Page 37 of The Lady’s Deception

Ain’t met a washerwoman yet who weren’t, Mr. Burke.

Tommy Fagan’s mother, hard at work? She would likely be able to reveal a great deal to the person who asked the right questions. It was part and parcel of a good barrister’s skills to know just the questions to ask. And when he did not allow himself to be distracted by foolish dreams, Paris was a very good barrister.

“Thank you, Mr. Fagan.” He replied to the man’s almost forgotten question without turning his head. Steam or smoke or both wafted across the grass. He could picture the boiling kettles hung over peat fires at the rear of the cottage. “But there’s no need for you to trouble yourself. I’ll fetch it myself.”

He waited until the old man had gone down before descending, jug in hand. Rather than entering the pub, he ducked through a doorway that promised to lead to the rear of the house. Instead, he found himself in a large room that served the family as kitchen, parlor, and bedchamber all at once. He’d been right. The room he’d been given was undoubtedly the finest room in the house.

If the rebellion had succeeded, would people like the Fagans have been any better off? He and others had been caught up in ideals of liberty and self-governance; had they forgotten the harsh reality, the thousands of their countrymen with liberty only to starve?

He could have crossed the room and left the house through the back door, but even the thought of trespassing in such a way felt disrespectful. Quickly, he reversed course and went into the pub, where two men had joined Fagan and were chuckling into their pints.

“Sure, an’ it’s the Englishman,” one of them called out and lifted his mug. “Welcome to Kilready.”

Automatically, Paris bowed a greeting, then wished he could recall the gesture when he saw how it made the three men shift awkwardly in their seats. “Good afternoon, sirs. I was just on my way to get some water.”

That announcement produced more merriment from the two newcomers. “My girl’s out back,” Fagan said, quieting them. “She’ll help ’ee.” Paris nodded and stepped to the door.

“I’d take care, Paddy.” One of them spoke low, though perhaps not as low as he imagined. “She’s gone soft for an Englishman afore.”

Dashfort. But of course everyone in the village would know if a local girl had borne the earl’s illegitimate child.

“Maybe he’s hopin’ she’ll do it again,” said the other man, and though the words were once more punctuated with a laugh, Paris heard no humor in the sound. “With one that’ll take ’er off ’is hands this time.”

“Shut it,” Paddy Fagan retorted good-naturedly.

Paris chose to imagine the words had been directed at him and shut the front door firmly behind him as he went out. He deliberately walked toward the end of the house where he’d seen the woman at work, hoping to approach without startling her.

Instead, she surprised him. “Who are you?” she demanded, whirling around, her basket still on her hip. “What do you want?” She was his own age or perhaps a bit older, with reddish brown hair and a round face, despite her wiry build. He could see nothing of Tommy Fagan in her.

“My name’s Trenton,” he answered after a moment, choosing the middle of his three names, his English mother’s maiden name. Burke, he suspected, would serve him poorly here. “My horse took lame, so I’m staying in Kilready for a few days. Staying here.” He darted his gaze toward the cottage and back, and then held up the jug. “I came out for some water.”

She looked him up and down, jerked her chin toward the rear of the house, and went on with her task. Working one-handed, she struggled to pull a single item from the basket it and hang it straight.

Carefully, he set the jug in the damp grass and took a step closer to her. “May I help you with that?”

He would have assumed she had not heard him if she hadn’t eventually asked, “Why?”

“Because it seemed as if you might need some assistance. It was merely a friendly gesture.”

With one hand, she snapped a man’s shirt—made of fabric too fine to belong to her father—like a whip. “You’re no friend o’ mine.”

He bent to retrieve the jug. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, ma’am.” Behind the cottage, he found several large tubs and kettles each employed in various stages of the laundry process. A washboard stuck up from one, while another hung over a fire, bubbling away with the distinctive stench of lye soap. The mangle sat atop a tree stump, a bedsheet half in, half out. Not family laundry; he doubted Paddy Fagan had more than two shirts to his name. Not villagers’ laundry either, for they were doubtless as poor or poorer than the Fagans. Kilready Castle laundry, if he had to guess. Who else in the vicinity would have so much?

He did not fault the woman’s sharp tongue. Imagine being forced to make a life by cleaning the dirty linen of the man who’d fathered your child. The story had the makings of a tragedy, and he suspected he didn’t know the half of it.

“ I s’pose you’re a friend o’ his?”

He jumped at the sound of her voice behind him and splashed water down the front of his waistcoat. “A friend of whose?” As he turned to face her, he could guess the answer to his question.

“His lordship’s.”

Everything this woman was or had ever been was buried behind a brick wall of bitterness. He, usually so adept at reading people, could see nothing beyond it. In some strange way, her expression called to mind the one he’d seen in Rosamund’s eyes, the sensation that she was hiding not just something, but someone. Hiding herself.

“If I were,” he pointed out mildly, “wouldn’t I have a room at the castle?”

She weighed his response as she sucked her thumb, drawing blood from a cracked chilblain so it wouldn’t get on the clean clothes. With a practiced pucker, she spit onto the ground. “Fair enough.”

After another assessing stare, she dropped the basket of wet laundry and came toward him with one hand held out. “Here. I’ll fetch your water.”