Chapter Five

The solicitor was right. Duffel in hand, his account closed at the inn, Amos had barely let himself into Number Fourteen when someone knocked. He smiled to see an out of breath domestic in some sort of livery holding out a letter.

Amos invited him in, apologizing for the house closed up for three years. He took the letter, noting the expensive envelope and Tifton Manor in imposing letters in the left-hand corner.

“Do at least sit down,” Amos said. He removed holland covers from furniture in the sitting room, and both of them coughed.

“Thank you, sir,” the servant said when he could speak. “If you please, Mrs. Tifton said I was not to leave until you read her invitation and wrote an answer.”

“Very well.” Amos read the letter, which began, Our very dear Captain Foster , making him wonder at so flowery an address from someone who had never clapped eyes on him before. The note was short but included an invitation to dinner at the manor, and then their total honor and delight if he would stay with them until the matter of “my dear father’s will was read.”

Hmm. Hadn’t the solicitor just told him that the Tiftons of the manor had chosen not to deal with Grandpa Ince? And hadn’t the innkeeper warned him about them, too? Best get this business done soon and return to London.

“Very well,” he said to the servant, who had recovered from what must have been a dead run from the manor––wherever that was––to Ashfield. “Please tell your master and mistress that I will be delighted to dine with them tonight at….” He looked at the note. “…six of the clock. As for staying with them, I prefer to remain here.”

The servant’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Not…not…stay there? You are refusing Mrs. Tifton?”

“Yes. I am here at Number Fourteen and that will do.” Why was the man so suddenly terrified? “They certainly don’t need to go to any bother over what is probably a trifling matter.”

“I daren’t tell her that!”

This was strange. “I am afraid you must,” Amos said with some sympathy, but also the firmness that came from conning ships and knowing his own mind. “Dinner, yes. Lodging, no. Good day.”

Amos stayed at the door as the servant left, head down, visibly distressed. Amos decided that Mrs. Tifton obviously never entertained the notion of someone refusing her.

Puzzled over the matter, he opened curtains in the sitting room, coughing down the dust, and opened windows to remove the musty odor. Luckily, the day was sunny and the walls painted in light colors, so he could see the place.

He went from room to room, admiring a little dining nook and an adjacent kitchen. There was a small room down the corridor which appeared to be an office. The desk was clear of clutter, causing him to reflect on the occasional simplicity of death, when a man had time to get affairs in order. Life at sea had acquainted him with the opposite––pirates in the Indies, smugglers in the Caribbean, war and its adjacent terrors. “Grandfather, I suspect you were orderly in life,” he announced, then felt silly, until a warm, odd comfort settled on him, as if Grandpa Ince was approving and agreeing. Rational man, Amos knew that was impossible.

There were two bedchambers upstairs, both well-organized. He realized that he was looking at good furniture and handsome curtains throughout Number Fourteen. The thought beguiled him that this was not the abode of a poor man, and yet, hadn’t the innkeep said last night that his own daughter disdained him, and Maude and Madeline brought him food?

What to do? He knew he needed a temporary maid to clean and dust. Perhaps the innkeeper could loan him a servant. He let himself out and locked the door, also realizing that he needed directions to Tifton Manor. He knew the innkeep would be his man of information.

He quickly found himself in front of Ashfield Circulating Library a few doors down. A wave of shyness washed over Amos which made him argue with himself a moment, until he reminded himself that he was an adult man looking for cleaners to tidy up Number Fourteen. Maybe the Tiftons who lived upstairs? Everyone said they had to pinch pennies.

An older woman looked up as he entered, and closed the book she was reading. She rose and said in a forthright manner, “I am Miss Cuthbert, proprietor. You must be new in town, sir.”

“New and temporary, ma’am,” he replied. He briefly considered the way news seemed to fly about and decided to add to her knowledge. “I am Captain Amos Foster, from America. Walter Ince was my step-grandfather and he lived at Number Fourteen. I received word in the London docks that Grandfather’s solicitor has been attempting to reach me for three years.”

“Yes, yes, that pesky war,” Miss Cuthbert said. “Mr. Ince was a lovely man and a subscriber to my library.” She put her hand to her face to hide a smile. “Mainly he liked that wonderfully comfortable armchair by the window where he would sit and snooze. Between you and me, sir, I think the book in his lap was merely a ruse.”

Amos laughed at that, charmed at this homely vignette about someone he wished he could have known in person. “I’ve done the same thing, even aboard a ship tossing about in the Atlantic. Needs must, you will agree.”

“I will, indeed. How may I help you, sir? ‘Temporary’ suggests you are not moving to Ashfield.”

“Alas, no. Apparently Grandfather left some sort of will, and I am here for its reading. That is all. I’ll be sailing back to Boston in two or three weeks with a cargo of goods from your shores.”

“Captain, you are welcome to visit the library on a temporary basis. Free of charge. Our newspapers are current.” Her glance at the tidy pile told him she read papers, too, not a lady’s occupation. “I mean, it is the least we can do, since British soldiers burned your capitol in 1812, I believe.”

“A patriotic gesture on your part, madam,” he replied, amused. “There is one thing more, a small matter.”

“We specialize in small matters in Ashfield. Say on, sir.”

“Um, my other relatives in town want me to stay with them at their manor, and I’d rather not. I am looking for a dependable woman to clean and dust Number Fourteen so I can be comfortable enough there. I can probably take my meals at the inn, so that isn’t a concern. Do you think––I hope I am not misreading any of this––that the Tiftons upstairs might help me?”

“Mrs. Tifton at the manor was an Ince, wasn’t she?” Miss Cuthbert commented, her face sober now.

“He was her father.” He could see this wasn’t a subject Miss Cuthbert relished. Time’s a-wasting. “About the Tiftons here? All the house needs is a lick and a promise.”

Miss Cuthbert looked at the ceiling. “I think they can accommodate you, provided they’re not too busy sewing for Christmas parties.”

“Ma’am?”

“They’re both seamstresses, Maude and Madeline. That’s how they earn a living.” Her smile disappeared. “Years and years ago, Mrs. Tifton upstairs and her small daughter came to Ashfield in hopes of help. Mr. Peter Tifton’s rascally brother had married Maude, then abandoned her and their child and died of the drink.”

Nope, no secrets in Ashfield. This was the same tale, slightly altered, he had heard from the keep and the solicitor. He shook his head in sympathy, growing more intrigued by the minute.

“They eke out a decent living with sewing and whatnot.”

“Cleaning my grandfather’s house might fall under whatnot,” Amos said. “I will pay them, certainly.”

He could see Miss Cuthbert was wondering if she was doing the right thing. Long years at sea in the business of trade with sometimes unscrupulous merchants had taught him to study faces. Let her think , he told himself, then realized he didn’t have much time for Ashfield. There were moments when something stronger than a hint was in order. “I’m only here for a few days, and I need help.”

“Very well, sir. I’ll go upstairs and ask.” She pointed to that armchair by the window. “Have a seat but stay awake!”

He smiled that she could still manage a joke. She left the shop and he heard her on the stairs, then a door opening and voices. He sat down and applauded Grandpa Ince’s taste in comfortable chairs. It would be hard not to sleep in this one. He leaned back, settled in, and wondered how much Miss Cuthbert might charge him for this chair. It would be a tight fit, but he could wrestle it into his cabin aboard the Betty Bright , which was, he knew, a total fiction.

He heard more than one person coming down the stairs, so he stood up and tugged on his uniform, which was nothing fancier than navy blue trousers and coat, much worn. He had left his white shirts at a laundry at the docks, and this blue and white checked shirt didn’t precisely shout out Here comes the captain . Needs must, he reminded himself as the door opened on the prettiest female he had ever spotted since only earlier than morning, when she was sweeping in front of Grandpa’s house.

As he stared in utter admiration, she came forward. “I’m Madeline Tifton, and I can clean your house, sir. Shall I begin now?”