Chapter Twelve
“—and there—strike while the iron is hot!” Minny said cheerfully.
She almost snorted with laughter as Henry lunged as though the anvil was going to walk off if he was not swift.
“Like that?”
“Why not?” she said eventually, trying to keep the laughter from her voice.
Henry glanced over. “You are laughing at me!”
“You are dancing about like a fine lady,” Minny teased. “As though you are worried the iron is going to get up and hit you back!”
For a moment, she thought she had gone too far. After their slightly prickly conversation last week—Minny had been certain he knew about her brother, testing to see if she would give him up—they had managed to settle into a routine that benefited them both.
In the mornings, Minny would conduct all business required. Sowing season was over and many ploughs had come into the forge for repair, and there had even been a commission from the manor for a new set of tongs. That had been worth more than ten shillings.
But by the afternoon, there was usually not much to do. That was when Henry took over at the anvil.
At least, Minny thought to herself with glee, he thought he took over. There was not much that got past her, even as she sat here on the stool.
“I don’t hit it like that!” Henry protested, eyes wide. “At least…I don’t think so. Don’t I?”
Minny’s heart softened. “You do.”
Why did those words make her flush? It was bad enough that she no longer seemed able to look at him merely as a handsome man.
If she were forced to explain it—to her brother, most likely, Minny thought wryly—she would say there was something about Henry that went beyond mere looks. Something deeper. Refined in a way she had never expected in someone not a gentleman, yet a gentleness, too.
Oh, he was a puzzle. The trouble was, Minny knew she was definitely not supposed to unravel him.
“It’s cold now,” she pointed out to force her mind away from such wild thoughts.
Henry looked aghast. “Oh, blow!”
“There is no better time to strike when the iron is hot,” Minny said with a shake of her head. “Now, you can heat it up or you can—”
“Put it aside and bank down the fire.”
She blinked. That was not the response she had been expecting. “What?”
Most inexplicably, Henry was pulling off the heavy leather apron her father had left her and folding it carefully. The iron on the anvil was being carefully ignored—something her father would never have approved of—and the furnace was indeed being left to smolder.
What did he think he was doing?
“I’m putting it aside,” Henry repeated, head tilted. “When was the last time you left the forge, Minny?”
Her heart fluttered as she heard her name on his lips. “Left the forge?”
How did he do this to her? Reduce her to a mere automaton who could do nothing but repeat the last words spoken?
There was a much too knowing glint in his eye. “Yes, left the forge.”
Minny tried to think. “Well, I went to see Mr. Chapman about—”
“I don’t mean on smithy business. I mean actually left the forge and the work behind. Did something else.”
“You know perfectly well I have not done that since you arrived!” she said in astonishment. “Where would I go? What would I do? When the fire here needs tending—”
“No, it does not,” Henry said firmly.
Minny forced herself to close her mouth rather than look like a total nincompoop. How was Henry to continue his work with the iron—one day, he had assured her, he would create a horse shoe a horse could actually wear—if the fire went out?
He fixed her with a firm gaze. “The work’s done, and my shoulders ache. You need to stretch your legs and think about something that isn’t the forge, Minny. Come on. Let’s go for a walk.”
“But…but…” Minny spluttered as Henry stepped around the anvil and offered his arm. She took it without knowing why. “But I can’t—”
“You have finished your work for today, is that right?” Henry asked smoothly as he led her out of the forge.
Minny blinked in the afternoon sun. Summer was still a little while away, but after spending so much time in the dark forge, it was dazzlingly bright.
“Minny?”
“Well, yes, all the work is—”
“And you don’t need to lock up, or something, do you?”
She snorted. “Lock up? Here in Pathstow?”
“Excellent,” said Henry triumphantly, as though she had wandered straight into his trap. “In that case, there is no need to linger. Off we go on a walk.”
And he marched forward with her hand in his arm, pulling her forward.
Minny almost stumbled as they walked along the street. Why, she could not recall the last time she…a walk? That was the sort of thing ladies and gentlemen of leisure indulged in. They had nowhere to be, no work to complete, no money to earn.
Their money earned itself, Minny thought darkly, though she was at a loss to know how.
When she had to go somewhere, there was no fine carriage to transport her or elegant mare to ride. She’d had to depend on her two feet and walked as fast as she could to reach her destination in the quickest time.
Which was what made this so…unusual.
“What are we doing?” Minny hissed under her breath.
Henry’s laugh was felt through her shoulder as well as heard. “Just walking, Minny! Have you never been on a walk before?”
Well, of course she had! Except…except not like this. Not as though they had no care in the world. As though nothing could divest them of their happiness.
Her stomach twisted. If they were going to go on a walk, the phrase uncomfortable, they could at least go somewhere they wouldn’t be gawked at.
“There’s a market in Pathstow today,” Minny said quietly. “Come on. The footpath.”
It wasn’t really a footpath, more a forgotten track that had somehow escaped the enclosure.
Minny had always loved Pathstow Common, where her parents and their parents had grazed their animals.
Though it was partially enclosed now, there was still a way across it that meandered beautifully along a stream.
“Oh, how picturesque!” Henry exclaimed.
Minny giggled. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I mean, how nice,” he corrected hastily.
She shook her head but said no more. It was not his fault, she supposed, that sometimes he sounded like a lord with an iron bar shoved up his—
“So, I suppose that is where the saying comes from,” Henry said conversationally.
The wind gently ruffled Minny’s hair as she looked curiously at him. “Saying?”
“Strike while the iron is hot,” he said. “I always thought it was something to do with the way Jenks ironed my—I mean, the way gentlemen had their collars starched.”
Minny frowned. “Who is Jenks?”
Was it her imagination, or did Henry look discomforted? There was so much she did not know about him, after all, she thought wretchedly. Even the little snippets he let slip were usually followed by something that hid the real truth.
“Jenks is…is a manservant to a duke,” Henry said quietly as they turned a corner, heather blowing in the breeze. “He irons shirts and collars, that sort of thing.”
Minny laughed. “Goodness, what a terrible life!”
Had Henry’s arm stiffened? “Why do you say that?”
“Well, one’s time is never one’s own, is it?” she said, wondering why on earth he could not see the obvious. “I mean, he is always at the beck and call of his master, I suppose. Unless he is fortunate, I imagine the duke is an absolute bore.”
“He’s not—”
“How well do you know a duke?” Minny asked curiously.
She was not imagining this time. Henry’s expression clammed up immediately, and he looked away at the horizon.
His gaze lingered there as he said vaguely, “Oh, more than I would like. And then sometimes I realize, not at all.”
It was all nonsense as far as Minny was concerned, but the sun was shining and the wind made her feel more alive. Perhaps it was the company.
“Well, I think the phrase comes from blacksmithing,” Minny said aloud, as though the rather awkward exchange had never occurred. “Striking when the iron is cold is a waste of time, naturally, and so striking when the iron is hot—”
“—is best,” Henry finished with a nod.
His gaze had drifted to the stream which fed the Pathstow well. A pair of ducks quacked angrily for disturbing their peace as a heron flapped its wings and decided there were better places to fish.
“And so in life, too, I suppose.”
Heat seared Minny’s cheeks. Henry’s words were spoken wistfully, as though there was a great regret on his heart that he could not speak of.
What could a man like this regret? What opportunity had he missed, perhaps, or ignored entirely because he simply did not strike while the iron was hot?
Minny nodded, not trusting her voice as they meandered slowly alongside the stream.
He’ll be leaving soon.
The thought crossed her mind before she could stop it, and it hurt.
Once he had learned how to make a horse shoe properly, Minny was sure, he would be gone. What else could he possibly have to stay for? His curiosity would be sated, and he would disappear off to London, to that place of gossip and scandal, without a backward glance.
Who would want to stay here, in Pathstow, in the middle of nowhere with naught but the gossip of a small community to entertain?
Minny’s throat hurt as she swallowed. It was her home; she could conceive of no other. It was foolishness to even consider going with him…
“And what about you?”
Minny started. Henry’s warm smile caused ripples of affection—affection she should certainly not be feeling.
“What?” she said hastily.
Henry shrugged. “I just wondered whether you…well. Regret not striking, if you know what I mean.”
Minny narrowed her eyes. “We’re not talking about iron anymore, are we?”
There was a strange tension in the air. She could feel it flowing from him and into her as they continued along the common, not a single other person in view.
These were dangerous questions with dangerous answers, Minny knew. She would be a fool to answer them honestly. But the idea of lying to Henry…
“No,” she said. “Yes. Perhaps. It is difficult to tell, in hindsight…I do not know.”
Her cheeks were surely dark red as she looked at the mud splattered hem of her gown.
“I do not know.”