Chapter 4 #3
Stranger than who or what? Dropping articles such as the, a, or an seemed to be typical of the local parlance.
“Swidhelm,” Richard said, though the title was stranger to him than any obscure Portuguese turn of phrase had ever been. “Biding at Shepherd’s Glen. My mother was raised in Wellsborough.” She hadn’t shared even the name of her native county with him, much less her home village. Why not?
“Vee-cont, ye be.”
“I have that honor.”
Richard also had the honor of consuming his sandwiches under the watchful eye of Fergus, who observed him silently bite by bite. Gowan flitted by every two minutes and offered to bring anything else his lordship might need.
Richard needed answers. Why had his mother left this sweet little village by the Dales? What did the locals recall of her? What sort of man had Blackstock been truly, and for that matter, what of old Tuffington, Richard’s grandpapa? What of Grandmama Tuffington? Cousins? Aunts? Uncles?
He was prepared to wage a one-man inquisition on those topics, though reconnoitering the terrain of necessity came first.
Reconnoitering and being reconnoitered. Several serving maids found it necessary to scrub spotless tables in the vicinity of the snug. Sandwich by sandwich, the common became not quite crowded, but certainly well patronized.
Richard finished his food and sipped at his peculiar-tasting ale. Heather ale, of all things. Not quite as bitter as ginger lemonade, but only slightly less astringent.
“I don’t suppose you knew my mother?” Richard asked his companion in the snug. “Marie Tuffington. She married Abernathy Blackstock.”
Fergus peered under the table. The sound of wood scraping against flagstones followed as he repositioned his footstool.
“Ne’er ’aird of ’er. No Tuffingtons in these parts. Blackstock owned t’ Glen. He be dead years ago. Wife too. Died in childbed, or as good as.”
“I own the Glen now.” To say that aloud, in the village inn, felt both ridiculous and necessary.
“If ye say so. Gowan, must a man beg to ’ave his pint?” Fergus banged his empty tankard on the plank table. “Parched, I be.”
“So how does milord find the Glen?” Gowan asked when he brought the requisite pint. “In a general manner of speaking, that is?”
“A very attractive property,” Richard said, which was true enough. “The house could use some maintenance, but the grounds are lovely, and the company to be had there is very agreeable.” A bit frustrating, too, truth be told.
“Good land,” somebody remarked from near the dartboard. “Plenty of water. Some bottom acreage to go with it.”
“Pretty views,” another added. “Best in the shire.”
“Fine sheep,” said a third, “and plenty of ’em.”
An exchange of platitudes was adequate as far as initial overtures were concerned. Richard finished his ale, rather than leave himself open to charges of rudeness, and tried to pay for the meal, but Gowan would not hear of it.
“Welcome to The Happy Rooster, so to speak. All are welcome here.” A murmur of consent went through the room, though so strongly did Gowan emphasize his own hospitality that Richard had the impression some were not at all welcome.
You imagine slights where none are intended.
“Thank you for a fine meal,” Richard said, tapping his hat onto his head. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
He departed with a sense of having escaped the land of the fairies. Northern folk were known to be reserved and reticent, but he’d expected some prying from old ladies or even a few ventured reminiscences about old Mr. Tuffington.
Instead, he’d been complimented on his sheep and his ruddy bucolic views.
The afternoon sun was glaringly bright, the goats no longer on the green when Richard emerged from the inn. A very young maid, blond hair in two ratty braids, was scrubbing the flagstone steps. She paused when Richard went by and watched him with a solemnity beyond her years.
And well beyond the occasion. “Good day,” Richard said. “What is your name?”
“Baines, sir.” She remained on the flagstones, looking up at him with a pale little face.
“Baines, are you familiar with Fergus?”
“Aye, sir. Everybody knows owd Fairgus.”
“What is his last name?”
“He be a Fothergill. They come from Newcastle.”
“Recently?”
She scratched her nose. “Two hundred year back or so. My gran knows all that.”
“Thank you.”
Richard collected the horses from the livery, and rather than ride one and lead the other, he chose to remain on foot, leading both. The village was less than a mile from Shepherd’s Glen, and he needed every inch of that mile to recover from the peculiar experiences of the last hour.
Word of his arrival had crossed the green within minutes, of course. He’d expected that, but only Gowan had assayed even a few polite questions. Nobody had questioned Richard’s right to the title. Nobody had volunteered an opinion about anything.
No tacit warnings to the new lord of the manor, no jokes among the elders, no flirtations from the maids…
And old man Fothergill with the faultless recall hadn’t even remembered Mama’s name.
All very odd, and disquieting as hell.