Page 5 of The Grey Lady of the Manor

“They deserve a healthy respect.” Mayhap he should playfully throw a stick into the middle of the pond. Then he could win her favor by helping her to round up the outraged geese. He glanced around for a stick. There weren’t any.

It would be better to find out more before putting his campaign together. If he didn’t tread carefully, she’d be off quicker than a fox before hounds.

Flattery usually worked with women. “You must be the Lettice Carter of whom I’ve heard mention.”

She nodded shyly, then settled herself down a short distance away from him, arranging her skirts to cover her legs. “What do you know of me?”

He’d have to take a guess. “I hear you’re a splendid cook.”

Ah! She was smiling. Luck must be on his side.

“I hope I am, though somewhat accident-prone. Or cursed—I know not which. It is a great annoyance in a kitchen.”

Perfect. This was exactly what he needed to learn more about. “Cursed, you say? I can’t imagine why anyone would hex so sweet a maid.”

She frowned. “Nor I. I have done nothing to deserve such unnatural attention. You’re quite right. Unless my stepmother—”

He threw his head back and chuckled. “Don’t tell me that she’s a witch! There’s no evidence for such things, I assure you. Witches are just people who are addled in the head, or who enjoy frightening their neighbors. And for the fools who genuinely believe that hags can harm them, there are counter-measures. Boots hung over doorways, or walled into the chimney, hag stones, cold iron—”

“That is where my problem lies. It seems that for me, the iron itself is cursed.”

He gazed at her sorrowfully. Who had put such ridiculous fears into this maid’s pretty head? Mistress Smythe was right to seek his help for her—he was eminently pragmatic and laughed at superstition.

A goose scudded across the surface of the pond, chasing another in a flurry of feathers and spray. Letty snapped her fingers and hissed, making the belligerent bird subside with a splash.

The distraction had given him time to think. “Do you also believe in ghosts, Mistress Carter?”

She worried at her lower lip, then turned her brown eyes to his. He could see a few frizzy wisps of dark hair escaping from her coif and wondered irreverently what it would be like to touch them. Mercy, but the day had heated up quickly! He ran a finger around the inside of his collar.

“You would mock me if I told you.”

“Sometimes, ’tis easier to speak to a stranger.” Or so he hoped.

She stared at him for a moment. “Mayhap, it is. You may not have heard the tale, but a blacksmith once took his life in Temple Roding.”

Perkin sucked in a breath. Life was precious, as he knew to his cost—what could drive anyone to snuff out their own?

“Why?”

“He lost his ladylove. She was drowned, or some such thing. He was buried at the crossroads, but then his skull was dug up and taken to the smithy—which then burned down. All save the skull was lost. That is now kept up at the manor—I found it, dropped it, and broke it. So many accidents befall me, and I seem to be forever damaging iron items! My stepmother berates me constantly. Mistress Smythe is far more patient.”

She must be—Perkin had never heard so ludicrous a notion. But he must appear to believe if he was to earn Letty Carter’s trust.

“So, have these accidents only happened since you dropped the skull?”

“Nay—I was cursed afore that. Last year, I broke my wrist.”

“Then, have things worsened since you dropped the skull? There might be no connection at all.”

She blinked at him. “I don’t know. It only happened this morning.”

Yes, indeed—Letty Carter was full to the brim with foolish notions. He must do what he could to disabuse her of them at once. If it meant Mistress Smythe interceding with Hugh Thatcher on his behalf, it would be well worth the effort.

“I understand what you say about ghosts, and their evil influence. There are tales of one at Rooks Well, where I spent my youth. She was the only child of the lord of the manor and fell in love with a humble artisan—he might have been a blacksmith, too, like the owner of your skull.”

He heard her suck in a breath. She was hanging on his every word—it was adorable.

“They decided to run away together since her family would never approve a match between them. But the lady—so it is said—was killed when her conveyance took a tumble into a flooded brook. Her lover was distraught and, like your blacksmith, he took his own life. The bridge where the lady met her end is called Patience Bridge—named after the unfortunate damsel, I assume. Over time, legend has turned her spirit into that of a spiteful old witch, forever trying to drag unsuspecting travelers down to share her watery grave.”