Death Witnessed Page 4

  “You don’t?” Marian asked, her gaze wide and searching as it darted over Georgette’s face.

  She squeezed Marian’s hand. “Not everyone gets a happily-ever-after, Marian. I’m not holding my breath for some fairytale that will never happen for me.” Her gaze was clear and uncompromising as she added, “I know what I am.”

  “That’s”—Marian reached out, taking Georgette’s hand—“a sad story, and you know it isn’t—” She stopped, studying Georgette. “I’m not really sure you do know.”

  Georgette laughed as she patted Marian’s cheek. “You aren’t looking at it right, love. We count the blessings we have, not the ones we don’t. You had better get back to your Detective Aaron. He’s looking this way.”

  “He’s not the only one,” Marian replied, glancing first at her cousin and then at Charles.

  “He just finished the story. I’ll go get my feedback, shall I?”

  5

  Once again, the goddess Atë turned her sly gaze on Bard’s Crook. She liked the village even more than the fictional version, Harper’s Bend. Once again, it seemed that Harriet Lawrence, the widow, was called to the wood. She wandered for long hours, and on her way back, she discovered—not for the first time—Miss Schmitz scribbling into a notebook near the very spot where Harriet’s husband had died.

  Harriet’s brows lifted at the sight, hating the image more than she knew possible. What was the chance that the location was selected innocently? As she stared towards the spot, she remembered the last way she’d seen him. He’d struck her hard, and she’d been holding her cheek, looking back at him from where the force had made her spin. His eyes were alight with fire and fury, and she’d kept her hand to her face and ran. She’d hated him then and death hadn’t changed a thing.

  Her brows drew low, and she pressed her hand to her cheek once again. She spun, running towards her home, bypassing the herbalist, Mr. Hadley. He had also been watching Miss Schmitz. He’d seen her more than once about the village, and she’d been slowly making him take notice. He’d seen her near the library, and when she’d left, Miss Hallowton had frowned after. He’d seen Miss Schmitz laughing as she spoke with Mrs. Thornton, but Mrs. Thornton had looked concerned. To see Miss Schmitz now, there?

  He remembered all too well the sight of Lawrence dead on the ground. The feel of carrying his body to the doctor’s auto. The fact that someone was using the location to scribble inane thoughts into a journal was too much for the good Mr. Hadley.

  Her location and her manner was helping Miss Schmitz to rise in the wily goddess’s affection. Atë’s affections could be so easily swayed. In the week since The Further Adventures of Harper’s Bend’s release, Miss Schmitz had told anyone who would listen that the author had based the shrew, Caroline Hardport, off of herself.

  Of course, anyone who knew the details behind the book knew that Georgette had completed it before the woman had even arrived in Bard’s Crook. Miss Schmitz hadn’t taken into account that as soon as the first book was finished, the author would have turned her attention to the next book. The book had to have been done for months to have been published in the last week.

  For someone like Dr. Wilkes, who knew a bit about publishing, he simply laughed and changed the subject to discover the mischief of his boys rather than the mischief of a lonely woman with no family. For someone like Marian Parker, who had read the book once, after much pleading, and before Miss Schmitz had moved to Bard’s Crook, the claim was a great joke. For a few, however, they were far less pleased. Just who was this Joseph Jones and how did he prognosticate such things? Perhaps through a woman like Schmitz, using her beady little eyes to ferret out their secrets.

  GEORGETTE DOROTHY MARSH

  For Georgette Dorothy Marsh, however, the claim was something of a conundrum. Was Miss Hardport not irritating? Did she not cause trouble and pain? Perhaps Georgette had created a heroine when she’d wanted to create a villainess. Perhaps Georgette had failed at her intentions, and she should re-examine what she had done versus what she’d intended and do it better next time.

  Georgette spent the morning after her first writers group reading over The Further Adventures of Bard’s Crook looking for a reason why Miss Schmitz would see herself in that book. She skimmed the pages, remembering the book she’d half-forgotten while writing the next two books. It didn’t seem she’d written the character wrong. Was that because she knew what she’d been trying to convey? If only she could read it as though she hadn’t written it and discover what she’d done wrong.

  “I don’t understand it,” Georgette said finally as she closed the volume and placed it on the table next to her.

  “You don’t understand that Miss Schmitz wants to see herself in Hardport?” Eunice asked, crossing the kitchen to refill Georgette’s teacup. It made Eunice quite happy to see her girl filling out in her face. She pushed the cream towards Georgette, and Miss Georgie topped off her teacup with an excess of cream and sugar, making Eunice smile to herself. Her girl always did have a bit of a sweet tooth. Today was a day, she thought, for making cakes. Especially if those Aaron men were in town. Sooner or later, they’d be appearing at the door with one excuse or another.

  Georgette hummed as she nodded and then sipped that odd tea she’d purchased. Who combined cocoa beans, coffee beans, and tea? Odder and odder. It quite made Eunice think of that Wonderland book she’d read Georgette when she was a girl.

  “You should go for a walk, Miss Georgie, before you start working. You work too much and walk too little. It’s not good for you. Get some air. Stretch your legs. Don’t come back until you’ve winded yourself a bit or your lungs will quit working properly.”

  Georgette rose and kissed Eunice on the cheek as soon as the tea was finished. “You take such good care of me. You’d think I could do it, seeing as how I’m supposedly a fully grown, modern woman. Yet, it seems without you, my dresses would be dirty, my hair askew, and my hips hurting from working too long.”

  “If your hips are hurting,” Eunice said dryly, “then walk longer, and take those mongrels of yours.”

  Georgette whistled to her dogs and exited the back of her cottage. There was a trail at the back of her garden that led through a nearby green and onto the lane that led to the wood. Georgette made her way, entirely missing Mr. Aaron approaching her door with his hat in his hand and her manuscripts under his arm.

  He’d talked her into handing them over the previous night. He’d known he was being pushy and done it all the same. She had caved, as he’d known she would. He stayed up late reading and making notes. Joseph had been forced to cover his face with his pillow. If only Miss Hallowton had two rooms to spare.

  The boy could suffer if Charles could, and if his Georgie wanted true feedback, he’d give it to her. He loved her works as they were. The artlessness and honest way she told her stories was as charming as the stories themselves.

  Charles had gone through the manuscripts, making notes for her and praying he wasn’t ruining a good thing. He was nervous to hand them over. She was such a quiet thing. He’d had to give himself quite a pep talk about her. She could handle feedback. It wasn’t all negative. It wasn’t even really negative at all. More coaching. He took care to point out the parts where she was particularly charming, but he didn’t want to crush her by noting the weaker points too harshly. She seemed somehow to be both a delicate flower and a stalwart oak.

  He took a deep breath and rapped his knuckles against the door. There were no sounds of barking, and he glanced about, looking for those dogs she’d rescued. The only sign was a basket of tennis balls near the door.

  After a minute and a second knock, a harried-looking Eunice opened the door. Her gaze narrowed on him and she put her hands on her hips as she huffed out a breath. “You’re too late.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “She re-read that book of hers, drank too much tea, and let me shoo her out the door. If you didn’t pass her, you missed her.”

  “Did she sa
y where she was going?”

  “Just to take those dogs of hers for a walk. I scolded her to get herself well and truly winded, so perhaps she went towards the wood. She’s got a fair bit on her mind.”

  “That Parker fellow?”

  Eunice just stared and then snorted. “Her books. She doesn’t trust herself. Who can blame the girl when everyone treats her like the village idiot? She’s worried that because the fool Schmitz sees herself as the villain that somehow my miss made a mistake in her writing and made someone appealing who was supposed to be otherwise.”

  Charles shook his head, as baffled as Eunice. “Fool woman is right.” His thoughts returned immediately to Georgie. He knew she was quiet, and he’d seen her when she’d been at her worst. Bone thin, in too-large, threadbare clothes, but her looks had improved as the worries had faded.

  “I feel as though I’m blindfolded here, Eunice. I wonder if you’d let me ask you a few questions.”

  “No.”

  Charles stared, stunned at the denial. He’d rather thought Eunice liked him. “I could use some help.”

  “You could if you’re here for what I think you are.” Charles was shocked to feel a burning in his cheeks that only intensified as Eunice added, “You think you could have her for the taking. She’ll tell you she’s Charlotte Lucas”—Eunice made sure he got the reference before she continued—“letting in any man who wants her for the taking, but she’s not, you know.”

  “I know,” he said, but he realized he’d treated her just that way, making sure that there wasn’t a better female available, reviewing the field is what he’d told himself. He felt a flash of shame. Georgette Dorothy Marsh was far more to him that something to set aside. He had to admit—he’d panicked a little at the idea of actually getting married.

  “She’s a good girl. She’s smart, clever, and hard-working. Her books are good. She doesn’t need anyone to save her. Never did, really. I think you’ll discover she’s been learning she isn’t Charlotte Lucas.”

  “I am not Mr. Collins,” Charles said.

  “But,” Eunice asked with a waspish tone, “are you Mr. Darcy?” She shut the door.

  Charles blinked at the closed door. There was a piece of him that noted it had been painted a cheery mustard yellow. He glanced around, taking in the cut verge, the flowers blooming in pots. The whitewashed fence and the fresh coat of paint on the cottage. He supposed he knew what she’d done with the second cheque he’d written her for the next round of royalties.

  He sighed and stepped away from the cottage, exiting the garden as Miss Parker and her cousin appeared, a dog gamboling around them. It seemed that Joseph was having the same luck as Charles. He lifted his hand and forced a grin while he took in the man walking at Miss Parker’s side.

  “Hello there!” Marian called. “How lovely to see you, Mr. Aaron. Lovely day and all that.”

  Parker nodded to Charles from behind his cousin, his gaze moving to the cottage and then back to Charles.

  “I’m afraid Miss Marsh doesn’t seem to be at home,” Charles told them.

  “She must have taken that back trail to the wood. Eunice has been pushing her out the door now that the days are sunnier. I suppose she did spend much of the last round of rainy months busy with her tinkering.”

  So, Parker didn’t realize that Georgette was a writer. Not a real writer.

  “Tinkering?” Parker asked.

  Marian only shrugged and then reached past him to point out a wood warbler. “I do love their pretty yellow feathers. Don’t you?”

  Parker didn’t see his cousin’s sidestepping, but Charles recognized it. Of course, he knew much of the facts about Miss Marsh that Parker hadn’t been trusted with. It was absurd, Charles thought, how much he liked that.

  Humility struck him a moment later when he realized that the only reason Charles knew her secrets was because she’d sent her book to his office. Would she have trusted him if she hadn’t chosen his name from the list of publishers?

  He had no idea. Charles glanced at Marian, who was watching him far too carefully.

  “It’s interesting, isn’t it?” she said low so that Parker, who had picked up a ball to throw for Marian’s dog, didn’t hear. “When you realize there are whole worlds behind her eyes that she’s not sharing with you.”

  “Why did she go for a walk?”

  “She didn’t think you’d come.”

  “Why?” Charles ran his hand over his hair. “Of course I was coming.”

  “Why should she?” Marian snapped, not hiding a flash of fury. “You left for London. You made no promises. You carried her off like a knight in shining armor and then you went back to your work. You know what makes me the angriest? That’s what she expected. She deserves better.”

  Marian whistled for her dog and gave him a cheeky wave as though she hadn’t just scolded him. She called a cheery goodbye that was all lies and turned her back on him.

  6

  GEORGETTE DOROTHY MARSH

  The walk to the wood was just what Georgette needed to clear her head. She was almost positive that she’d written Miss Hardport as an interfering gossip who attempted to destroy people’s lives with her machinations. Therefore, it must be for another reason that Miss Schmitz identified herself in the book. Was it possible that Miss Schmitz was that type of interfering busybody, and the similarities were just a very odd coincidence?

  Georgette’s mind moved from Miss Schmitz to her current books. She had finished her Secrets and her Josephine Marie, at least as much as she could before she got feedback. She hadn’t had to make major changes to the last two books. Charles might not suggest many changes to these two either. That wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted to get better as a writer.

  She sighed and pulled out the list she’d tucked into her pocket to look at it. It was a simple enough list. She’d been able to afford much of what had been on it. She’d replaced much of her wardrobe, she’d replaced her furniture, indulged in teas, painted the outside of her cottage. In a time when many were saving the scraps of vegetables and making bone soup, Georgette had been blessed enough to escape financial doom.

  Her list was dwindling. She needed to replace some things in her bedroom and freshen the paint inside of her cottage, but she’d wait until late summer to do those things. She had determined to save every last half-penny of her next book sales, barring tea indulgences, in order to feel as though she didn’t have to write. It wasn’t that she intended to stop, she simply wanted to know that if Mr. Aaron stopped buying her books, she and Eunice would still survive.

  The walk took her past Mr. Hadley, who stopped her. “I wonder, Miss Marsh, if I might have a word.”

  Georgette hid her shock as she nodded, giving him a vague smile.

  “I find that I am concerned,” he said. “I—I—know that you’re good friends with Miss Parker.”

  “Yes,” Georgette said quietly.

  “Do you know…ah—do you think… Oh, I find…perhaps I better just…” Mr. Hadley’s face had flushed and then he said all at once, “Do you believe that Mr. Harrison Parker is attending the writers group to gather Miss Hallowton’s personal attention?”

  Georgette stared blankly at Mr. Hadley for a moment. Miss Hallowton was all edges and elbows and she was forty if she was a day. Harrison Parker, on the other hand, was a vital man somewhere in his late twenties. Mr. Parker might have some purpose to his attendance at that writers group, but Georgette was certain it wasn’t a relationship with Miss Hallowton.

  “Ah,” she said carefully, “no.”

  “She’s very lovely,” Mr. Hadley told Georgette as though persuading her to see Miss Hallowton as a love interest for a much younger man.

  “She’s quite clever too,” Georgette added kindly, “to think up and arrange that group, and when she works so hard.”

  Mr. Hadley nodded and then pushed his spectacles up on his nose. “I fear that I am a bit protective of her. You understand. She’s a woman alone.”

 
; Georgette stared at him for a moment, wondering if he realized he was talking to her—a woman alone—younger and arguably in more need of protection, and yet he seemed blind to the very idea that Georgette might have longed for, even prayed for, that very thing. It seemed that she was, in fact, chopped liver. She wanted to scold herself, but there was very little time for that with his anxious gaze fixated on her. She was, she realized, a cipher to him and nothing more.

  “I believe, from his cousin, that Mr. Parker is a very serious amateur writer.”

  “Is he?” Mr. Hadley’s gaze widened with something akin to sheer joy blended with relief. “How lovely.”

  “Miss Parker tells me that Mr. Parker has written more than one book and is attending the writers group to improve his writing and for no other reason.”

  “Is he really?” Mr. Hadley huffed out a breath. “Oh, thank you, Miss Marsh. Thank you ever so much.”

  Georgette stared after him as he hurried back into the wood. No doubt he was going to check on a patch of this plant or another. Susan rubbed against Georgette’s leg and whined low in her throat. Leaning down to give the dog a good love pat, Georgette said, “It’s not like I wanted him for myself.”

  Susan licked Georgette’s hand and then pushed up on her back legs to lick Georgette’s face.

  “It’s just sometimes even I want someone to long for me.”

  The dog panted happily in Georgette’s face, and she laughed. “Maybe,” Georgette told the dog, “even love me as you do, my darling.”

  With a near frantic combination of kisses and tail-waggling, Susan, Bea, and Dorcas didn’t so much make Georgette feel better as help her slide back into the same resigned position she’d achieved almost before she was old enough to be wed and dream of love.