Page 33 of The Ladies Least Likely
“Pen?” Gwen stirred a handful of salt into her copper pot and reached for the basket. With her stove already hot, she’d steam the oils from the rosemary and add it to her soap. It would make an aromatic blend, and she could sell or trade with the town merchants and finally get a new set of boots for Tomos.
“The solicitor from Bristol,” Dovey said with a grim set to her mouth.
“Coc oen,” Gwen swore, and for once Dovey didn’t laugh that she’d adopted one of Mother Morris’s curses.
She used her kerchief to wipe the sweat on her brow from hours of standing over the stove, then wiped her hands in her shawl and followed Dovey to the front porch of the church. There stood Mr. Barlow in his black wool suit and hat, glaring at her from beneath bushy white brows.
“Mr. Barlow.” He was as menacing as she remembered. She’d had dreams that he’d appear just like this to turn them out. They woke her sweating and ready to scream, like Pen and his nightmares. A sick sensation slipped and slid around in her belly. Where was Pen?
“Would you—like to come in?”
“I bear a message from the Viscount Penrydd. The owner of this property,” he reminded her, as if she didn’t recall that very well, every moment of the day.
St. Tybie’s tears. Pen had regained his memory. How had he set the solicitor on them so fast? He’d departed with Evans that morning. He must have run into Mr. Barlow in Newport and all had been made clear. And what was the first thing Pen did upon reclaiming his life? Set his solicitor upon the people who had saved his life. She clenched her hands in her shawl.
“And what has his lordship to say to us?” She struggled to keep her voice steady. Dovey drew in a long breath, bracing herself for a blow.
Barlow consulted a slip of paper in his hand with an expression of haughty disdain. “His lordship will allow you to purchase the property of St. Sefin’s in its entirety, free of lien or any other obligation,” he said, drawing out the announcement, “for the price of—fifteen hundred pounds.”
“Allow us…purchase…?” She felt as if she’d tumbled off the roof and had the breath knocked out of her. Heavy and yet weightless at the same time. The miracle, the solution she needed—tossed in her lap. At a price she could never, given a lifetime, be able to afford.
Dovey reached out and clasped her fingers. Her palm was as cold as Gwen’s.
“How soon does he want the money?” Dovey asked.
“His lordship requests payment in full at the earliest possible convenience. Or he will tender the offer to other parties.”
What other parties? Gwen wanted to cry. No one else would love this place as she and Dovey did. No one else would keep its mission of gathering and tending lost souls.
“Pay…in full?”
Barlow attempted to look down his nose at her, a difficulty as they were the same height. He settled for a look of exasperation. “What is your answer?”
Gwen’s knees wobbled. Pen was gone. He was Viscount Penrydd again, a lord of the realm. The man whose nightmares she’d soothed, whose wounds she had doctored, who had raised all those alarming and unwanted sensations within her, he’d disappeared. She should be happy the danger was in focus now. She should be glad the lie was done.
“We do not have that amount at hand, Mr. Barlow. We would need to arrange some method of payment.”
“So you cannot accept.”
“We accept!” Gwen rushed to say. “But will his lordship not—can we not speak with?—”
She blinked. She could speak with Pen right now, for here he came up the hill to St. Sefin’s, larger than life and sturdy as a plow, pushing a wheelbarrow full of manure. Evans limped beside him, carrying a sack across his shoulder.
The Viscount Penrydd, lord of the realm, pushing a barrow of dung, looking as hale and hardy as the day he was born. Gwen’s jaw unhinged.
Barlow glanced at the approaching men with the same expression of dislike that he cast over the empty bell tower, the centuries-old façade of the church with weeds growing along its base, and then Gwen herself.
“I will not vex his lordship with a petty counteroffer,” Barlow said. “What answer shall I take him?”
Gwen sent a look of appeal at Pen, despair tugging at her gut. She could not lose St. Sefin’s. But she could not buy it at this price.
“His lordship knows we wish to buy St. Sefin’s,” she said. “But he must also be aware we cannot produce fifteen hundred pounds at his asking. It will take time to collect the funds.”
Pen set the barrow down. “Fifteen hundred for what?”
She stared at him.
Bewildered, Gwen glanced at Dovey to find her engaged in some swift and unspoken exchange with Evans. He read the tautness about Dovey’s eye, the tic of muscle in her cheek, as well as Gwen could.
