Page 14 of Lord of the Manor

Shouldering the sack of globe artichokes that he’d harvested from the walled garden the previous day, he made his way directly to her cottage. When his knock produced no response, he tried the door and found it unbolted.

Calling Cecily’s name as he ducked his head to enter through the doorway, he mulled over the fact that these people had enough faith in their neighbors to leave their houses open. The good burghers of Cambridge would never have dreamed of doing such a thing. Of course, the unbolted door might mean Cecily was within and that he was right—she was ailing.

Depositing his sack on the floor, he scaled the narrow stepladder leading up to the loft space, calling as he went. He narrowly avoided cracking his head on a beam at the top of the steps and found the loft in darkness. There was no sound of breathing, no tiny rustle to give away the presence of a person. There was a rather charming scent up there, though, of lavender, mayhap, and possibly rosemary, too.

As his eyes grew used to the gloom, he could see no one in the bed, so he backed down the steps and returned outside. He scanned the yard, but there was no sign of Cecily, so he lingered outside the door, considering his next move.

There would doubtless be gossip if he went about from cottage to cottage asking after her. Mayhap he should just leave the artichokes. With her apparent knowledge of the commandery, she was bound to know they were a gift from him, a peace offering to help soften the blow that he could do naught about the leases at present. Not if Kennet had represented their financial situation correctly.

Rather than waste his time in the village, he decided to seek out the chair-bodger, and find out what progress the man had made on his order. A short walk brought him to the man’s cottage, where he knocked on the door.

There was some delay before his knock was answered with a rather breathless, “Who is it?”

“It is I, Master Smythe. Is all well, Anselm?”

There was another pause, and some distinct muttering, before he heard the sound of a bolt being slid slowly back. Puzzling.

When the bodger opened the door, Allan hid his curiosity with a smile. “God give you good day, Anselm. I trust I have not disturbed you at your meal?”

He evidently had, for there was a large cauldron of what smelled like pease pottage next to the fire, with Cecily standing beside it, brandishing a ladle like a weapon. Hah! What good fortune. His smile widened.

Anselm indicated that he should enter. “Nay, sir. We were just about to eat. Will you partake of some?”

He’d better not. Lettice was at home attempting to roast a brace of doves. She was so sensitive about her culinary skills, that she’d probably resign her position in a huff if he’d already eaten when he returned home.

“Don’t trouble yourself. I only came to find out when the stools and other items would be ready.”

There was something amiss here. Both the wood-turner and his guest looked self-conscious—anxious, even. And the door had been bolted, even though they were both within. Surely there couldn’t be anything between Cecily and the much older Anselm? Acid rose in Allan’s stomach.

“The stools will be ready in a day or two. I’ll work on them upon the morrow.”

Cecily was still grinning blithely at Allan as if she were delighted to see him. There was definitely something going on here.

Scarcely glancing at Anselm, he said, “Thank you,” then held Cecily’s gaze. “I’ve been looking for you, but you weren’t in church. I trust you are not unwell?”

He saw her cheeks darken, and the next thing he knew, she had a hand around his arm and was escorting him outside.

“How kind of you to ask after me. But I assure you—all is well.”

He blinked. Did he imagine it, or had she just fluttered her eyelashes at him?

“Good,” was all he could think of to say. The feel of her small hand on his arm was distracting, but he let her lead him all the way to her cottage without complaint.

As they paused before her door, he remembered his question. “I looked for you in church.”

“Ah, that was Anselm’s fault. He kept me talking so long, I quite forgot. Won’t you come within?”

He stooped and entered. “You’ll have heard the church bells, surely?”

“Hush.” She stood before him and pressed a finger to his lips. “You need not fear for my soul, sir. It is quite secure. Can I offer you refreshment—a drink, mayhap?”

“Aye, if you would.” A pox on it—he hadn’t meant to say yes. “A drop of cordial would serve—if you have any, that is.”

“I have a redcurrant one. Merciful heaven—someone’s been here!”

Cecily was staring at the sack he’d left on the floor by her pantry shelf. Her rosy flush and smiles were all gone as her eyes darted around the room.

“That’s from me. A peace offering, if you will—we didn’t part as friends last time.”