Mrs. Jeffries & the Silent Knight by Emily Brightwell (black female authors .TXT) 📕

on the table,” she instructed. “We might as well

do something useful and get the boughs cleaned and ready

to be put out.”

“Are we going to put the candles out as well?” Betsy asked

eagerly. “It looks so lovely when it’s all done up properly.”

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“Did we get enough?” Mrs. Goodge asked anxiously.

“We must have enough to do both the dining room and the

drawing room, especially as Lady Cannonberry is coming

for Christmas dinner.”

“And we need some for down here as well,” Betsy added.

“We need our bits as well.” She loved decorating for Christmas. Once she and Smythe were married, she was going to be sure to do something special every year.

“We’ve plenty,” Mrs. Jeffries assured the cook. She

looked at Betsy. “The candles are in the dry larder, and we

need to clean the lamps, so you might as well bring them

out as well.” She broke off as she heard knocking on the

back door.

“I’ll go see who it is,” Smythe offered. “But it’s probably

the inspector or Wiggins.”

“They’d have walked straight in,” Mrs. Goodge said

darkly.

A moment later, they heard the door creak open and then

a low murmur of voices. Smythe came back to the kitchen

alone. “That was Lady Cannonberry’s butler. He said the inspector was having supper with her and for us to put his dinner away.”

Mrs. Jeffries was torn between annoyance and delight.

She knew how lonely the inspector had been lately, but with

him eating his meal with Ruth, it meant they couldn’t get

any information until tomorrow morning. “We can save his

supper for Wiggins.”

“We’ve already got the lad’s supper saved,” Mrs. Goodge

reminded her.

“If he doesn’t get home soon, he’ll be hungry enough to

eat them both,” she replied. “I do wish he’d come along, I’m

getting a bit worried about him.”

“He’ll be fine,” Smythe went back to the table and con

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tinued pulling holly out of the burlap bundle. “Let the lad

have a bit of privacy. ‘E might be running a special errand.”

“What kind of special errand?” Betsy demanded. She

looked at her beloved. “What do you know that you’re not

telling us?”

“I don’t know anythin’,” he protested. “I’m just thinkin’

that maybe Wiggins is doing something he doesn’t want to

share with the rest of us. It’s Christmas. Maybe the lad’s out

gettin’ presents for us.”

“The shops are all closed,” Betsy persisted.

“Not all of them,” Smythe shot back. “There’s a few that

are open late this week. Sometimes a man needs to be on his

own for a while, buyin’ presents for people isn’t easy you

know.” He was bluffing about the shops: as far as he knew,

every single one of them was shut tighter than a bank vault

at this time of night. But Wiggins was a grown man, and

sometimes these ladies could get just a bit smothering.

Mind you, if Wiggins didn’t show up soon, Smythe would

have a sharp word or two for the lad.

Betsy didn’t look convinced, but she stopped arguing and

went to the dry larder to get the lamps and the candles. She

was on her way back when the back door opened, and Fred,

followed by a red-cheeked Wiggins came charging inside.

“I’m ever so sorry to be late,” he gasped. “But it’s all

Fred’s fault. He got away from me in the park, and it took

ages to find him.”

Fred wagged his tail and bounced up and down, hoping

that the maid would give him a bit of attention. Betsy was

one of his special friends.

“You bad boy,” Betsy scolded the dog. “You mustn’t go

running off that way. We’ve been ever so worried about you

and Wiggins.”

Fred’s tail went still, and then he tucked it under his

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backside and hung his head. Wiggins, watching his beloved

friend go from happy to miserable, and knowing it was his

fault, felt lower than a snake. He silently vowed he’d never

do this sort of thing again. Who would have thought keeping a promise to Luty would be so difficult? But at least he’d had a bit of luck when he went back with the solicitor’s

note. She’d seen him coming across the garden and nipped

down to the back door to meet him.

Betsy looked at Wiggins. “You’d best get in and eat your

supper. Mind you, you’ll have to eat on a tray, we’ve got the

table covered in holly.”

“I’d eat off the floor if I had to, I’m that hungry,” he

replied, as he raced toward the kitchen. “My belly’s touching my backbone.”

“Where on earth have you been?” Mrs. Goodge asked as

he hurtled into the kitchen.

“Sounds like he’d been at Luty’s,” Smythe said. “That’s

one of her sayins’.”

“Fred ran off from him,” Betsy explained as she came

into the kitchen behind him.

“It took ages to find ‘im,” Wiggins said quickly.

“Humph, why didn’t you have him on the lead?” Mrs.

Goodge picked up a thick pot holder.

He was ready for that question. “It got all tangled up in

a bush,” he explained. “The only way to get the bloomin’

thing straightened out was to take it off ‘im. But the minute

Fred was free, ‘e took off running.”

“It’s not like Fred to run off,” Smythe commented.

“I know,” Wiggins agreed quickly. “And generally ‘e

doesn’t. But he spotted a cat, and it took off runnin’. You

know Fred, he can’t resist that.” He went to the sink and

washed his hands.

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183

“Silly dog,” Mrs. Goodge muttered as she got his supper

from the warming oven.

Wiggins slipped into a spot at the far end of the table as

the cook put down a tray with his dinner on it in front of

him. Despite his conscience bothering him something

fierce, his mouth watered. “Thanks, Mrs. Goodge.”

“Mind you eat all of it,” she ordered. “A growing lad

needs his food.”

Fred whined softly and looked up at him. Wiggins

slipped him a huge bite of roast beef. He felt it was the least

he could do considering that poor Fred had taken all the

blame.

“Supper was utterly delightful,” the inspector said. He took

a bite of his eggs. “We had such a lovely chat. She’s so very

intelligent, mind you, I do think some of her ideas are quite

modern, more so, of course, than mine. But that doesn’t

mean I think she’s wrong in her thinking.”

“Of course not, sir,” Mrs. Jeffries replied. “You’re