Page 16 of Bane Bloom

He left the room, and my heart stumbled in its rhythm, the unanticipated exchange having left a flush of heat in my cheeks. Thomas had lost his mother in recent years. Perhaps some unconscious sense of kinship had caused him to question me.

The clinking sounds he was making in the kitchen brought me back to the moment, and I recalled the singed paper in my shoe, along with the fact that Thomas was offering to feed me while there was an impressive assortment of plants in the glasshouse that could kill me. And he had a very clear motive for wishing ill upon representatives of “the apothecaries.”

Except we’re not living in one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels, are we?

Even if Thomas had been responsible for Carroll’s disappearance, he’d hardly do it again. Nothing had been pinned on him, but that might change were someone else to disappear from Pine Cottage. Pragmatically, it made little sense.

Are murderers known for being pragmatic?

I got up and moved my chair back to the table, quickly scanning the flagstones in front of the grate for more escaped paper fragments. Had Mr. Carroll made some discovery at Pine Cottage that Thomas didn’t wish the apothecaries to know about?

Hearing Thomas’s footsteps again, I sat back down in the chair.

He returned with a plate covered with a second plate in one hand, and a pewter pitcher in the other. He set these down before me and then went to the sideboard, which rested against the wall that hid the stairway, for a goblet and silver. These, too, he placed before me, then filled the goblet with golden liquid from the pitcher.

“It was kind of you to go to such trouble, Thomas,” I said, meaning it.

“It won’t be what you’re used to in London, but it’ll do the job.”

He was turning to go, and, puzzled, I said, “Aren’t you joining me?”

He looked at me. “I’ve supped already, Miss Gray.”

“Oh.”

My feelings about Thomas were becoming very complex. I wanted to get on with him because it would make my job easier. I wanted to understand him better because I was uneasy about Mr. Carroll’s disappearance. He was also the only other soul on the property, and I was already feeling my isolation. Though his stolidness had frustrated me, it had also made me determined to work my way past it. And finally, despite the fact he’d been less than welcoming, his quiet competence was reassuring.

However . . . though he was no longer simply a groundskeeper in my own mind, he was to our employer, and it had been naive of me, once again, to assume we would sit down as equals. Though, in reality, my station was not much higher than his, as society did not consider Papa a gentleman.

With no one here to judge us, I was of a mind to defy convention. Likewise I was ready to take another run at his reserve. Lifting the plate covering my meal, I continued, “Well, if you like, you could sit and keep me company. Maybe tell me something about your life here?”

From his expression, he didn’t like. He let out a grunt, hovering between the door and the table. I held my breath as I picked up my fork. He came back to the table and pulled out the chair opposite me, and my heart made a fluttering movement as he sat down.

I offered a timid smile before dropping my gaze to my plate. “You’ve been lucky with your net, I see.”

There was a whole fish, pan seared, alongside a generous portion of fresh watercress. Some snips of dark green stuck against the flesh of the trout, and I couldn’t help thinking again about the poison garden. But he had warned me about those plants himself, and as steam rose from the plate, I noted a delicate garlicky smell. Wild garlic, as he’d mentioned earlier.

I took a bite. The trout was buttery and tender, and I realized I was ravenous. On the next bite I even let out a soft moan, then felt the color rise to my face.

“What is it you wish to ask me?”

My fork stilled in the air at the abrupt question. I met his narrow gaze. “There was nothing in particular. I’m just curious about your history. About what brought you here.”

I felt a stab of guilt. I knew more than I was letting on, of course. But my information hadn’t come from him, and I wanted to hear his story—at least, as much as he was willing to give me—from him.

His brow clouded, and he folded his arms over his chest. I sipped from my glass—cider, cool and tart—displaying interest more casual than what I felt.

“I was born here, Miss Gray.”

“Indeed?”

He gave a slow nod. He didn’t offer more, and I wasn’t about to be so indelicate as to ask about his family. “You’ve always lived in that hut out back?”

“Not always.”

I took another bite, waiting for him to say more, but more was not forthcoming. I swallowed and said, “I can hardly imagine you living there. It looks quite . . . snug from the house.”

His head tilted slightly to one side. “It serves me well enough.”