She was well aware that for her change of heart, for her rekindled interest in inventions, and for her greater understanding of her father and her brother, she had Randolph Cavanaugh to thank.
She’d spent the past two afternoons with the Reilly girls—Petunia, Primrose, Poppy, and Pansy; as she’d explained to Rand, the girls’ father was the gardener and loved his flowers. As a group, they’d set about cleaning and polishing the carriage the engine would eventually power along the roads.
William John and Rand had examined it carefully, going over every panel and checking the wheels and struts, and pronounced it whole and in perfect repair. Once they’d left, armed with cloths and all manner of polishes, Felicia and the maids had fallen on the carriage and set to with a vengeance.
In midafternoon, Felicia returned to the house to join Mrs. Reilly in the sitting room to check over the weekly orders for the grocer and the butcher. On entering the sitting room, Felicia smiled at the housekeeper, who was waiting by the empty fireplace. “By tomorrow, your girls will have the carriage spotless—spick, span, and gleaming.”
A fond mama, Mrs. Reilly beamed. “They’re good girls, and they’ve been excited to do their bit for one of the master’s inventions. And it started with your father and all—like a bit of a memorial for him, isn’t it?”
“It is, indeed.” Felicia sank into her favorite armchair and waved Mrs. Reilly to the one facing it. “I have to admit that I’ve never before felt so excited myself. Lord Cavanaugh, William John, and I went over the engine in fine detail this morning—we believe that after the last adjustments William John is making, the engine will be ready for its final tests. And then we’ll be able to lift it into its place in the carriage, hook everything up—and the carriage will go.” She couldn’t help sharing a smile with the older woman, who had seen the household through the ups and downs of so many inventions over the years. “We’re trying to contain ourselves, but we all believe the engine will perform splendidly!”
“That’s good to hear, miss. A happy outcome all around.”
“Indeed.” Salvation beckoned on so many fronts—for her and William John, for their household, and for Rand and his investors as well. Felicia drew in a breath, then focused on the lists Mrs. Reilly held on her lap. “So—is there anything particular we need to get in?”
After she and Mrs. Reilly had made their decisions on the purchases for the next week and the housekeeper retired to write out her orders, Felicia crossed to the escritoire that stood against the wall between the windows. She owed her aunt-by-marriage a letter, and her cousins, too.
She was sitting at the escritoire, filling a page with the usual local news, when a firm tap fell on the door.
Puzzled, she called, “Come.”
She grew even more puzzled as, her expression unusually grim, Petunia—who, when she wasn’t busily cleaning the horseless carriage, acted as lady’s maid for Felicia and Flora both—propelled her youngest sister, Pansy, into the room. “No help for it, Panse.” A force not to be denied, Petunia pushed a clearly reluctant Pansy to the middle of the room, then stood back, folded her arms, and fixed a stern look on the young housemaid. “Now, my girl, you tell Miss Felicia what Diccon asked.”
Pansy looked from Petunia to Felicia. Straightening, she scrunched her now-dusty white apron between her hands and bent a wary gaze on Felicia.
Although nearly ten years older than Pansy, Felicia had known the girl from birth. She had no idea what this was about—why Petunia had brought Pansy to her and not to the girls’ redoubtable mother—but endeavored to smile encouragingly. “What did Diccon ask, Pansy?”
Pansy screwed up her face, but after a second during which she seemed to order her thoughts, she replied readily enough, “Diccon—he’s the lad as helps at the butcher’s, miss—we got to talking yesterday, when I was in the village with Poppy and Primrose, while I was waiting for them to come out of the general store. They got stuck in the queue behind Miss Limebeck, so I sat outside to wait, and Diccon came up, and he and me got talking.” Pansy paused, her blue eyes wide and her expression serious. “Then out of the blue, Diccon asked if I could get ahold of the plans that Mr. William John works from.”
Shocked, Felicia sat back.
Pansy saw her reaction and nodded. “Aye—I was shocked and all, too. I said no and asked Diccon who wanted them—the plans. Obviously, it wouldn’t’ve been him. He said as how one of the ostlers at the Arms said a gent from London, who called in for a drink in the tap, had said to him after, as the gent was leaving, that if he—the ostler, that is—could get ahold of the plans, he’d see gold for his trouble.”
When Pansy fell silent, her blue eyes huge, her hands still wrapped in her apron, Felicia—horrified—looked at Petunia.
Arms still crossed, the older maid nodded soberly. “That’s not the end of the tale. Panse here came home and—eventually—had the sense to tell Pa after lunch today. Pa went off then and there to the village. He found Diccon, who told Pa it was Harry at the Norreys Arms who’d asked him. Pa went to see Harry. Of course, Harry—being the silly knockhead he is—tried to say he didn’t know anything about it. But Pa and Joe-the-barkeep wore Harry down. In the end, Harry said it was like Diccon had said. The gentleman called at the tap night before last—that’s when he spoke to Harry. Yesterday morning, Harry—knowing Diccon often speaks with Pansy—got Diccon alone and asked him to ask Pansy, just like Diccon did. Harry thought that if the plans were just lying around the place, no one would miss them.”
Petunia, Pansy, and Felicia shared a look. The notion of William John not noticing, within the hour if not sooner, that one of his precious diagrams had been moved, let alone stolen, was simply too fanciful to contemplate.
“Like I said,” Petunia went on, “Harry’s a knockhead, and Diccon’s too good-natured and trusting. Pa asked Harry when the gent said he’d be back, but seemed he’d already called in again early this afternoon, and Harry’d told him he couldn’t get the plans. Apparently, the man looked angry and swore, then he shrugged and got back on his horse and rode off.”
“Did Harry have any idea who the man was?” Felicia asked. “Could he describe him?”
Petunia shook her head. “He said he reckoned the man was from London from his accent, but as the man was a gent—both Harry and Joe-the-barkeep agree on that—his accent doesn’t necessarily mean he lives in London, does it?”
“No,”
Felicia agreed. “It just means he’s from a good family and went to a good school.”
Petunia nodded and went on, “Harry swore he’d never seen the man before. Both he and Joe said the man had a hat pulled low and a muffler wound round his face. Harry couldn’t see anything but the gleam of the gent’s eyes.” Petunia paused, then added, “The only thing Harry could say was that the horse was from the Crown at Pangbourne, and the man rode away in that direction—he assumed heading back to London.”
Felicia stared unseeing at the maids while she digested the unwelcome and troubling news.
Petunia lowered her arms and straightened; Felicia glanced at her. “Pa just got back with the news. He said he had to get on with lifting the potatoes if we was to have any for the table tonight, and that Pansy and I should come in and tell you the whole.”
Felicia summoned a weak smile for the girls. “Thank you both for coming and telling me—and please thank your father as well.”
Petunia and Pansy curtsied, then Petunia followed her youngest sister out of the room.