Page 13 of The Grey Lady of the Manor

He loved that she now seemed concerned for him. Letty Carter had a good heart—she just rarely had the opportunity to show it.

He gathered her hair in his hands, knotting his kerchief over the top and battling the desire to press his face against her curls and inhale their lavender scent. At a time like this, a fellow needed to keep his wits about him.

“Knowing Sarah, my tools and possessions will be thrown on the midden. I can collect them from there.”

“How can you be so cheerful when you’ve just turned both our lives upside down?”

“Change can be turned to one’s advantage.” Nothing that happened in his life would ever be as grim as watching his parents die screaming in a house fire when he was too young to do anything about it. Having survived the horror of that moment, he refused to allow fear or misery into his life.

“You look downhearted, sweeting. Why not kiss your rescuer, and convince him that you are worth his sacrifice?”

“I’d rather kiss my father’s sow,” she said, but smiled.

Chapter Ten

Master Smythe stood, legs planted firmly apart and with his hands on his hips. “So, Master Perkin Merrick, am I to understand that you’re essentially a vagabond now?”

Perkin winced. “I’d prefer the term ‘itinerant journeyman thatcher’, sir. But if you give me employment, you may call me by whatever title you want.”

The lord of the manor’s frown vanished. “You have a quick tongue, Master Merrick. No doubt your ready wit irritated your former master beyond bearing. Unless, of course, you have committed some more heinous crime. Robbing him of his tools, mayhap?”

Perkin pushed his shoulders back. “Certainly not. I might be accused of stealing his daughter’s heart—but in very truth, it was never my intention to do so.”

“You had better not cause trouble among my female servants or laborers.” Smythe raised an eyebrow.

Did that mean the man was considering giving him work? Perkin’s heart raced. It would mean he could see Letty every day, and they’d be spared the spite of Sarah Thatcher and her father.

It had been wrong of him to lay claim to Letty when he didn’t have the means to support a wife, but some devil had driven him today, and he hadn’t been able to restrain himself.

“My heart beats for one woman only, Master. You may as well know now. It is Lettice Carter.”

Motes of dust swirled in the beam of light that slashed through the parlor of the old Hospitaller commander’s house. The silence felt so thick, it hung around Perkin like a cloak, and he waited, fists clenched, for Master Smythe’s decision. He forced himself to meet the man’s unblinking, questioning gaze.

Smythe heaved out a breath. “Very well. You may help with building my new house—I’ll have a word with the master mason. But my wife and I will be watching you two lovebirds like hawks, do you understand? Your time is not your own while you’re at your daily toil. I can’t afford to have any slacking.”

Outside, a cart trundled across the cobbles, and someone could be heard operating the winding mechanism on the well. It was almost certainly Letty. His collar felt tight, and his cheeks heated.

“I understand, Master.” He glanced toward the narrow window, which looked across the old graveyard to where the new manor house was rising course by course, built of bricks the color of sunset on an autumn day. It was going to look magnificent when finished. How proud he would be to work on it!

But there was one more question to ask, and all his hopes—all their hopes, for he and Letty were now as one—depended upon the answer.

“Do you plan to tile or thatch your new dwelling, sir?”

Smythe moved to the doorway, and Perkin followed him out into the yard. From the foolish grin on the man’s face, he could tell that Smythe was proud of his new dwelling. It would be proof of his status and prosperity—everything that a man who had to make his own wealth could wish for.

“I’m having it tiled. ’Tis a considerable expense, but those tiles ought to last a lifetime, whereas thatch would need replacing. I know I shouldn’t say that to a thatcher by trade.”

“Not at all. I agree that tile is better, and I’d be honored if you’d let me roof your new home for you. I have learned the relevant skills.”

This wasn’t entirely true, but how hard could it be? One just needed stronger and more frequent battens and the right length and type of nail. And a head for heights—which he most certainly had.

“Alas—the master mason will have to find you something else to do. I have already signed a contract with a tiler at Bulmer Tye for the work. But you’re able-bodied and quick-witted—you’ll soon learn to do whatever task the master assigns you.”

Knowing his luck, he’d probably end up mixing daub for the partition walls. Or carrying barrowloads of lime mortar that would stain and eat into his clothes.

It was a blow to his hopes—but not entirely unexpected.

“I have one further boon to ask of you.” He knew he was presuming a great deal, but he couldn’t go back to Hugh Thatcher’s house again—all ties had been severed since he’d laid claim to Letty.