ruefully as she ducked her head to avoid the low portal. The colonel had arrived just that morning and would know nothing about Sir Richard or his family.

Since it was yet quite early in the evening, only a half dozen customers sat in the lounge. As Cecily crossed the creaking floor, she caught sight of her new daughter-in-law standing at a corner table talking with two of the pub’s patrons.

Simani was the daughter of an African chief and had received a British education from the missionaries. She spoke perfect English, with only a trace of an accent. At the moment it seemed that Simani was doing most of the talking. The two men were simply nodding, and both appeared to be most uncomfortable.

Cecily could hardly blame them. Her daughter-in-law was a striking young woman, tall and slender, with smooth black skin that gleamed in the sunlight slanting across the room from the narrow paned windows.

Her short, bushy black hair emphasized her majestic features, while her large, dark eyes, framed with long, thick lashes, dominated her face. Huge gold-and-black-enameled orbs swung from her ears, gracing her amazingly long neck.

Her dress was equally dramatic and quite startling. Wrapped tightly in a brilliantly hued fabric from bosom to knee, her bared shoulders and arms would have seemed quite natural in the jungles of Africa. Here, in a secluded English country inn, the amount of flesh she revealed was definitely scandalous by British standards. One simply did not expose that much ankle, much less naked calves.

As much as Cecily sympathized with the new Women’s Movement, even she drew the line at some things. Although she hated to admit it, even to herself, part of her secretly envied her daughter-in-law’s freedom of expression and apparent unconcern for public approval.

Had Cecily been thirty years younger, she might well have emulated the bold young woman, though with a great deal more discretion, of course. She just had to keep reminding herself of the difference in cultures and that it would take time for Simani to conform.

Simani looked up at that moment, and Cecily exchanged a tight smile with her before turning her attention to the counter. Michael stood behind it, holding up a pint of ale and examining it with a critical eye.

She was about to call out to him when she heard a scandalized voice exclaim, “Mrs. Sinclair! Whatever is the world coming to? A lady of your station entering an establishment such as this without an escort? What? What?”

The colonel’s ruddy face seemed to glow as he stared at her, his eyelids blinking rapidly like the fluttering of a moth’s wings.

Forcing a smile, Cecily paused by the table. The colonel,
remembering his manners, sprang to his feet. His elbow caught the glass of clear liquid sitting in front of him and spilled the contents across the table.

“Oh, dear,” Cecily murmured. “I’m so sorry, Colonel. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Startle me? My dear lady, you have shocked me. If you needed an escort, pray, why wasn’t I approached? I would be happy to offer you my protection. Indeed I would. Honored. Yes. Most definitely honored.”

His head nodded up and down so vigorously that Cecily became alarmed. “Please do not upset yourself, Colonel. You may have forgotten that my son now owns the George and Dragon. It is quite proper for me to visit Michael, is it not?”

“Your son? Good Lord! Does he, by Jove! I wonder, does he know his mother is wandering around a public house unescorted?”

“He will very shortly,” Cecily said, casting a hopeful eye at the counter, where Michael still seemed absorbed in the ale.

The colonel leaned forward, raising a hand to shield his mouth, which was almost completely hidden by a luxuriant white mustache. “I say, old bean,” he whispered. “You had better warn him. We have an intruder in our midst.”

Anticipating the reason for the colonel’s alarm, Cecily tried to reassure him. “If you are referring to the young lady, she happens to be Michael’s wife. They were married in Africa a few weeks ago.”

“Married?” He drew back with a look of horror on his face. “My dear lady, you must do something at once. He has obviously bewitched your son.”

Cecily frowned. “He? To whom do you refer, Colonel?”

The colonel nodded vigorously across the room to where Simani still chattered with the customers. “There, in the corner. See him? Looks like a woman, doesn’t he?” He leaned forward again, covering his mouth once more. “That, old bean,
is a witch doctor in disguise. Mark my words. I can spot one a mile off.”

Cecily did her best to hide a smile. “I think you are mistaken this time, Colonel.”

Fortescue lifted his eyes to the ceiling in despair. “Oh, good Lord. The evil is spreading already.” He dropped his chin, his eyelids flapping furiously. “Dear lady, I tell you that woman is the epitome of evil—a fiend transformed. Yes, indeed. You must protect yourself from his black magic, I implore you. That friend of yours, Miss Penglove …” He waved a hand in the air. “Whatever it is.”

“Pengrath,” Cecily said, casting an anxious eye at Simani in case she could overhear this ridiculous conversation, “Madeline Pengrath.”

“Ah, that’s the ticket, yes. Miss Pengrath. Super with the plants, you know. Does wonders with weeds and such. Dashed marvelous, I must say. Why, I heard she can even give a man something to make him more virile … you know … with the ladies—”

He broke off, apparently warned by Cecily’s expression that he’d said too much. Harrumphing a good deal, he cleared his throat, his eyeballs rolling around in his head. “Er … sorry, old bean. Got a little carried away there. Dreadful of me, of course. Forgetting my manners, what? What?”

“That’s quite all right, Colonel.” Cecily caught Michael’s eye and lifted her hand in greeting. “Ah, I see my son. I must have a word with him.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Jolly good show, that, what?” The colonel reached for his glass and lifted it. “To your son’s success with his new venture.”

Apparently forgetting he had spilled the contents, he touched his lips to the empty glass, then held it up in front of him, a look of astonishment on his face. “By Jove,” he muttered, “I must have drunk that one fast. Didn’t feel a
thing. Dashed disappointing, that is. Don’t make booze like they used to, you know.”

“Let me get you another,” Cecily said, seizing the excuse to leave. “Michael will be happy to oblige, I’m sure.”

She left the colonel muttering to himself, his glass still held in midair.

Michael’s smile seemed forced as she approached him. Even though she had been prepared for his return, the sight of him gave her a pang of bittersweet nostalgia. Her eldest son was so like his father, even without the army uniform, which Michael had now discarded in favor of becoming an innkeeper.

He had James’s handsome features, though Cecily liked to think her son had inherited her wide smile. Michael wasn’t smiling now, however, and Cecily viewed him with concern.

“Everything is well with you, I hope?” she enquired as Michael wiped his hands on a bar towel.

“As well as could be expected, I suppose.” His voice held a note of resignation, so at odds with the enthusiasm he had displayed when first opening the pub for business.

“You are not ill, I trust?” She studied his face, dismayed to see the worry lines at the corners of his mouth.

He shook his head and sent a glance over to where his new wife still chatted with the customers. “No, Mother. Just tired, that’s all. I never realized just how much work goes into this business. It’s a long way from those last days in the tropics, hunting down tigers and knocking back the gin on a warm night.”

“And, if I remember, you were thoroughly bored with the life.”

Michael gave a rueful nod of his head. “That I was, Mother. That I was. Damned brattish of me, I know. This is what I wanted, and I shouldn’t be complaining if things are not going the way I expected. They will in time, I’m sure. I just have to keep the stiff upper lip and all that rot.”

“It could be worse. At least you are home, safe and
sound.” Cecily suppressed a shudder. “You don’t know how many nights I lay awake worrying about you and Andrew out there.”

“I know. I know how much you must miss the pater, too. That was a hard blow. It was one of the reasons I wanted to settle down here on the coast.”

Cecily’s eyes misted. “I do miss your father, Michael, but it’s a great compensation to have you here in Badgers End. Though I do hope you are not here solely on my account. You can’t live your life for others, you know. You must live it for yourself.”

She felt a great deal comforted when Michael patted her hand. “Don’t worry, Mother dear. The peace and quiet of Badgers End suits me very well at present, though I daresay one of these fine days I shall be off searching for new horizons.”

Cecily had not the slightest doubt about that. “What about Simani?” she asked, sending a glance over her shoulder. “Is she settling down here? I was hoping you would pay us a visit to the hotel. She has been there only once since you arrived.”

“I’m sorry, Mother, we’ve just been so busy with the George, and Simani is not one to go visiting on her own. I think she feels just a little self-conscious. People do tend to stare at her, you know.”

Before she could answer, Colonel Fortescue’s voice boomed across the room. “I say, old bean, what about my gin?”

“Oh, dear heavens, I quite forgot,” Cecily muttered. “Would you please give the colonel another drink, dear? I’m afraid I caused him to spill the last one.”

“I don’t think he needs another one,” Michael said, reaching for the gin bottle anyway. “That gentleman is absolutely bonkers. Every time he comes in here he starts talking rubbish. Sometimes I even find myself answering him. By the time he leaves, I’m wondering if I’m the crazy one.”

Cecily watched him pour a measure of gin. “He’s harmless enough,” she said, stretching out her hand to take the glass. “He just gets confused sometimes, that’s all.”

“Confused?” Michael shook his head in disgust. “He should be locked up, if you want my opinion. People like that can be dangerous.”

“Not the colonel, I can assure you.” She paused as Simani’s hearty laughter rang out. Apparently the gentlemen were beginning to relax. “I’ll be right back.”

She carried the glass to the colonel’s table and set it down in front of him. “There you are, Colonel. I hope this one will taste better.”

“Thank you, dear lady.” He reached for the glass and lifted it to his lips. “You shouldn’t have waited on me, however. That fellow behind the bar should have brought it to me. New chappie, he is. I’ve never seen him before.”

“That’s my son, Colonel,” Cecily said, with more patience than was warranted. “Remember, I told you he had bought the George and Dragon?”

“Oh, gad, yes. How could I forget that?” The colonel swallowed a large mouthful and smacked his lips. “Now
that’s
what I call gin.”

“I’m glad you like it. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Did you warn him about the witch doctor?”

Behind her, Cecily heard Simani bid farewell to the two men, who had got up to leave. “Yes, I did, Colonel,” she said quickly. “Please don’t worry, he will take care of everything.”

“Just keep the blighter away from me,” Fortescue mumbled. “You get mixed up with one of those, you might as well be dead.”

Cecily hurried back to the counter, where Simani stood talking to Michael. She arrived just in time to hear her daughter-in-law say, “Michael, I do not have the time to visit your mother, even if I were to be made welcome.”

Something in Simani’s tone of voice prompted a stab of guilt. “I should certainly hope you would feel welcome at
the Pennyfoot,” Cecily said warmly. “I would be happy to send the trap for you, should you find an hour or two to spare for a visit.”

Simani’s smile was distant. “Thank you, Mrs. Sinclair. But there is so much I have to do here. Actually I have things to take care of right now. If you will please excuse me?” She glided away, disappearing through the door that led to the private quarters.

Cecily met Michael’s disapproving look. “I do hope I haven’t said something to offend her,” she said.

“I think she has the impression that you are not exactly enamored of our marriage.”