Tea, Lycanthropy and Other Virtues

Chapter One

Constance was grateful for the small home even if it often felt like it was falling down around her. It'd been easier to manage before father had enlisted to fight Napoleon.

She didn't care for her mother's huge childhood home. It had sat empty since Lord Huntsman's death, maintained by a groundskeeper and his wife. Still, mother wandered up there at least three times a week. A twinge of worry laced her thoughts. Mother's mind had started to fade almost as soon as father had left.

Just keep her safe until he gets back. She could do that. She could keep them fed, dry, clothed and in shoes—she tugged at her cloak. They hadn't received a check from the army in months. Simon was only ten years old it would be years before he was old enough for an apprenticeship, which could help. Though her brother's eccentricities seemed to push the villagers away, there would not be a lot of opportunity for someone like him, anyway. She rubbed her hands over her eyes. She was always tired but tired was better than feeling lonely.

The sounds of construction reached her ears just as the manor came into view. Constance's palms prickled with unease.

Mr. and Mrs. Franklin were used to the sight of her disheveled and vacant mother, but Constance had been very careful to keep her close when they went into town or to church. It was a small village and nothing spread quite so fast as other people's business.

She crested the hill and stopped short. Scaffolding was erected all along the western face of the mansion. Crewmen hurried back and forth carrying boards and bricks, the sounds of hammers and saws ringing through the air.

Her heart sank. The once silent decrepit old place had come back to life in a terrifying way.

She scanned the bustling scene for her mother.

Be somewhere easy. The stables, the back garden, anywhere but inside.

Mr. Franklin, a slight elderly man in a sea of young craftsmen, caught her eye and waved her over.

She whispered a swear making her way down the hill toward the gardener and the men who would go home at the end of the day and tell their wives and mothers they'd seen the Allens and they did not seem to be doing well.

"Isn't it something Miss Allen?" He motioned to all the construction.

"Indeed, Mr. Franklin. What's brought all this on?"

"Your cousins have returned."

She fidgeted with the edge of her cloak. The children of her mother's only brother. They were also strangers. She only had one vague memory of them from their grandfather's funeral.

"Have you seen Mother?" Constance asked, smoothing the faded muslin on the skirt of her dress.

"She must have slipped by me with all the extra people around. Mrs. Franklin's in the house."

They started toward the manor.

"How'd the plaster work out," he asked.

Constance pulled her fingers through her snarled curls remembering how dirty it had to be and swore again. Why hadn't she put a hat on, or gloves? She pulled the cloak tighter, hiding her hands in the folds of fabric. She might as well have shown up completely starkers.

Mr. Franklin lead her past workmen toward the kitchen prattling on about the building projects and what they had in store for the gardens and lawns. But all Constance could think about was how she was covered in dust and wasn't wearing gloves or a hat and why hadn't she at least stopped to wash the dirt from her nail beds. She hunched down inside the cloak.

Mr. Franklin held the side door open for her, then tipped his hat and wandered away.

The kitchen was dim and empty though tea had been set out on the long table for the workmen.