Page 39 of A Lady in Name

She was inordinately relieved when, a few moments later, Dion pointed out the signpost that should lead them to their first port of enquiry. “Look, there is the turn to Chaseley.”

Lucy was of course acquainted with the parish clerk and had been able to direct Stefan to the fellow’s house. But Mr Stagg had proved elusive at the time and Lucy chafed while her cousin cast around for a couple of hours to discover his whereabouts. Exasperation had brought Stefan back in time for luncheon, but by the greatest good fortune, Mr Stagg happened to walk into the taproom just as his lordship was quenching his thirst with a tankard of ale. Stefan had immediately commandeered the man’s services, bringing him to their private parlour forthwith, and Mr Stagg had proved a fount of information.

It appeared there were but three possibilities in the area, one out of his parish boundary. Two were Oakes. The farmstead they were heading for happened to be the only Oade or Oades in the area, situated a little outside of Chaseley, some eight miles away from Upledon village, and arrived at by what the parish clerk had promised was a readily understood route.

“Half a mile along this road should bring us to the turning to Cullicudden farm, should it not?”

“According to Mr Stagg,” Lucy agreed. “I have rarely visited this area. Indeed, until I came to find your uncle, I had hardly been much outside Upledon.”

“Gracious, Lucy, what a sheltered existence you have led,” exclaimed Dion.

“In the way of travelling, yes. But I dare say it would surprise you how much of the travails of ordinary people I have witnessed.”

Remembering some of the more distressing events, Lucy thought it prudent to keep her own counsel. She was ready to swear Dion would be dismayed and astonished to learn of the trials and tribulations of the poor.

Stefan appeared to have some appreciation of what she might have seen. “I imagine the vicar’s daughter, if she involved herself in her father’s work, must certainly have seen life lived close to the edge.”

“Truly, Lucy? Did you help your papa?”

“Yes, but I had my own special concerns, you know. Papa’s duties often took him away from those who needed almost daily care. I was glad to be able to be of service to him in that way, when I could. Of course he would not allow me to enter any cottage where there was contagion, but otherwise he was content for me to do what I might to alleviate such sufferings as fell within my ability.”

Dion was open-mouthed, but Stefan looked her over with a lurking expression in his eyes Lucy could not interpret.

“I have said it before, Lucy Graydene. You are full of surprises.”

“There,” came suddenly from Dion. “That must be the turn to Cullicudden farm.”

The farmer was a burly fellow, thickset with a head like a bull and a taciturn manner. Stefan hoped he would not turn mulish, and tried what a soft approach might achieve.

“I beg your pardon for troubling you. Mr Oade, is it?”

The fellow’s stance and facial expression did not alter. “What if it is?”

The slight country burr matched with the homespun, if respectable, look of his working clothes. Rough leather breeches encased his big legs, with a pair of dusty boots to his feet. An old-fashioned frock-coat of thick serge worn over a corduroy waistcoat and a woollen shirt were loosely complimented by a handkerchief tied about his throat in place of a cravat.

His truculence induced Stefan to pull rank, precisely as he had not intended. “My name is Stefan Ankerville. I am the Earl of Pennington. If you are Mr Oade, I have business with you.”

At mention of his title, the fellow’s eyes narrowed. He cast a glance at the curricle, in which the two women were still seated, Dion trusted with the reins.

“Ankerville, is it?” His eye came back to Stefan’s face, looking him over. “You’ll be the son, I reckon.”

Surprise held Stefan silent for a moment. Was this a guess? Or had the name meant something? Could they have drawn a bull’s-eye at the first throw? No, for this fellow was not old enough to be Lucy’s grandfather. He looked to be forty or thereabouts. Stefan took a risk.

“No, I am the nephew. Beves Ankerville was my uncle. You knew him?”

The farmer ruminated in silence for a space, looking from Stefan to the women in the curricle and back again. Then he nodded. “You’d best come in. I’ll fetch one of my boys to look to your horses.”

Within a very short space of time, Lucy and Dion had been handed down and a young lad, summarily brought from one of the outhouses in the rear, was leading the curricle around the back of the house. In the absence of his groom, Stefan had no choice but to give the lad careful instructions.

“Aye, sir. I’ll take good care of ’em. Proper good ’uns, I can see that.”

Mr Oade led the way through a cavernous hall into a capacious parlour, where the visitors were brought up short by the discovery of a woman seated in a comfortable chair by the fire, clearly incapacitated by the crutches set in a corner nearby, and a wheeled chair by the window.

“It’s the fellow come at last, Ma,” said the farmer when he had ushered them in. “You said he would, and here he is.”

Lucy gazed at the little creature sunken in the chair, and at once recognised the signs of long-endured physical suffering. The eyes were dull and hollowed with pain, the shoulders sagging with defeat. On impulse, she went forward, her hand reaching out.

“Oh, you are beset by a disease of the joints, are you not? I am so very sorry. Pray forgive us for intruding upon you.”