Page 25 of The Ladies Least Likely
“No spirits in this fine accommodation? I shall register a complaint with the management.” He scowled, hating how easily she saw his weakness.
“And that worked so well last time.” She moved to the stove and poured a cup of tea. “Mathry, take this to our little chick. I don’t know when Dovey will be back.”
The younger maid swished away, tossing Pen an arch look and making sure he got an eyeful of her bosom, which was not in the least concealed. She was rather endowed in that area, and others. Pen watched the progress of her swaying rump out the door, then caught Gwen watching him.
She turned toward the door of the scullery. “Ifor,bachgen,it looks like you’ve managed the worst of it.”
“Thought I was about done,” a cheerful voice floated back. Gwen scratched the head of the billy goat, which stared at Pen with its golden eyes. Pen, alarmed, stared back.
“Why is the goat wet?”
“It’s raining sticks and old women out there,” the goat boy said, emerging from the scullery. Pen couldn’t help himself; he recoiled at the sight of the boy’s blind, scarred eyes. He knew Gwen noted his reaction.
“And Gafr pushed me down and got me all mucky.” The boy scratched between the goat’s horns just as Gwen had, then reached out and put his hand on the shepherd’s crook leaning next to the door. “Think I’ll go back in it and help Evans. He was fixing a tub in the brewhouse and will need a hand.”
“Mind your step if it’s slippery,” Gwen said as the boy departed for the door.
Pen closed his hanging jaw. “You let him wander about like—?” He made a circular motion with his hand.
She gave him a purposefully bland look. He sensed he saw such a look often, from others, and it irritated him every time. “Like what?” she asked.
“Blind!” Pen said, exasperated.
She raised a brow at him. The contrast between her dark brows and light green-grey eyes startled him all over. He would never tire of simply looking at her.
“Blind,” she affirmed. “Not witless. That boy sees more than you do, I’d wager.”
“Why is everyone so cross today?” Pen bridled.
“Because we’ve a great deal of work to do,” Gwen said shortly. “Tomos, would you like to help me look for morels this afternoon, when the rain stops? We can start in the old orchard, then search in the woods for the hazel trees. Or we might borrow Mr. Coffin’s pig and look for truffles, if you’d rather that.”
She expressed more enthusiasm over mushrooms than she had over him, Pen thought with annoyance. The second woman came out of the stillroom and looked him over, and his annoyance increased. She was at least two decades older than Gwen, with a black fringed shawl draped about her, and her scrutiny did not conclude with the coy smile that women customarily gave him. Pen might not know much about himself, but he knew he was appealing to women. At least, normal women. Which these were not.
“A man from Merthyr Tydfil was attacked last night at the wharves,” the woman in black said to Pen, as if answering his earlier question. “A Jew.”
“So?” Pen looked around the room. “No one here is a Jew. And no one here beat him, I’m assuming. Some itinerant looking for work? I ran into a number of them yesterday at the pub. Rough lot. I recall coming in for some abuse myself.”
Undeserved, he could have added, rubbing his sore jaw. He had a feeling at least one of his eyes was ringed with purple. Perhaps that’s why Gwen was avoiding him, though he hadn’t pegged her as missish.
“He was a businessman, they’re saying,” Gwen said, her tone sharpening. “A prospective financier for some building projects, including the new bridge. And they may call us rude and rough, but Newport is not known for being hostile to outsiders. There’s something afoot.”
“I still don’t follow,” Pen said. “You’re all British. What have you to fear?”
A torrent of voices answered this, including a barrage of Welsh from the crone.
“We’re not British!” Gwen yelped. “We’re Cymry.”
He stared. “Wales is part of Britain.”
She held his stare, challenging. “Not to you.”
That was true. Pen glanced at the others, who glared at him with varying levels of distrust. It occurred to him that they consideredhimthe outsider. Preposterous! Even the simple boy watched with interest, cradling his hurt hand.
Gwen stomped to a shelf and banged down a basket. “Welsh, you call us. Wales, you say this is. Do you even know what that word means?”
He didn’t. He had the feeling he’d had a somewhat decent education. He spoke like he’d been educated, at least. But Wales was Wales, England was England, and Britain was the finest country in the world.
“YouSaeson,” Gwen said, stomping next to a cluster of tools that hung from pegs. “You, the invaders to our land, called uswealas. Foreigners.” She spat the words. “And that is your name for us even now. We are Cymry. We are proud. But we are not savages. We do not beat men near senseless simply because they are a different race or a different faith.”
