Mrs. Jeffries and the Feast of St. Stephen (A Victorian Mystery) Read Online Free Page A

things could be put right.
    “Alright.” Without taking his eyes off Betsy, Smythe slipped out of his heavy coat, slapped it onto the coat tree in the corner, and made his way to the table.
    Mrs. Goodge had already gone to the cupboard for another place setting. She stopped at the cutlery drawer and took out a knife and fork. She put everything down at his usual place at the table next to Betsy and then went back to her own chair. “It’s good to have you back, Smythe,” she said. “We’ve missed you.”
    “I’ve missed all of you,” he replied as he sat down next to his fiancée. “But most of all, I’ve missed you,” he said softly to the woman sitting beside him.
    Betsy found she couldn’t say anything.
    “I’m back to stay,” he tried. He wished she’d say something. “And I’ll never leave you again.”
    Still, she simply stared at him.
    “Cor blimey, Betsy, aren’t you goin’ to speak to ’im?” Wiggins exclaimed.
    “Wiggins, be quiet,” the cook hissed. Though she rather agreed with the lad, this was getting embarrassing. Mind you, she did understand Betsy’s point of view. Canceling all those wedding plans hadn’t been very pleasant for the poor girl. Even though the household knew that Smythe was coming back, everyone else in the neighborhood had assumed that he’d jilted her and made a run for it. Being the object of pity hadn’t been easy for Betsy.
    “Say something, Betsy,” Smythe pleaded. His worst fears were being realized. He’d been prepared for tears or accusations or even a good screaming match, but this dead silence was devastating. It meant she felt nothing. That she’d locked him out of her heart for good.
    “What do you want me to say?” she replied calmly. “Welcome home. Mrs. Jeffries, can you please pass the pork chops?”
    Smythe gaped at her for a moment. He glanced at the others, noting that their faces reflected the same shock that he felt sure was mirrored in his own expression. “Is that it, then? Pass the bloomin’ pork chops?”
    “We’ve got extra,” Wiggins supplied helpfully. “The inspector went to Lady Cannonberry’s for dinner, so you can ’ave his chops.”
    Smythe ignored him. “I’ve been gone for six months,” he cried, “and that’s all you’ve got to say to me? For God’s sake, woman, I’ve spent months slogging about the outback, lookin’ for a crazy old man.” He couldn’t believe she was reacting like this. He’d spent practically every waking moment over the past six months thinking about her, telling himself he’d do whatever it took to fix things between them. He knew he’d done the unforgivable, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d owed a debt of honor, and now that he’d paid it, he wanted to get on with his life. But she was acting as if he’d only stepped out to have a drink.
    Blast a Spaniard, he’d never understand women. He’d sent letter after letter and received nothing in return. But he’d not minded: he’d told himself that she was hurt and upset, and that he could make it right when he got home.
    “That was your choice,” Betsy said simply. “May I have the butter pot, please?” she said to Mrs. Goodge.
    “Betsy,” Mrs. Jeffries said softly. “Perhaps you and Smythe would like to go upstairs and have a discussion in private.”
    “There’s nothing to discuss.” Betsy grinned. Now that he was back, she intended to enjoy herself a bit. He owed her for the humiliation of being left at the altar (so to speak) and for the misery of the past six months. She fully intended to forgive him—after all, she loved him more than she loved her own life—but she damned well intended that he suffer a bit before they could patch up their differences.
    Smythe’s jaw was partially open in shock as he stared at his beloved. But he was saved by a loud knock on the front door from having to think of the right thing to say. He got to his feet. Old habits die hard, and he didn’t want the women going to the