Chapter 6: A Cup Of Tea

“Shouldn’t she be up by now?” Charles asked, sipping tea by the fire while sitting on a little stool with his legs crossed. Theresa looked over from her breakfast and smiled slightly, the scene before her reminding her so much of their life back in London that for the moment she had forgotten that her old life was truly lost to her now. Jasmine was in the corner having found a needle and thread she was busy repairing her gowns and sewing patches onto Charles’ overcoat. She was also taking the torn dress fabric and sewing them into proper face masks, though Theresa swore they would never again do what they had done to those poor farmers.

     I don’t know,” Theresa responded, referring to Charles earlier statement that she had almost not bothered to answer, sipping at her own mug of warm tea, “Perhaps you should go check.” She added, dabbing at her chin with her handkerchief.

     “Most certainly.” Charles agreed, not moving.

The day passed slowly but pleasantly. The rain had stopped sometime during the night and the clouds had parted to allow the sun to begin warming the damp earth. The siblings took full advantage and went for a stroll about the property after watering their stolen horses, which of course they had left out in the rain.

     The property was vast and covered mostly with thick forest and the siblings passed the afternoon near the pond, gazing fondly at the two great swans that floated lazily across the calm surface. The grass was green and dry and Jasmine floated off into a light slumber as Charles and Theresa chatted amiably about what the future might hold for them, seriously contemplating remaining with Mrs. Ratchett if she would allow them.

    

Inspector Wallace Wingham dismounted from his horse and rubbed his arse, working the feeling back into his round bottom. “Curse these infernal creatures.” He had requested a carriage to take him to Horsham but, of course, Captain Cox had refused and given him a horse instead. He had had to go all the way to the village only to be turned back round the way he came to find the cottage that had been pillaged. He had found little enough useful to his inspection and returned to the village.

     The interview with the butcher’s lad had gone horribly enough. A sniveling youth who was convinced it had been a horde of small monsters, large and soaked in human blood, which he had found snoozing near the fire. The village authorities themselves had seen naught and so now here he was, jostling ever forward with little to no information to go on when it came to the descriptions of the thieves. Though Dart had said there were three  the lad could not seem to recall the exact number.

     As he rode, his arse already numb, he wished for nothing more than to return to London and the desk that awaited him at the station but Captain Cox had made it perfectly clear that he was not to return until he had an arrest. Mrs. Cox had begun to make home life unbearable, constantly exasperated over the plundering of her dearest friend, Mrs. Hill’s, closet. So now here he was, farther from London than he had ever journeyed before and about to journey farther still. Word had reached his ears of a highway robbery right along the thieves projected path and so already, without a proper breakfast, he was off.

    

 

The sun began to set, drifting lazily towards the horizon and spreading deep orange rays across the sky as the siblings decided to make their way back across the rolling lawns towards the house.

     The silence greeting them gave the impression that Mrs. Ratchett was still holed up in bed.

“I say. We should feel rather bad. Perhaps poor Mrs. Ratchett is ill and here we’ve been all day without so much as bringing her a cup of tea.” Theresa exclaimed, rushing to the kitchen.          

     The siblings rushed about, loading a tray with warm tea, stale biscuits and even a rose cut from the garden. Together they climbed the winding, creaking stairs, into the gloom of the upper floor that, in light of the beautiful day they had just had, seemed slightly less oppressing to them. They made their way to her room and knocked on the door. There was no answer but it seemed to Jasmine that she heard a deep sigh.

     “Mrs. Ratchett? Mrs. Ratchett we have brought you some tea and biscuits that you may feel better and join us for dinner?” Theresa was holding the heavy tray as she nudged Charles who begrudgingly opened the door.

     Mrs. Ratchett was lying on her bed, sleeping peacefully on her back, her hands clasped across her chest. Theresa smiled at the sight. Together they crossed the room to the draped bed. Jasmine and Charles sat on the bed while Theresa set the tray down.

     “Mrs. Ratchett.” Theresa called softly, smiling brightly and giving Mrs. Ratchett’s arm a little squeeze. They waited. And they waited. Eventually Theresa’s smile began to fade as she looked up at Charles, who leapt off the bed and backed up until he hit the wall on the far side of the room, biting his fist in horror. Theresa’s hand flew to her mouth in shock, “Oh, oh no.” She said, stepping away slightly.

Only Jasmine remained, sneaking a biscuit off the tray and shifting her bulk into a comfier position. Reaching across she began to braid a piece of Mrs. Ratchett’s hair as she chewed.

     “Oh Mrs. Ratchett you should see what we have in mind for supper,” She said, smiling at the old woman lying dead on the bed before her, “We’re going to make you a fabulous stew sprinkled with herbs with a fresh garden salad, roasted potatoes with butter and that French port we found hidden behind a sack of flour.” She nibbled happily at the biscuit a moment more before catching Theresa’s gaze, “What?”

    

The sun had finished setting, darkness was settling in and already clouds were drifting across to coat the sky and blot out the stars. The mansion sat alone along the green rolling hills and darker forest all around, standing tall and majestic as their branches blew slightly in the breeze. The peaceful scene of the English countryside was suddenly interrupted by the bloodcurdling cry of Jasmine as she vaulted from the bed, throwing down the nibbled biscuit in disgust and running from the room in tears, followed closely by Charles and Theresa.

     While Jasmine sat in the wooden tub in the kitchen and scrubbed herself until her skin turned pink Theresa and Charles agreed that they would have to stay one more night. Supper was cooked and though delicious the siblings sat in complete silence, the only disruption to it the occasional sniffle from Jasmine. That night they chose to sleep on the couches of the main floor, wrapping themselves up in threadbare quilts and trying to push away thoughts of the dead woman who slumbered eternally above them.