"Please, Clifford, I know you believe in protecting women from certain unpleasant truths. But the Widow Marsters and her three daughters are friends of ours, and make the most wonderful dresses and cakes and pies," Josephine said.
Clifford looked to the head of the table, allowing Mr. Jerome to impart to them the sad news in whatever way he saw fit.
"Their cottage was attacked, and they perished in the blaze."
"Attacked?" Josephine echoed. "I don't understand, Father. Who would want to attack a harmless group of women?"
The men looked from one to the other.
Finally Clifford cleared his throat and ventured to say, "Very bad men. They were robbed and left to die."
The unspoken question hung heavy in the air. They all knew the answer.
"Those poor women. How horrible!" Emma cried, and shuddered from head to toe.
"I'm sorry to have spoken so unguardedly," the hapless Mr. Grayson said to his host.
Young Samuel Jerome, resplendent in his gold-braided uniform, spoke up at last. "It's not your fault. In any case, it is just as well this matter is out in the open. I would advise every young woman in the district, indeed, into the next county, to be extra vigilant of her safety. We believe that the group of highwaymen who have been causing so much havoc on the London road were responsible. That this was their evil work."
Vanessa looked from one grim face to another. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but the Marsters holding is quite far from the London road. Or the Oxford one. Why on earth would anyone pick on such a quiet farm? There must be very little traffic along those lanes apart from the local residents."
"We in the Army have been charged with patrolling, trying to bring these fiends to justice. We all know that a horse can only travel so far, and must be fed and groomed. That the men have to be housed and fed as well. These men have to be in the area, and all the investigations at the local inns have yielded nothing of any note."
Clifford tried to keep his face neutral, but he peered at Vanessa out of the corner of his eye.
"So they are just wandering up and down the roads seeing who they can victimize?" Emma asked in horror.
Samuel shrugged. "They do not seem to need a motivation for what they do. They have been termed highwaymen, but they have not robbed every one of their victims. Some have just been attacked, and er, well, molested." He blushed hotly. "They are in dark clothing, and masked. Carrying drink with them. I have been asked to assist the Bransons in the investigation, along with some of my men who are also from around Millcote."
"And have you or the Bransons discovered anything of import?" Mr. Jerome asked.
Samuel shook his head. "While we have been making discreet inquiries, we have not as of yet found anyone who has been unaccounted for during the approximate times of the attacks. Of course, these men are operating as a group, so it would be easy enough for them to vouch for each other without us being any the wiser."
Vanessa shuddered at the thought of the fate of the poor women.
Clifford tried to smile at her reassuringly. As he looked at her, so pale and wan, something caught at the edge of his memory and tugged...
As he remembered, his eyes bulged and he began to choke on the morsel of roast beef he had just place in his mouth. Henry had to come around the back of his chair to thump him soundly on the back.
"Thank you, thank you," he wheezed, and took a sip of water.
Vanessa noticed his hand trembling as he brought the glass up to his lips.
"Really, all of this unpleasant talk is enough to put anyone off his dinner," Henry observed, looking at Emma's wan features, and the fact that she had stopped eating.
"Once again, I apologize for ruining this lovely family meal. I should go now." Mr. Grayson rose. Despite all the protests to the contrary, he took his leave post-haste.
"Well, not one of our more successful dinners," Mr. Jerome sighed. Wiping his mouth with his napkin, he stood and invited the men to join him in his private parlor for cigars.
The ladies trailed out to the small sitting room designated for serving after-dinner coffee. The usually light-hearted atmosphere of the family gathering had turned grim. As soon as was decent, they all asked to be excused to go to their rooms. Vanessa was glad to be alone with her own company.
But once up in her room, she felt at a loose end. She could not settle to read or sew. More than anything, she wanted to be with the man who was always present in her thoughts. The hours seemed interminable until she could see him again. Supper would not be served until eight, a cold collation on Sundays so that the servants could take one of their two half-days off.