Bonfire Night by Deanna Raybourn Read Free Book Online

replied.
    “Language!” I darted a glance at Little Jack, but he was too busy grasping his own toes to pay us any attention.
    She said nothing, but I knew from the thinning of her lips that she regretted her outburst. The fact that she had spent some twenty years as a prostitute before entering my Aunt Hermia’s reformatory meant that she occasionally lapsed into the language of the street. I had learnt to overlook her colourful vocabulary, but I would just as soon not have Little Jack adopting it.
    I gave her a repressive look and took my leave of them with a light heart. For all her faults, Morag was loyal unto death and would protect the baby even if it cost her life’s blood. Whatever was afoot, going bump in the night, it would never get the better of Morag.
    * * *
    We made a happy quartet as we trod the path to Narrow Wibberley. We might have taken a carriage, but the day was bright and crisp, the russet leaves rustling underfoot as we walked. Mrs. Smith had pointed out that the path to the village was the most direct route, taking a mile off from the main road, although of course she added a warning:
    “The path cuts right through the Haunted Wood,” she said, gesturing vaguely to the copse of trees sheltering the path. But I was in no mood to humour her dolourous whims. The path was well-marked and the little wood was nothing more than a stand of trees stretching from the edge of the Thorncross gardens to the village boundary. As we approached the village, we heard shrieks and screams of the most violent sort, but a quick appraisal of the situation revealed no more alarming event than some sort of brutal country game in progress on the green. A host of well-formed, enormous young men were taking part, pitting their strength and wiles against each other in a time-honoured contest.
    As we skirted the green, the lads touched their forelocks, reluctant to continue. We hurried on our way so as not to disrupt them, separating as we had planned. I was rather surprised to find anyone in the post office, but at the counter a stout middle-aged woman was busy counting out change to an elderly woman in rusty black.
    “Oh, my,” she said as I approached. “You’m with the new folk up the house,” she said with a friendly smile. I returned it.
    “Yes, I am Lady Julia Brisbane. My husband and I are the new owners of the manor.”
    The elderly woman bobbed a creaky curtsy and fled as if the seven devils of hell were after her, but the postmistress merely widened her smile. “And you’ve come to the village for your custom, have you? I call that neighbourly. Most folk would have kept to London ways. Will you be ordering from the shop?” she asked with a shrewd nod to the building next door. “Only it’s my sister’s and she could do with a bit of extra trade.”
    “Of course,” I assured her. “We mean to employ as many of the local folk as possible, and naturally we will do our ordering in the village.”
    She nodded. “That is indeed neighbourly. What might I do for you, my lady?”
    I brandished a letter I had dashed off to Father for an excuse to call in at the post office.
    She glanced at the address and nearly dropped it. “I never touched a letter to an earl before.”
    “I imagine it costs the same as the others,” I ventured helpfully.
    She collected her wits and sold me a stamp, taking the letter away with a reverential air. When she returned, she took my money and counted out the change, making certain it was correct to the ha’penny.
    “You know, my lady, you’ve many of the village lads working up the manor. Any of them would bring your post down. There’s no need for a lady like yourself to call in person.”
    “But how else are we to meet the people who live in Narrow Wibberley if we do not come into the village?”
    This perplexed her. “Why should you want to meet us?”
    “Because my husband and I mean to make our country home at the manor. I know we could keep apart from the village,