Thomas jerked. His fork slid off the table and rattled onto the floor.
Silas sat forward. The front legs of his chair came down with a thump. “I thought not.”
Thomas stood so suddenly his chair crashed over. “Bennet isn’t here, is he? And not likely to be here anytime soon.”
Silas pursed his lips at that.
“I’m your oldest son. This will be my land someday. Let me try to talk to Lady Georgina.”
“Why?” Silas cocked his head.
“You can go there and take Pye by force,” Thomas said. “But it isn’t likely to endear her to us. And while she’s our neighbor, it behooves us to remain on good terms. He’s only her steward. I can’t believe she’d start a feud over the man.”
“Aye. Well, I don’t suppose you can make it any worse.” Silas drained his ale and banged down his cup. “I’ll give you a couple of days to try and talk sense into the woman.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Silas ignored his son’s gratitude. “And when you fail, I’ll break down the doors of Woldsly if I have to and drag Harry Pye out by his neck.”
HARRY SHIVERED AS HE GUIDED the bay mare up the track leading to his cottage. In his rush to question the Granville farmers this morning, he hadn’t bothered to take a cloak. Now it was well after sundown, and the fall nights were chilly. Overhead, the leaves in the trees rattled in the wind.
He should’ve waited and let Lady Georgina say whatever she was going to say this morning. But the realization that someone was actively trying to implicate him in the sheep killings had spurred him from the room. What was happening? There had been vicious rumors for weeks that he was the killer. Gossip that had started almost from the moment the first dead sheep had been found a month ago. But Harry had brushed aside talk. A man couldn’t be arrested for talk. Evidence was a different matter.
His cottage stood off the main drive to Woldsly Manor, built, God only knew why, in a little copse. Across the drive was the gatekeeper’s cottage, a much bigger building. He could have turned the gatekeeper out and taken possession of the larger house when he had first came to Woldsly. A steward, after all, was higher in status than a mere gatekeeper. But the man had a wife and family, and, the smaller cottage was farther back from the drive and hidden in the trees. It had more privacy. And he was a man who treasured his privacy.
He swung down from the mare and led her to the tiny lean-to against the back of the cottage. Harry lit the lantern hanging inside the door and took off the horse’s saddle and bridle. Weariness of body and spirit dragged at his limbs. But he carefully rubbed down the mare, watered her, and gave her an extra scoop of oats. His father had drummed into him at an early age the importance of taking care of one’s animals.
With a final pat for the already dozing mare, he picked up the lantern and left the stable. He walked around the cottage on the well-worn path toward the door. As he neared the front door, his step faltered. A light flickered through his cottage window.
Harry put out his lantern. He backed into the underbrush beside the path and hunkered down to think. From the size of the light, it looked to be a single candle. It didn’t move, so it probably stood on a table inside. Maybe Mrs. Burns had left the candle burning for him. The gatekeeper’s wife sometimes came to clean and leave him a meal. But Mrs. Burns was a thrifty woman, and Harry doubted she would waste a candle—even a tallow candle like the ones he used—on an empty cottage.
Someone waited for him inside.
And wouldn’t that be a surprise after arguing with Granville this morning? If they meant to jump him, surely they would’ve taken care to wait in darkness? After all, he hadn’t suspected anything until he’d seen the light. Had his cottage been dark, he’d have gamboled up, as trusting as a newborn lamb. Harry gave a soft snort. So. They—whoever they were—were very assured, waiting for him in his own home. They figured that even with the light showing so plainly from his windows, he’d be stupid or brash enough to walk right in.
And maybe they were right.
Harry set the lantern down, took the knife from his boot, and rose silently from his crouch. He stole to the cottage wall. His left hand held the knife by his thigh. Quietly he skimmed along the stone wall until he was at the door. He grasped the door handle and pressed the latch slowly. He took a breath and flung open the door.
“Mr. Pye, I had begun to think you would never come home.” Lady Georgina knelt by his fireplace, looking quite unperturbed by his sudden entrance. “I’m afraid I’m hopeless at lighting fires, otherwise I would’ve made some tea.” She rose and dusted off her knees.
“My lady.” He bent and brushed his left hand over the top of his boot, sheathing the knife. “Naturally I’m honored to have your company, but I’m also surprised. What are you doing in my cottage?” He shut the door behind him and walked to the fireplace, picking up the burning candle on the way.
She stepped aside as he crouched by the hearth. “I fear I detect some sarcasm in your tone.”
“Do you?”
“Mmm. And I am at a loss to understand why. After all, it was you who walked away from me this morning.”
The lady was peeved.
Harry’s lips curved as he lit the already laid fire. “I apologize most humbly, my lady.”
“Humph. A less humble man I have yet to meet.” From the sound of her voice, she was wandering the room behind him.
What did she see? What did this little cottage look like to her? In his mind’s eye, he reviewed the inside of his cottage: a wooden table and chairs, well made but hardly the cushioned luxury of the manor’s sitting rooms. A desk where he kept the record books and ledgers of his job. A set of shelves with some coarse pottery dishes—two plates, two cups, a bowl, a teapot, forks and spoons, and an iron cooking pot. A door off to one side that was no doubt open, so she could see his narrow bed, the hooks that held his clothes, and the dresser with the earthenware washbasin and pitcher.
He stood and turned.
Lady Georgina was peering into his bedroom.
He sighed silently and walked to the table. On it sat a crock covered with a plate. He lifted the plate and looked inside the pot. Mutton stew left by Mrs. Burns, cold now, but welcome nonetheless.
He went back to the hearth to fill the iron kettle with water and swing it over the fire. “Do you mind if I eat, my lady? I haven’t had my supper yet.”
She turned and stared at him as though her mind has been elsewhere. “Please. Do go ahead. I wouldn’t want you to accuse me of withholding food.”