“I’ll talk to you later, Bertie,” Marena said, a bit too cheerily. “I’ll ring you up.”
“Don’t make the poor fellow promises you don’t intend to keep,” Darien told her.
Bertie’s ears were growing red and his chest puffed out. He was still looking at Darien. “I don’t think that’s much concern of yours, mate.”
“I’d say it is,” Darien replied. I could see something of Milo’s personality in the calmness of his reply, but unlike Milo, who was always master of himself, I could sense Darien was barely keeping his temper in check. His eyes had darkened and the muscles in his jaw had tightened. “You see, I’ve made Marena my business.”
Bertie looked at him, then to Marena and back again. His entire face had taken on a crimson hue, and his fists were clenched at his sides.
I wondered if I should speak up, try to defuse the situation, but something told me it had already gone beyond that.
“You can’t do this, Marena,” Bertie said, his eyes boring into hers. “Not after what we’ve been to each other.”
“Bertie, I think you’d better leave.” Marena said this clearly and calmly, but I could tell that her self-possession was a front, for her hand upon the desk was trembling.
“What’s this fellow to you, anyhow? You don’t even know him.”
“She knows me well enough,” Darien said. “We’ve become very well acquainted over the past few days.”
Suddenly, without warning, Bertie turned and, lunging forward, punched Darien in the face. Marena screamed, and Jenny jumped back farther behind the desk as though she was next in line to be assaulted, her freckles standing out in sharp relief against the sudden whiteness of her face.
To Darien’s credit, he didn’t fall. Instead, he staggered backward, catching himself on the edge of the front desk.
Blood streamed from his nose and lip, staining the cuff of his shirt as he wiped it away and pulled himself upright.
“I’ll kill you for this,” he said coldly. I was surprised at the dignity—and the sincerity—with which he managed to imbue the words with his face streaked with blood.
Bertie was unfazed and unrepentant. “Go ahead and try it,” he said.
Darien’s eyes flashed, and I was momentarily worried that the fighting was about to begin in earnest, but then Marena came around the desk, inserting herself between the two of them.
“Get out, Bertie,” she said, her eyes blazing with fury. “Get out before I call the police!”
“But, Marena,” he pleaded. “I … didn’t mean…”
“Go!” she cried. “Now!”
With one last bewildered look around him, almost as though he were waking from some strange dream, Bertie Phipps turned and left the inn.
Marena turned to Darien, clutching his arm. “Oh, darling. Are you all right?” she asked.
He had pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and was quelling the blood with it. “I’m fine.”
I couldn’t help but think, absurdly, that it would be such a shame were his nose to be damaged. I should hate for it to ruin the perfect symmetry of his features.
“Shall we ring for the doctor?” I asked.
“No,” Darien said.
“But, darling…” Marena countered. “Don’t you think…”
“I said no,” he repeated, loudly; she flinched.
I decided then that there was nothing else to be done on my part. Darien clearly didn’t want my help, and I was certain he wouldn’t be in the mood to discuss the situation with Milo when he was currently bleeding onto his white shirt.
“I’ll just be going now,” I said. “Perhaps we may talk another day?”
“I shall look forward to it,” he said with a gallantry that belied the indignity of the bloody handkerchief pressed to his face.
“Let’s go get you cleaned up,” Marena said, leading him away.
I bid farewell to Jenny, who was certain to find her magazine dull after the events she had just witnessed, and left the inn, glad to be back in the fresh air. This was rather more drama than I had been prepared for. After all, an ill-timed meeting between Darien and Imogen was unlikely to have ended in fisticuffs.
Good heavens. What a mess all of this was becoming.
* * *
I FOUND SUDDENLY that I hadn’t the energy to visit Mrs. Cotton’s rooming house in search of Imogen. Perhaps, instead, we could have her come back to Thornecrest. Whatever the case, I knew the discussion couldn’t be put off for long. It would be dreadful if she were to encounter Darien in the village, especially in the company of Marena Hodges; I could only imagine what sort of scene might ensue.
As Markham was driving me back to the house, we passed the festival grounds on the border of Bedford Priory. The local workmen had been there, putting up the tents, and everything was looking quite cheerful and festive.
It was then that I noticed the solitary figure of Mrs. Busby in her wheelchair. She sat, apparently alone, in the middle of the field.
“Pull over, will you, Markham?” I asked.
He drew to a stop alongside the gate in the fence that edged the festival grounds and came to open my door.
I got out and went through the gate and across the field, grateful that the grass was dry. Hopefully we wouldn’t get much rain before the festival.
“Hello, Mrs. Busby,” I said as I approached her.
She looked up from the notebook in her lap where she was jotting things down, last-minute festival plans, no doubt. “Oh, Amory. Whatever are you doing here?”
“I was driving past and saw you. I thought I would see if you needed help of any sort.” It was a bit useless of me to ask, as I wasn’t able to do much in my condition. But I hated to see her out here alone. Someone must have wheeled her here, of course, but I didn’t know where they might be now.
“How sweet you are, dear. The vicar is here somewhere,” she said, glancing absently about. “I suppose he must be behind one of the tents. He’s been running about doing my bidding. So accommodating he always is. Oh, here he is now.”
The vicar came from behind one of the tents in the distance. Mrs. Busby waved at him, and he approached us with a smile. He was a stout man with a genial face that had probably been handsome in his younger years. He had thin gray hair and bright blue eyes and a ready smile. I had always liked the man and the feeling of genuine goodwill I always felt in his presence.
“Mrs. Ames! How good to see you.”
He clasped my hand tightly in his. The only drawback to him was his damp and clammy handshake. Milo had once unkindly, though accurately, described it as grasping a large piece of lukewarm raw meat.
“How have you been, my dear?” One always had the impression that, beneath his friendly blue gaze, he was truly interested in the answer to this customary question.
“I’m very well, thank you.”
“Good, good. I hope you shall be feeling well enough to attend the festival?”
He made no direct reference to my pregnancy, but I appreciated the subtle way in which he inquired after my health.
“I hope so. I’ve been rather looking forward to it.” I felt a bit bad for telling a borderline fib to the vicar. In truth, I found I wasn’t much looking forward to the Springtide Festival. While I usually enjoyed the merriment as much as anyone, I was tired as of late and my feet tended to hurt if I remained on them too long. As it was the event of the spring in the village, however, I was certainly planning to attend and enjoy myself as much as possible.