Death Devil's Bridge Read Online Free Page B

fine Dijon mustard. It was now full of quince jam. The cake and jam were a gift from Sarah to Bess, in honor of Bess’s recent birthday.
    â€œHere be some cakes and jam,” she said, handing the packet to Bess, “and the blood. Put it in yer basket an’—”
    At that moment, disaster struck again. Sarah’s fingers slipped, the jar dropped to the stone floor, and smashed. The pig’s blood, no longer as fresh as it had been, showered the cat, splashed the hem of Bess Gurton’s woolen skirt, and puddled, stinking and greasy, on the stones of the hearth.
    The cat jumped off Bess’s lap and streaked for the door. Bess cried out and leapt up, knocking over ajar of vinegar and herbs that had been set to steep near the warmth of the fire. The sharp tang of vinegar mingled with the heavy stench of blood.
    â€œOoh!” Harriet moaned, backing away superstitiously. “Spilt blood comes from the divil!”
    â€œStuff an’ nonsense,” Sarah snapped. “ ’Tis just blood an’ vinegar. Git the mop, Harriet, an’ clean it up.”
    But Harriet’s face had gone white and her teeth were chattering. She clasped her hands under her chin. “Oh, please, Mrs. Pratt, I beg—”
    â€œOh, git on wi’ ye,” Sarah said disgustedly. “I’ll do it.” She had just fetched the mop when Mudd entered the kitchen, his jaw set, his glance lowering.
    â€œWell, now, Mrs. Pratt, ye’ve gone an’ done it,” he said, in the tone he reserved for pointing out Sarah’s errors. In his late twenties, Mudd was young for a butler’s position. He compensated for his youth by imitating an authority he could scarcely claim from experience.
    Sarah turned, mop in hand. “Done wot?” she growled. “An’ I’ll thank ye to stay away from the hearth, Mr. Mudd. We’ve ’ad a bit of an accident.”
    â€œThere ’as been an accident abovestairs too,” Mudd said. “The black currant ice was tart as may be.”
    â€œTart?” Sarah cried, disbelieving. “Not my best ice!”
    â€œIt ‘pears that ye left out the sugar, Mrs. Pratt.” Mudd shook his head sadly. “ ’Er ladyship was mort’ly embarrassed.”
    And Sarah Pratt, now completely overwhelmed by tragedies, burst into tears.

4
    He showed me his bill of fare to tempt me to dine with him; poh, said I, I value not your bill of fare, give me your bill of company.
    â€”JONATHAN SWIFT
Journal to Stella, 1711
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    H aving retired to the library with his friends, Charles Sheridan sat back in his comfortable leather chair, an after-dinner brandy at his elbow, and began to tamp his pipe. In his bachelor days he had abhorred dinner parties, but now that he and Kate were married and settled (at least for the time being) at Bishop’s Keep, he found that he enjoyed playing the host. He also found that he much preferred the comfortable library with its shelves of well-thumbed books to the coldly opulent magnificence of the library at Somersworth, where his ancestors’ gilt-edged volumes gathered dust. He had never taken any particular pride in his baronial heritage, had only been grateful that his elder brother, Robert, had taken the family duties off his hands. But now Robert was dying, and the entire burden—Somersworth. his brother’s seat in the House of Lords, the care of his mother—was about to fall on his reluctant shoulders. He pushed the thought away and glanced tenderly in the direction of Kate’s alcove, where a green velvet drape concealed her desk and typewriter. Perhaps it was her lingering presence which imbued the room with such a comforting warmth, or the memory of their many lively conversations and spirited debates. The company of his wife was a fine thing, her intellect keen, her interests vast and diverse, her insights penetrating, if sometimes illogical.
    But tonight’s