I smiled. “Madame Nanette would bring you here, I suppose,” I said, referring to his childhood nanny, the woman who had raised him when his mother died.
“Yes. She would bring me and would then spend the rest of the day trying to find me, as I ran wild with the pack.”
I could picture it very well. Milo had never been a docile sort of a person. Even in the one childhood photograph I had seen of him, there had been a spark of mischief in his eyes.
“She always caught up with me at the races, though.”
I knew that, for many people, the races were the highlight of the festival, and I suspected that there was still a bit of the excited boy that was waiting for the sound of the starting pistol in Milo.
We stopped walking then, as we had reached the edge of the festival grounds. Before us, in the distance, stood Bedford Priory. As its name denoted, the manor was an Elizabethan priory that Lady Alma had purchased thirty years before.
Despite being preceded by four brothers and the weight of entailment, she had been left a handsome inheritance by her father, the late earl, and she had set about modernizing the Priory’s interior and building the finest set of stables, excepting Milo’s, in the county.
A copse of trees hid the stables from our view at this vantage point, but one could make out the pastureland and the neat lines of her pasture fences.
“She’s done a fine job with the Priory,” Milo said. “It would no doubt have fallen into ruin without her, and now it’s one of the finest manors this side of London.”
High praise indeed from my husband.
We turned back toward the festival and began making our way through again. Though I had sampled the huffkins and a slice of Folkestone pudding pie, I was now inclined toward Canterbury tart. Whatever Winnelda said, I was eating more now than I ever had in my life. It seemed our baby had a very healthy appetite.
A moment later we encountered the vicar and Mrs. Busby. She wore a cheery yellow dress with a lace shawl draped across her lap and he stood behind her wheelchair, his genial face beaming at us.
“Mr. and Mrs. Ames, good morning,” he said.
“Good morning. The festival seems to be a great success. We’re having a lovely time.”
“Everything’s going so well,” said Mrs. Busby exultantly. “I’m so happy. It’s always such a relief when one’s plans come to fruition, isn’t it?”
“Your hard work is seeing its rewards.”
“And nature has decided to cooperate,” Mr. Busby said. “It seems the Almighty indeed smiled upon us.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “The weather couldn’t have been lovelier.”
“I suppose you’re looking forward to the races, Mr. Ames?” Mr. Busby said, turning to Milo. As I had often done in the past, I admired his knack for knowing just the right way to draw people into conversation. It was a useful skill for a vicar, I imagined.
“Indeed,” Milo agreed. “It’s always interesting to see what sort of horseflesh the locals are breeding.”
“Mr. Yates has a young mare that looks particularly promising.”
“I thought the same. She’s got spirit and an excellent gait.”
The two went on talking about horses, and Mrs. Busby leaned toward me, lowering her voice. “Have you seen Marena yet this morning?”
“No,” I said. “I’m afraid I haven’t.”
Mrs. Busby frowned. “She said last night that she planned to be here early and was already gone from the vicarage when the vicar and I left, but I haven’t seen her either.”
My suspicious mind wondered if she had met with Darien. I thought they would probably avoid the festival, if that was the case.
“I do worry about her sometimes,” Mrs. Busby said. “In many ways, she has been like a daughter to me.” That sad, faraway look came into her eyes as she said it, and I knew she was thinking about the daughter she had lost. Then she shook off her melancholy and offered me a bright smile. “I’m sure she is about somewhere.”
“Well, my dear,” said the vicar, breaking into our conversation. “Shall we take some time to investigate the pastries at that booth across the way?”
“If you say so, Edward,” she said with a smile.
“You must try the huffkins,” I said.
“We shall.”
He tipped his hat to us. “Good day, Mr. and Mrs. Ames. I’m sure our paths shall cross again before the day is out.”
“Good day, vicar,” I answered. We stepped aside as he began to push her chair, moving it with practiced ease across the smoothest patches of ground.
“I’m happy everything has gone well,” I said, looking after them. “Mrs. Busby puts so much effort into things.”
“They do seem to enjoy doing all they can for the villagers,” Milo agreed. “An admirable trait in a vicar.”
I turned to look at them again and saw that Bertie Phipps had appeared. He was hatless and dressed in riding clothes, his sleeves rolled up to reveal his brawny forearms. I thought it lucky that Darien had not suffered worse than a bloodied lip when he punched him.
I was about to turn away, when something caught my notice. Mrs. Busby was preoccupied talking to a vendor, and the vicar stood slightly behind her. Bertie noticed and approached Mr. Busby, hesitantly at first, then with more boldness.
Given what Winnelda had told me, I watched the exchange with interest.
To my surprise, it seemed that there was a moment of terse conversation. Clearly, Mr. Busby and Bertie disagreed about something. I still found it difficult to believe that Bertie would’ve stolen anything; perhaps that was what he was saying now, that he was innocent.
I glanced at Mrs. Busby. She was still talking with the huffkins woman and didn’t seem to have noticed what was going on behind her.
My gaze moved back to the vicar just in time to see him shake his head as an envelope passed between him and Bertie. Bertie tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
Curious.
Mrs. Busby turned then, and I saw her expression slip as she realized Bertie was there. She nodded to him, a bit coolly, I thought. The vicar’s expression remained unreadable, though I could see that his shoulders had tensed, and his hands were holding tightly to the handles of Mrs. Busby’s wheelchair.
Bertie mumbled something, gave a little nod, and turned away from them at last, his expression clouded. He moved quickly toward us, seemingly with no thought to where he was headed, and might have run directly into me had Milo not held out a hand to stop his progress.
“Be careful there, old chap.”
Bertie stopped, looking from Milo to me and back again. “Oh, Mr. Ames, Mrs. Ames. I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“So I noticed,” Milo said. “Is everything all right?”
Bertie flushed, looking away. “Yes. Fine.”
“You’re sure?” I asked softly.
He hesitated, and I thought for a moment he was going to say something about what had happened with the Busbys. But he only nodded. “I’m sure.”
“Ready to ride Molly in the races?” Milo asked.
“Yes, sir. I’m looking forward to it.” I was surprised that the usual enthusiasm was lacking in his tone. Whatever was on his mind must be something serious.