Page 1 of The Ladies Least Likely
VISCOUNT OVERBOARD
CHAPTER ONE
NEWPORT, WALES SPRING 1799
“Gwen, dearie. There’s a man at the door. Thefrontdoor.”
Gwen, her arms elbow-deep in straw, peered down from the roof of the small sty. Dovey stood on the packed dirt of the rear courtyard, frowning at a small white rectangle in her hand.
“What kind of—oof.” Gwen sputtered as a bundle of wheat straw sailed upward and smacked her in the face, flattening her against the pitch of the roof. At least she didn’t fall off. Little good she’d be to anyone at St. Sefin’s if she ended up in the hospital ward.
“Pardon, Miss Gwen.” Evans, propped against his crutch, flexed his good arm and turned red to the tips of his ears. “You said toss up the last bundle.”
“That I did,” Gwen said, rubbing at the burn on her cheek. A sight she’d be, performing tonight for the Vaughns. “Has someone received our guest, if he’s a seeker?”
Silence drifted below as Gwen unrolled the whisps of straw and levered the thatch into place with the spar. She knew why neither volunteered, though Evans had lived at St. Sefin’s for nearly all the seven years she and Dovey had been runningthe place. Dovey disliked dealing with strangers, and strangers disliked dealing with Evans.
“He’s aSais,” Dovey said.
Gwen sighed. “A complaint, then, if he’s an Englishman.” She tossed the twisted stick to the ground and climbed down the ladder while Evans steadied it with his hand, then she dusted her scratched hands with bravado. “I’ll turn him off right quick, shall I?”
Evans scanned the sky, his sidewise glance landing on Dovey. “You may tell Mrs. Van der Welle I’ll help her take the linens off the line, as it bodes rain.”
Dovey marched toward the shadow of the great stone building, the jagged roof etched against the pearl-grey clouds rolling up from the river. “You may tell Mr. Evans,” she tossed over her shoulder, “I don’t need his good hand nor any part of him.”
Gwen shook her head at their arguing, grown worse of late. “St. Aled’s head! What are the two of you chopsing about now?” She stowed the wooden ladder in the small outbuilding that held their other tools, then caught up with her friend. “Mayhap theSaiswants to hire a harper and heard none plays thetelynso well as Gwen ap Ewyas.” They could use the money; they always did.
“He gave me this.” Dovey thrust out a small white card.
Gwen didn’t catch the gasp before it escaped her.Mr. Barlow, Bristol. Solicitor.
“What’s it, then?” Dovey didn’t read, claiming she was too busy to sit while Gwen taught Dovey’s daughter her letters in English and Welsh.
“A legal man.” Gwen smoothed the kerchief pinned to the bodice of her grey flannel gown. “Oh, Saint Gwladys, preserve us.”
A legal man boded no good. Sleepy Newport thought to grow of a sudden, workers flooding South Wales as the coal fields spread. The new Monmouthshire canal lured more ships to the harbor, reeling goods up and down the Severn in an endless chain. And theSaesonpoured in too, thinking they owned what was and always had been Welsh land.
Evans pointed behind them with his crutch. “I, uh, think Tomos said the winch on the well needs oil. He struggled with it this morning.”
“And I’m to ask Widow to help me take in the linens.” Dovey made a beeline away.
St. Sefin’s had been Gwen’s idea; she had to accept that she was the face of it. She wiped her hands on the woolen shawl at her waist, apron and catchall, and strode through the gardens bristling with spring color. The camelias bloomed red at their hearts and the cherry tree blushed pink as a bride, tugging her heart with a fierce, bright sense of belonging that burrowed deeper each season. This was her home.
A small man stood on the porch, somber and strict in a black wool coat, glaring at the stern walls of the ancient priory. He seemed unmoved by the mellow golden glow of the thick limestone walls as they caught the last afternoon sun before it slid between a veil of clouds. Gwen wished she’d paused to pull the straw from her hair and straighten her gown. Fine folk wouldn’t hire her to harp in their parlors if they thought she’d turn up in her dirt.
“Prynhawn da,” Gwen greeted him, and saw from the slant of his grey-peppered brows that he didn’t speak a word of Welsh. “Good afternoon. Do you wish a tour, Mr. Barlow?”
English liked to holiday in Wales, where the woods had not yet been burned up for fuel nor the hills tilled down for farming. Medieval ruins like St. Sefin’s were picturesque, and Gwen never turned away tourists willing to place a few coins in her palm forthe privilege of seeing where a Welsh nun once slept and said her prayers.
Barlow scowled. “I am not a tourist, Mrs.—”
“Miss,” she answered coolly. “Gwenllian ap Ewyas.” She made no move to curtsey. This man was not her better, despite his condescending manner. The false name slipped out easily after all these years.
“Can you explain to me, Miss Why-yes—” He stumbled over the pronunciation—“why you appear to be inhabiting a property owned by the Viscount Penrydd?”
Alarm churned in her belly, and instinct shrieked at her to run. Gwen straightened her shoulders.
“You are mistaken, Mr. Barlow. St. Sefin’s was abandoned years ago.”
