It was baking day at Fayerfield House. Mavis Rosenthorn and her daughter Madra stood at the flour-sprinkled table, elbow deep in pastry dough and rolling out piecrusts.
Pearlie, Madra’s daughter, and Mavis Rosenthorn’s granddaughter, sat in a kitchen chair, slicing wedges of autumn apples into an enormous bowl she held in her lap. The three kept up a lively pace of animated conversation. Baking day at Fayerfield House was also part of Pearlie’s educational instruction she received from her mother and grandmother in the matters of running a household, as well as how to make Mavis Rosenthorn’s renown pie crusts, the flakiest and tenderest pastry crusts in Fayerton.
“The secret is in the tender handling of the dough. You do not want the water too hot or too cold, dearie.”
“And you never work the dough more than absolutely necessary.”
Pearlie nodded her flaxen head and continued slicing wedges of apples, occasionally popping a piece of apple into her mouth. She had heard these instructions for the better part of her life and could bake a pie in her sleep, even at the young age of eight winters. But the making and baking of pies was not what piqued Pearlie’s interest that morning.
A secret language existed between her grandma and mother when they discussed the latest gossip circulating through the village streets. The good stuff they considered too delicate for the innocent ears of a ten-year-old.
Grownups had a way of thinking. If they spoke above a child’s head and that child was too preoccupied with childish concerns, such as how many apple slices she could eat without getting a bellyache, to know what the grownups discussed. They had a way of dancing around the subject of their discussion, and Pearlie had learned all the steps to that particular dance between her mother and grandma.
She might appear as the picture of childish contentment, slicing apples and singing her childish songs, but she was all ears, especially when the grownups danced around the name Fayerfield and Jantz Fayerfield Himself was asleep in the upstairs room her grandma and mother always kept prepared for his use, when and if he should decide to stay at Fayerfield House for any length of time.
The Fayerfield’s occasional visit and stay at an otherwise empty townhouse the Rosenthorn family continued to manage always offered a reason for her grandma and mother to chatter in that lively dance of grownup gossip. They never let a tidbit slip past.
Everything went into the gossip pie.
That morning was no different. The dance steps were more animated than usual, and Pearlie’s ears perked through the flyaway tendrils of curly hair that escaped her braid. Her mother’s and grandma’s whispers buzzed. They rolled their eyes; they laughed or gasped in breathless snippets, exclaiming as they rolled out their piecrusts and pinched and crimped the pie shell.
“How long do you think Himself will be staying with us?”
Himself was Jantz Fayerfield.
“Do you think I ought to go to the market? I would like some San Bargellian lemons if they are not too expensive. I might make lemon custard.”
“Wellborn always charges too much this time of the year for lemons. He is getting as bad as a San Bargellian thief with his outrageous prices.”
“Folks will pay the going price if they want San Bargellian lemons badly enough.”
“Himself will have something to say about that. He will not allow the San Bargellians to disrupt our way of life.”
“Still, I am surprised that he stayed over.”
“Can you blame him? He does not want to go home to Miss Zaire, bearing that kind of news. I would do the same and try to get to the bottom of this mess.”
“What mess, Grandma?” Pearlie piped, forgetting to keep her mouth shut and reminding her elders of her presence.
“’Tis none of your concern, child. Have you peeled and sliced all your apples yet?”
“Are two bowls enough? My fingers are tired.”
“That will do, child. Run along and play.”
Pearlie scampered over to the sink to wash her sticky hands, and her grandma and mother returned to their pie making and conversation. She remembered the basket of dolls she had set under the kitchen table and flipped up one side of the tablecloth and disappeared beneath the table.
Out of sight, out of mind.
“No matter what anyone says, Mama, I still do not believe Himself’s boy had anything to do with the Moss girl’s murder.”
“If you ask me, Noah Winterringer planted that particular rumor purely out of spite.”
Beneath the table, Pearlie’s ears pricked attentively to the confidential tone of her mother’s voice. Even then, they whispered. The subject was too horrible for speaking aloud.
Flora Moss. The girl had worked at Fayerfield House before she went to Winterringer Hall, seeking work after being dismissed for doing something she ought not to do. Pearlie as not sure exactly what Flora Moss had done, but she thought it had something to do with Inali Canavar and Miss Oanada when the couple had lived at Fayerfield House. Flora Moss worked at Fayerfield House one day, and the next day she did not.
Everyone in Fayerton had heard about Flora Moss’s unfortunate demise — how Edan Drum, while out taking his early morning jog, had found her body washed ashore behind the Blue Swan tavern and inn.
Sheriff Longacre and his deputies refused to let anyone go behind the Blue Swan for a look. They had tried to keep the murder hushed up, but everyone knew. You could not walk down the village streets or visit any of the shops without hearing the sordid details and the assorted rumors and speculations as to why Flora Moss had been murdered. Even the Fayerton Daily Observer carried stories about Flora and the murder investigation.
Who had committed such a foul deed? The accusations flew on unfurled wings. The suspects included everyone from Darcy Oldroyd to Rojah Fayerfield to an unknown outlander.
Not knowing who the murderer was had everyone looking over his or her shoulders, worrying and wondering. Even Noah Winterringer had posted twenty pounds of San Bargellian gold as a reward for the first person who reported the whereabouts of Rojah Fayerfield.
How Himself’s son was linked to Flora Moss’s murder was a mystery in itself and had to do with Rojah mysteriously disappearing at the same time as Flora’s murder, although not all the details surrounding the murder had been released to the public.
Darcy Oldroyd had garnered more sympathy than he had suspicion as Flora Moss’s murderer. How could Darcy murder the woman he loved, the woman who was pregnant with his child at the time? Sure, Darcy Oldroyd’s outraged father-in-law had dismissed Flora Moss from his employment the day before she was found dead.
Plenty of reasons as to why Flora Moss was murdered abound. The motives grew more plentiful than that season’s apple harvest. All the suspects had an alibi. Everyone but Himself’s son.
Pearlie might not understand half of what her grandma and mother discussed over their pie making, but she knew it was bad. Very, very bad — especially for Rojah. For Pearlie, the sun rose and set on Rojah Fayerfield. If Rojah murdered Flora Moss, the sun might never rise over the Mountains of the Sky again, and it would leave the world cast in the forever twilight of winter.
Unthinkable! Impossible!
Before Pearlie could poke her head out from under the table and protest Rojah’s innocence, the kitchen door swung open, and Himself strode into the warm kitchen with its wonderful smell of apple pies baking in the oven and the sweet juices simmering in cinnamon and cloves.
“Mistress Rosenthorn, do you have any of the black walnut hull extract?” Himself inquired.
Both women jumped at Jantz Fayerfield’s unexpected entry into their kitchen. Pearlie peeked out from beneath the bottom edge of the tablecloth. From where she sat on the floor looking up, Master Fayerfield looked as tall as the pine trees that flanked the corners of the house. She stared at his stocking feet planted beside a table leg. He wiggled his long toes within the dark green wool knit.
Pearlie’s eyes skimmed up the black length of his trouser leg. He wore the cuffs of his shirtsleeves rolled up, his collar unbuttoned, and the narrow suspenders clipped to the waistband of his trousers hung at his sides. He was not even dressed.
Pearlie could not remember a single time when she had seen Himself without his jacket, his black polished boots riding neatly up his calves to his knees, or his black felt hat either in his hands or firmly planted atop his gold head. He wore a towel draped around his broad shoulders, and his uncombed hair was wet and sticking out all over.
“The black walnut hull extract, sir?”
The expressions on her grandma’s and mother’s faces looked as if Himself had caught them saying inappropriate things about his family, but they never looked surprised for long. They both recovered with a stolen glance at each other, as if Himself strode into their kitchen everyday asking for the black walnut hull extract used for repairing scratches on the furniture and woodwork.
“Did you have any left over?”he asked.
Mavis and Madra rummaged through the kitchen cabinets. Madra disappeared into the pantry in search of the walnut extract.
“Not that it is any of my business, sir, but why do you need the walnut extract?”
“I am thinking about dyeing my hair, Mistress Rosenthorn,” he announced.
“Why do you want to dye your hair, sir?” her mother asked.
The idea of Himself diminishing the gold luster of his shiny hair appalled Pearlie’s mother. After all, he was the Fayerfield. Everyone knew him by his barley-gold hair and the piercing brilliance of his azure eyes.
“I am thinking that if I want to investigate my son’s disappearance on my own, it will not do for folks to recognize me. I might learn more if I am not as noticeable—” He coughed into his fist. “If you understand what I mean.” He waved his hand, indicating his hair.
Apparently, her grandma and mother understood exactly what Master Fayerfield meant.
Her grandma laughed and nodded. “Indeed! A wonderful idea, sir. I recall how you and Miss Jarutia once got into the walnut juice and stained your hair and your skin. Your dear mother was mortified.”
“My father called us a disgrace when he discovered our charade.” The pleasant cadence of his laughter made Pearlie smile and want to laugh with him.
“You and Miss Jarutia did love fooling everyone with your disguises. I do remember several of your escapades, sir.” Pearlie’s grandma’s round face grew dreamy, recollecting fond memories.
“If you need a disguise, I am sure Natty can help you find a suitable costume, sir,” Madra suggested.
“My thoughts exactly,”he said, holding up one finger.
“But you should not use walnut shells to dye your hair, sir. It will take forever to grow out, let alone wash off your skin.”
“You could always use soot and ashes, sir. It makes a fine grimy mess and is easier to wash clean.”
“Thank you for your suggestions, ladies,”he replied. Turning on a stocking heel, he strode from the kitchen, leaving her grandma and mother blinking at each other.
“I am surprised Himself did not think of disguising himself sooner.”
Mavis snorted. “I am surprised Himself has not wrung Noah Winterringer’s neck before now.”
Copyright 2022 E.A. Monroe
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