Page 4 of The Grey Lady of the Manor

Where had she heard that? He didn’t want to be thought shallow—he played tricks on people and attempted to make them laugh only to fill the void within himself.

“I try to be hearty and cheerful if that’s what you mean. Occasionally, I might play the fool.” He hoped he wasn’t revealing too much. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to guess at the amount of pain he carried.

“If, as a boon to me, you will play some of your tricks on Lettice Carter, I shall support you against your master. I know you don’t see eye-to-eye.”

Perkin pushed his cap back from his forehead. This clever young woman knew far too much.

“I don’t understand. You want to support me against my master—are we talking about my efforts to convince you to use tile instead of thatch?”

She nodded. “I know Hugh Thatcher doesn’t care for tile. But I understand that tile’s less flammable than thatch despite its cost and weight. I shall tell your master of its merits if you’ll help me with Letty.”

Perkin folded his arms across his chest. He’d already thatched half the roof of this lady’s former dwelling—was she about to change her mind? Despite his conviction that tile would soon become the preferred building material in the area—even on the roofs of common cottages—he would not enjoy having to undo his handiwork.

“Better continue as you have with this place. It contains pleasant memories despite the fire last year. I’d like to see it restored to what it once was.”

Good. But what game was Mistress Smythe playing?

“If you succeed with Letty, I’ll persuade my husband to have you tile one of the less important buildings—the shippon, mayhap. We can then convince Master Hugh Thatcher that it is time for him to add tiling as well as thatching to his business. Would that suit? Ah! Here comes Letty—I must make haste. Follow her, befriend her, make her think that otherworldly things have occurred, then prove to her they were merely tricks, illusions. She must cease to believe in ghosts, or she will never be happy. She mustn’t see me—farewell!”

Leaving Perkin gaping, his employer’s wife vanished among the village cottages.

He glanced around for the person he was meant to be cozening and spotted an elfin young woman driving geese into the village pond. She laughed at them as they honked and splashed, then glanced around as if filled with guilt for having dared to smile.

He had no plan in place and wasn’t even sure he’d decided to accept Mistress Smythe’s commission, but now he’d seen Letty, he was intrigued. Evidently, she had seen him, too—a flush stole over her cheeks, and she turned her head aside.

Striding round to the corner of the cottage, he stole a longer look. The young woman watched her geese with a worried frown, her eyes large and dark, her full upper lip making her look vulnerable and young. And exceedingly kissable.

He sucked in a breath, then pretended to be inspecting the tools suspended from his belt. He could permit himself to admire other women from afar, but he must never look on them with desire. If he didn’t wed Sarah Thatcher, his master’s vain, selfish daughter, he could never take over the thatching business. And if he didn’t persuade the ageing Hugh Thatcher to move with the times, the enterprise would fail, and they’d be paupers.

Curse Mistress Smythe! Why couldn’t she have engaged him to play tricks on an older, married woman—someone untouchable, forbidden? Hopefully, Letty Carter was spoken for and thus forbidden territory—she was surely comely enough to be much sought after.

Buoying himself up with some deep breaths, he strode across the green toward her.

“God give you good day, Maid. ’Tis a fine flock of geese you have there.” Not the most impressive opening remark, but he was struggling to find the right words.

She shaded her eyes and looked at him. “You’re the thatcher.” Her voice was soft, with a slight Suffolk burr. He liked it.

“The very same. Well—not the master thatcher, only his apprentice.” He gazed at her. What else could he say? “It is a fine morning and likely to be a fine day.” He attempted to sweeten his banal remark with his brightest smile.

To no effect. She looked past his shoulder at the cottage. “The thatching looks very neat. How much more work have you to do?”

She was interested in his craft? A rarity, indeed. Sarah Thatcher didn’t care at all about her father’s business. She was only interested in lace, baubles, and hats.

“It has taken longer than expected.” He moved between Letty and the sunlight, so she wouldn’t have to shade her eyes—it was essential to see what she looked like up close. “I had to work with a carpenter to replace the main timbers and battens before the thatching could begin. But I might be finished by week’s end, if the fine weather holds.”

“You seem to like the word ‘fine’, sir.”

He took a step backward. Was she teasing him? It was meant to be the other way around.

“I try to see everything in a good light and make the best of whatever befalls me. But I fear for you—you seem burdened.”

She tilted her pointed chin at him. “I always look like this. I have a naturally anxious-looking face.”

“I’m glad to hear there is naught amiss.” What had Mistress Smythe said about ghosts and curses? He couldn’t remember exactly what she’d ordered him to do, and the rapid pumping of his heart was proving most distracting.

“Know you the landlord of this cottage?” He squatted cross-legged on the grass that fringed the pool and gazed up at her, hoping to put her at ease.

“Master Smythe? Aye. These birds are his.” She indicated the geese. “You’re not afraid of geese?”