She fought back a laugh and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes. I suppose we have indisputable proof that he is not a skilled player.”
He chuckled, and her gaze fixed on his face in fascination, as though just now seeing him for the first time. He sobered, feeling unusually self-conscious under her rapt regard.
“You have a nice laugh. You should do it more often,” she murmured, and then blinked, fresh color staining her cheeks. With a small shake of her head, as though dismissing such a fanciful thought, she shrugged. “You could always take a nap. My brother usually naps in the afternoon.”
“I don’t think I’ve napped since I wore nappies. And do I remind you of your brother?”
“No,” she allowed, her lips twitching. “Not in any way.”
“Then I suggest you do not assume that his pastimes are the same as mine. Now.” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly. They’d conversed long enough. Flirted, really. If he was to keep his vow and keep his hands off her, then he needed to put an end to that. He looked away from her face, scanning the landscape. “Where are we off to next?”
Chapter Twelve
A week into Silas Masters’s stay with them, Gwen Cully arrived early one morning.
“You are just in time to join us for breakfast,” Mercy declared from the front door with a wave and a smile.
Gwen clambered down from her wagon with practiced ease and hopped to the ground. “I will never turn down a meal, especially prepared by a cook as marvelous as yours.”
Mercy smiled as Gwen tied off the big bay and moved into the house, her steps as solid as a man’s on the entryway floor.
Everything about Gwen Cully was solid.
Standing nearly six feet tall, she was stronger than the average man. Even without her unique size, as Shropshire’s blacksmith, she was made strong from laboring hours a day with a hammer and anvil.
Mercy took her hat and gloves and set them on a side table. Gwen wore trousers as she always did. Ever since she was a girl working in her family’s smithy, she had eschewed the normal trappings of womanhood. No one in town ever gave her a second glance, so accustomed to the sight were they. It was normal. More uncharacteristic was the sight of her in a dress or skirts, although that did happen occasionally. For church or one of the Blankenship balls she would break routine and don a dress.
“My apologies on taking so long to deliver your order. Since the Duke of Penning took residence I have been inundated with work. The new duke is making a great many improvements at the hall. Too many for his staff alone to manage and he has commissioned me for several projects.”
“I am happy to hear your business is flourishing.”
“It is at that.” Gwen nodded, but there was an edge of weariness to her voice. “More than I alone can manage. If only I could find reliable help. My last apprentice ran off with a troupe of musicians passing through town. And the one before that decided he could do better for himself in a bigger city and left me for Yorkshire.”
They entered the dining room where everyone was gathered.
Silas pushed up from the table at their arrival. Bede followed suit with much slower progress, only halfway rising from his chair and then dropping back into his seat gracelessly to then continue shoveling sausages into his mouth.
“Gwen, er—Miss Cully,” Mercy corrected herself as she motioned to Silas. “This is our guest, Mr. Masters. He is an . . . acquaintance of my brother, from London.” Mercy winced at that mangled introduction.
“Miss Cully.” Silas inclined his head and, unlike her brother, remained standing until Gwen took her seat, eagerly accepting the platter of sweet buns and crumpets Gladys passed to her.
“Funny how you always arrive at mealtime.”
“Nothing funny about it, Miss Gladys,” Gwen declared with no remorse. “It is quite deliberate as I am a great admirer of your cooking. I have a woman help with my uncle a few hours a day. She is not very handy in the kitchen though. My uncle and I must endure my lackluster culinary efforts when I come in from work at the end of the day.”
Gladys shook her head in sympathy. “I will have to send a basket home with you.”
“You are too kind, Miss Gladys. My uncle will enjoy that greatly.”
“The least we can do. You do such fine work for us.”
“Indeed.” Mercy nodded.
“What is it you do, Miss Cully?” Silas asked.
Gwen stared at him levelly, almost coldly, as though braced for his censure. Mercy supposed she was accustomed to that from strangers—from people outside of Shropshire who did not accept or embrace the notion of a female blacksmith.
There would always be people afraid of those who were different, of those who went against their concept of what was normal. Mercy understood that. She had her own experience with that kind of narrow-mindedness.
Papa had known how capable she was at running the farm and the household. She might have been young at the time, just seventeen when he fell ill, but she took over managing everything. Bede stayed away at school whilst she supervised all matters with skill and competence. Papa witnessed that. He knew. He saw, even from his sickbed—and he’d still left everything to Bede. Because that was what people did. That was tradition. That was normal.
If Papa had been more open to the idea of pushing beyond typical expectations, of going against custom, he might have left the farm to Mercy and not Bede.
Everything would be different then. They would not suffer as they did. She would not live in a perpetual state of worry.
You would never have met Silas Masters. Silas Masters would not be sitting at her table this very moment. Inexplicably, she frowned. Bowing her head, she focused her attention on her plate.
“I am a blacksmith,” Gwen finally answered. “I brought some tools for Mercy. A new set of scythes she requested and I repaired some other tools in need of attention.”
“Oh.” Silas blinked and it was the extent of his reaction. His surprise was mild, but no less apparent. Gwen Cully could well be the only female blacksmith in all of England. Of course he was surprised, but he did well to temper his reaction. Not everyone was so polite. At least his lip did not curl in distaste.
Bede, however, did not moderate his reaction. Even though he already knew that she was Shropshire’s blacksmith, his nostrils flared with disdain and he made a grunt of disapproval.
“And what is your business, Mr. Masters?” Gwen returned the question. “Or are you a gentleman of leisure?” Gwen sent a pointed stare Bede’s way, clearly implying: like this worthless sot.
“I wish I was a gentleman of leisure.” Silas bestowed a dazzling smile on Gwen, and Mercy felt an unfamiliar stab of jealousy. This was different than how she felt when Grace had flirted with him. Grace was a child and her sister and he professed to be uninterested in her.
In contrast, Gwen Cully was a beautiful and complex woman. Definitely not a child.
Was she to his taste?
He had claimed Mercy was not to his taste. Was Gwen Cully then? With her lovely golden hair and endless legs and generous breasts that pressed against her blouse and leather vest in the most enticing fashion? Her well-shaped derriere was also gloriously and amply displayed in her trousers.
Grace propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin in the palm of her hand, locking her gaze on Silas dreamily. “What occupies your days? And nights, Mr. Masters?”