Hot Under the Collar: A Lords of Lancashire Novella by Jackie Barbosa

Author:Jackie Barbosa [Barbosa, Jackie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Walter removed his hat and placed it on a free peg on the rack that stood just inside the front door to the vicarage. The aroma of coffee—the one ingestible item that Mrs. Graham seemed capable of preparing properly—wafted through the house, and his stomach growled despite his certainty that, whatever the beverage’s accompaniments this morning, they would be either inedible or indigestible. Possibly both.

Nonetheless, he sauntered into the dining room, inordinately pleased with the progress of his morning despite his imminent poisoning. Mrs. Graham stood at the sideboard, arranging an assortment of scones, sausages, and fresh berries on a serving platter.

“Ah, here you are then, Mr. Langston. You were off right early this morn. I feared you might not be back for breakfast.”

Taking his customary seat at the head of the small table, Walter poured himself a cup of the coffee from the silver decanter, which had been polished to a glorious shine. “I had an early errand to attend to, but I didn’t want to disturb you. I should have left a note.”

“Oh, no, that’s quite all right,” she said. She picked up the tray and set it on the table in front of him. “You needn’t inform me of your comings and goings.”

Walter’s lips twitched at her long-suffering tone, which belied her words. “But it would certainly be courteous of me to do so, and henceforth, I shall be more mindful of my manners.”

He took a sip of his steaming coffee and sighed with satisfaction as he eyed the platter in search of the least objectionable items for his repast. Unlike the shriveled sausages, the berries, which must have been picked from the rear garden, looked to be plump and juicy. The scones, too, bore some resemblance to their intended appearance, being more golden brown than burnt. Perhaps he wouldn’t starve this morning, after all.

After selecting a small scone and adding several heaping spoonsful of berries to his plate, he said conversationally, “I met Horace Finch’s daughter this morning. She gave me a lift back from town, as a matter of fact.”

Mrs. Graham paled and swayed as though he’d struck her. Which was more or less the reaction he had anticipated. “But, Mr. Langston, I’ve told you about that woman. She isn’t at all an appropriate person for you to be seen with.”

Ironic, in some ways, that this was more or less exactly what Artemisia had said. He smiled to himself. If there was anyone whose company he shouldn’t be seen in on the basis of past transgressions, it was his own.

“You know the parish council can sack you on a moment’s notice,” Mrs. Graham added. “It’s not the Duke of Moorcambe you’ll have to convince to keep you on if you’re reputation is sullied.”

This was certainly true. The Duke of Moorcambe, whose seat lay a few miles north of Grange-Over-Sands, owned the living for the vicar of St. Mary’s, but as he rarely spent more than a few weeks a year there, he left the running of the church to the parish council.

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