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Chapter Seven

Mrs. Pennyweather’s cottage was a picturesque one, made of mellow stone and thatched roofed, with roses climbing around the white painted door and a riot of color in the well-tended garden.

A pump middle-aged woman in a serviceable gown of gray worsted and a striped pinafore, with a broad brimmed straw hat on her head, was digging in the garden when he arrived at the gate. She looked up in surprise when Jerome addressed her.

“Good day to you, ma’am, would you be Mrs. Pennyweather’s daughter?”

She rose awkwardly to her feet, stripping off her gardening gloves and straightening her hat. “Good heavens, sir, you startled me! Yes, I am.” She blinked her myopic blue eyes as she drew closer, and her mouth fell open. “My lord!” She dropped a curtsy.

“May I come in?” he asked with a smile. “I was wishful to speak with your mother if I could?”

“Of course, my lord,” she said, moving to lift the latch and open the gate for him. “Though Mam is blind and almost stone deaf. You’ll have to shout for her to hear you. And even if she does hear you, there’s no guarantee she’ll understand what you want. She’s old, and her mind wanders a bit.”

His heart sank at these tidings, but he had to at least try. “Well, I won’t take up too much of her time. I just have a couple of questions for her.”

“Come in, my lord. Would you like a cup of tea or some of my rosehip wine?”

“Tea would be splendid,” he said with another smile, standing aside for her to precede him into the house. It was a small house with a two-up, two-down configuration and as neat and well-kept as the garden.

The door opened straight into the stone-floored kitchen, with a large hearth and well-scrubbed table and Windsor chairs. A dresser was against the wall and an easy chair was in the corner of the room on which sat a fat, black-and-white cat, one leg stuck in the air while it cleaned a haunch.

“My husband Will works at the glass manufactory, my lord. He’ll be right disappointed to have missed your visit,” she said, bustling over to the kitchen hearth to set the kettle on. “The village has been in such a flutter since Mr. Kelham set it about you was hiring again! My Elsie and Bob both applied, you know. Started yesterday they did. Elsie for a housemaid and Bob in the laboring team.” She beamed at him. “You wouldn’t be needing a glazier, would you? Will’s a good man, hard worker, and skilled.”

“Tell him to apply to Kelham. He will know what positions are still required.”

She bobbed a curtsy, a faint flush to her cheeks, “I’ll tell him, my lord. Now you just get yourself settled, and I’ll go fetch Mam. She can’t manage the stairs no more, so we have her bed set up in the parlor.”

“I’ll come to her if it’s less trouble,” he said.

“Nay, my lord!” said Elspeth Nancarrow, scandalized. “She likes to sit in her chair by the fire with old Percy there.” She nodded at the chair and the cat. “I’ll fetch her. You sit.” She waved to the table and chairs and Jerome sat, his lips twitching. He had the feeling Mrs. Nancarrow might have quite a brood, if her managing ways were any indication.

She disappeared through the curtained archway that divided the kitchen from the parlor, and he heard her saying loudly, “Mam, His Lordship is here to see you!”

“What’s that, Elsie?” The old lady’s voice was quavery.

Elspeth repeated herself louder, and the old lady said, “Lord Gareth? To see me?”

“Nay, Mam, his son, Lord Jerome himself.”

“The lad? What’s he want with the likes of me?”

“Come along, Mam, upsy-daisy. Here’s your stick, now hold my arm!”

Jerome heard the sounds of shuffling footsteps, and the curtain parted to reveal Mrs. Nancarrow with a bent, silver-haired old woman clinging to her arm and leaning heavily on a walking stick. He rose slowly as Mrs. Nancarrow guided her mother to the chair, plucked the cat up with one arm and settled her mother deftly with the other, placing the cat on her lap. This must have been a routine, for the cat surprisingly cooperated, settling to knead and purr on the old lady’s lap. Her gnarled, liver-spotted hands patting the creature soothingly as she sank back into the chair.

“There now, Mam, you’ll have your tea and biscuit in a moment, but first I want to present His Lordship to you.”

Elspeth nodded to him and Jerome stepped forward and bowed, even though he knew the old woman couldn’t see him. Her faded-blue eyes were milky as she stared straight in front of her.

“Mrs. Pennyweather, I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” he said with a firm, carrying register.

The old lady stiffened at the sound of his voice. “You’re nay Lord Gareth?”

“I’m his son, ma’am, Jerome DeVere at your service.”

The old lady smiled and cackled. “Well, I never. Elsie, it’s the lad himself! How old are you now?”

“I’ll be thirty-four in June, Mrs. Pennyweather.”