Battersby’s driver doffed his hat before assisting her into the coach. Clearly, he’d also been told to mind his manners.
Their progress was hampered by the busy Saturday traffic. The delay gave Sarah a chance to compose herself. She was sorry for the headmaster’s near death experience; however, she was the one who’d been wronged. Whatever Battersby intended to harangue her about, she resolved to stand her ground. She stiffened her shoulders, proud she was no longer the frightened mouse who preferred to hide in the shadows.
If the slow going had irritated the driver, he hid it well as he escorted her to the headmaster’s rooms. The few pupils they encountered bowed politely, elbowing each other. Evidently, they knew who she was.
The driver showed her into a small sitting room. Two wooden wainscot chairs, oak by the look of them, sat against one wall. A three-seater sofa upholstered with a spotted animal skin dominated the carpeted room. The reality some exotic animal had sacrificed its life for the ostentatious piece made her shudder. A tasteful, elaborately carved sideboard was the only other piece of furniture.
She waited for Battersby to arrive, but a gaunt, wrinkled-faced woman emerged through an adjoining door. Sarah at first thought she had a miniature swan on her head, but quickly realized it was a starched cap affair that designated her as the school matron. Her uniform was reminiscent of a nun’s habit, sober black, except for tight, white over-sleeves that began at the wrists and ended near her shoulders. In place of the coif, an Elizabethan ruff kept her chin pointed to the ceiling. “Headmaster will see you now,” she announced, the long, white arm gesturing to the door through which she’d appeared.
Sarah hesitated. “In his bedroom?”
The corners of matron’s mouth turned down. She, too, apparently deemed the notion improper. “Headmaster is still weak. I’ve ordered bedrest.”
Sarah had rehearsed salient rebukes to any vitriol Battersby might hurl at her. The prospect of tangling with a haughty matron who apparently held sway over the powerful man was daunting. She stepped into Battersby’s bedroom, relieved when the woman followed.
The schoolmaster sat in the center of an enormous four-poster bed, propped up by numerous pillows. His face was thinner, his pallor alarming. Dark, sunken eyes gave him the look of a cadaver. He leaned forward and beckoned her closer with a bony hand. “Mrs. North,” he said hoarsely. “I humbly beg your forgiveness.”
The effort of speaking made him cough.
Matron pursed her lips in annoyance and handed him a kerchief. “Make this quick, Headmaster.”
Sarah gaped. She hadn’t expected contrition.
When the coughing ceased, he lay back against the pillows, wiping the tears from his eyes. “My apologies. The poison has wreaked havoc on my throat.”
She had just the remedy for that, but she hesitated, leery after what had happened the last time. Nevertheless, he was obviously in great discomfort and it was her responsibility to help him. “I can send a tonic,” she offered. A naughty voice in the back of her head caused her to add, “With Giles.”
A spark of amusement flickered in his eyes for a brief moment, then he nodded his agreement. “Yes. I wish to do something to make it up to the lad. If he comes back to King Edward’s, I’ll waive the fees.”
It was tempting to retort that Giles would never consider returning to the school after his mistreatment, but the decision wasn’t hers to make. She would miss the boy, but it would solve the problem of his future. Deciding she might as well extract as much from the repentant headmaster as she could, she said, “He’s expressed an interest in university.”
“Yes, yes,” Battersby replied breathlessly. “Definitely has the ability.”
“It’s for him to decide. I’ll send the remedy this afternoon.”
He nodded.
She turned to leave, but couldn’t resist a last dig. “This time, don’t let it out of your sight once the seal is broken.”
To her surprise, he chuckled, which brought on another bout of coughing.
She excused herself while the matron fussed over him, pausing in the sitting room until the woman joined her. “You’ll recognize Giles when I send him.”
Matron nodded. “Nice lad. Not like that Addison. I expect he’ll hang for what he did.”
Sarah admitted inwardly she hadn’t given Justin Addison much thought. However, a sentence of death for what was intended as a schoolboy prank seemed extreme. “Is there to be a trial?”
“Monday. The whole town’ll be there to see a rich industrialist’s son get his comeuppance.”
“What about the other boy?”
“Him too.”
Two young lives cut short. Appalling and dangerous as their behavior was, they hardly deserved to die for their foolishness. The Headmaster had survived after all. He’d evidently done something to alienate them. Perhaps their bottoms bore the same vicious welts as Giles’.
“Justice will be done,” Matron declared, ushering Sarah to the door.
Surprisingly, the carriage was waiting to take her back to Edgbaston Street. It was convenient, but she might have preferred a long walk to rid herself of the gnawing certainty that a miscarriage of justice was about to take place.
Munro was in two minds about continuing his journey to North Wales. The only positive thing Morgan Pendray had ever passed on about his Welsh family concerned his grandmother, and it was unlikely she was still alive. Indeed, there was no guarantee he would succeed in locating any members of the Pendray family.
However, the landlord at The Swan had given him the name of a stable where he could hire a horse for a reasonable price, and the coach to Birmingham wasn’t until Tuesday.
Assured of a room at The Lion upon his return from Wales, he obtained directions from the affable ostler, and set off on a docile grey gelding, inexplicably endowed with the name Fury.
“Weren’t always a gelding,” the ostler jested when Munro looked at him askance.
He brushed off the suggestion he purchase a sou’wester, given the bright start to the day, confident his cloak would ward off the chill. In the unlikely event of rain, he had his hat.
It occurred to him three hours later that he’d been too long away from Scotland. He’d forgotten how quickly the weather could turn once a man ventured into wild moorlands. The drizzle that had begun halfway to the Welsh border was now a downpour, and he was soaked to the skin.
After crossing into Wales, he followed the Severn south, as he’d been instructed, and eventually came to the low-lying town of Y Trallwng, aptly named as the marshy land. That was the extent of the Welsh he’d gleaned from his father. The long hill he’d barely been able to see through the mist as he journeyed across the border seemed to end just east of the town.
He halted in front of a church—a good place to ask for directions. It was large for a small town and the sturdy stone tower testified to its construction during turbulent times. He dismounted and took the steps two at a time, shaking the water from his hat before entering.
Once inside, he paused, pleasantly surprised. The nave looked newer than the rest of the ancient edifice. The place seemed deserted, so he wandered down the south aisle, finding it odd that the chancel wasn’t at the end of the nave, but rather tucked to the north of it. There was definitely fodder for the historian here, if he could find someone to tell him about it.
He hesitated at the altar rail, unwilling to investigate the vestry without an invitation. He was about to call out when a diminutive man dressed in a well-worn cassock emerged. Munro introduced himself before the elderly priest could launch into a stream of Welsh. “Munro Pendray,” he said, holding out his hand. “I dinna speak Welsh, unfortunately, but I’m looking for members of my family who live in these parts.”
The cleric made no effort to accept the handshake. His narrowed eyes raked Munro from the top of his sopping wet head to his sodden boots, and thence followed the trail of rainwater the length of the nave.
“My apologies,” Munro said, add
ing lamely, “’Tis pouring rain out there.”
In this unpredictable climate, surely he wasn’t the first rain-drenched person to arrive.
The priest’s eyes widened, as if Munro’s words had just now penetrated. “Pendray? But you’re a Scot.”
Wrinkling his nose against the pungent odor of a garment that cried out to be laundered, he patiently explained his father’s odyssey and how he’d ended up in Scotland as the Earl of Glenheath.
“Morgan? Aneurin’s brother?”
“Aye. Does my uncle still live hereabouts?”
“No.”
“The family moved away?”
“Died.”
His father had warned him the Welsh were people of few words. “All of them?”
“Aneurin. And his wife.”
“How long ago?”
The priest scratched his balding head. “Seven years, maybe.”
“So, I’ve had a wasted journey.”
The little man looked at him as if he’d lost his wits. “Their sons still live up at the manor.”
His spirits lifted as he anticipated a warm family welcome, a hearty fire, a cozy bed. “Can ye give me directions?”
The eyes became narrow slits again. “Best you take a room at The Mermaid first, just in case.”
His hopes faltered. “In case of what?”
The Welshman finally offered to shake his hand. “Father Idris.” He ushered Munro to sit in the front pew, then sat beside him. “The Pendrays aren’t well liked here. They keep to themselves and don’t welcome visitors.”
“Even family?”
“I don’t recollect any family coming to visit before, but you don’t want to ride all the way out there in the rain only to be turned away and not have a room waiting at The Mermaid.”
A few passing remarks his father had made resurfaced. Morgan had been glad to leave Wales because his father and brother treated their workers like slaves, some of them young children. Apparently, things hadn’t changed. “They still operate the drift mines?”
Father Idris nodded. “Up on Cefn Digoll. You saw the Long Mountain on your way into the town.”
Munro bristled. It seemed he had people in his own family who thought nothing of exploiting children. The Mermaid suddenly sounded preferable to spending time with unpleasant relatives.
Remaining in the church and learning more about it seemed more appealing. However, the damp was seeping into his bones. “I’ll do as ye suggest and dry off at the inn. ’Twill be dark soon. The morrow might bring clearer skies for my visit to Long Mountain.”
“I doubt it,” the priest replied. “If you decide not to linger with your kinfolk, you can always come back and explore the church. I sense you’ve a hankering to know more about it.”
Chuckling, Munro stood and shook the priest’s hand again, listening carefully to the directions to The Mermaid.
Sarah directed the driver to drop her off at the Bull Ring market where she purchased two stewed capon legs and four squares of gyngerbrede. Decisions had to be made over lunch and she wanted Giles well-fed before he said yeah or nay to returning to the school. As well, he might feel more positive about delivering the remedy if his belly was full.
Giles grinned when she entered the shop. The sweating Beadle looked harried. He probably wasn’t used to working for long periods. He reached into his pocket and handed over the takings. She thanked him profusely. It wouldn’t hurt to stay in his good graces. He eyed the packets of food she carried, but she drew the line at feeding a man who likely made more coin peddling his influence that she would make in a lifetime.
She locked the door behind him.
Giles rolled his eyes. “Honestly, Mrs. North, he spent more time chiding people for their complaints than doing anything to help.”
“But he did prepare remedies?”
“A few, but I think it’s been a while since he did any compounding. Checked the book over and over before he sold one. Wouldn’t let me help.”
“Well, thank you for putting up with him. Let’s go upstairs and have a well-earned lunch. We have things to discuss.”
His eyes widened when she served up the capon. He said a hurried grace, picked up the leg and sank his teeth into it.
She picked at her food, waiting until he’d polished off the leg before she presented Battersby’s offer.
He folded his arms across his chest and sulked. “I don’t trust him.”
Truth be told, neither did she, but the boy would have a better life in the long run if he got the chance to go to university. “His illness seems to have softened his demeanor. At least give it some thought.”
She unwrapped the gyngerbrede, hoping he didn’t perceive the treat as a means of convincing him. He mustn’t get the impression she wanted to be rid of him.
He tried hard not to look at the sweet, but finally reached for a square. “Mind if I take this downstairs?” he asked. “I think better if I’m alone.”
She lingered, savoring the moist sweetness of the confection, tempted to eat two squares. It had been a long time since she’d overindulged in anything. However, her frugal nature won out. She tidied up, saving the last two squares for later.
Giles was standing by the door, ready to unlock it when she regained the shop. It seemed he preferred not to discuss the matter of the school, so she nodded. There’d be time enough after they closed up.
They were busy all afternoon. As usual, most of their clientele were women. Men tended not to seek help, even for their own ailments, preferring to send their wives.
Several commented that they’d returned after discovering a man in charge of the shop earlier in the day. They made their reluctance to discuss female complaints with the Beadle quite clear. She didn’t blame them, but it underscored how significant her role was in the community. If she left to go to Scotland…
Giles declined to join her for supper after they locked up. She eventually convinced him to accept another square of gyngerbrede, but he bade her goodnight and took it into the workroom.
She ate alone upstairs, exhausted by the events of the day and the questions swirling in her mind.
Two youths faced a trial that might result in their deaths.
She wanted the best for Giles but worried he might agree to returning to the school because he thought it would ease the path for her and Munro.
What to do about the shop?
She undressed and climbed into bed to nibble at the gyngerbrede, wondering where Munro was. She missed his warmth and his humor. He would know how to soothe her troubled spirit. She dozed off praying for his safe return.
Sunday
Munro broke his fast in the dining room at The Mermaid. It was the first time in his life he’d eaten boiled mutton so early in the day and his belly rebelled at finishing the heap on his plate. He wasn’t surprised to be the only guest eating breakfast in what was more of a passageway than a dining room.
He was obliged to polish the utensils with his kerchief since there was no napkin, a sharp reminder of his first meeting with Sarah. He closed his eyes, wondering what she was doing this Sunday morning. They were miles apart, yet he sensed she was worried about something—probably whether he’d return. Mayhap, that was the kind of connection Mary Ward had nurtured between her and Henry during the years of separation. He was confident Sarah was thinking of him.
The innkeeper’s demeanor towards him had deteriorated as soon as he’d given his name upon arriving the previous evening. Hopefully, the garbled directions to the Pendray estate would be easier to follow once he set out. He got the feeling the scowling fellow wanted him to get lost.
He’d asked for his horse to be saddled, but when he reached the stables there was no one about. Fury turned a weary eye on him. To his relief, the saddle still sat atop the low wall of the stall—a miracle since there was nothing to stop a thief making off with it.
Ten minutes later, he paused to catch his breath, realizing it was a long while since he’d saddled his own horse. At
home, grooms took care of the task. Maybe it was time to start doing more things for himself.
His route took him by the church. People were gathering for Sunday services. Father Idris waved from the steps. It was tempting to dismount and go inside, but that would be putting off the journey, and he didn’t relish explaining himself to all and sundry when they discovered he was a Pendray.
The contrast between the palpable hatred of folk in Wales and the deep respect of the people in Kilmer was a sharp reminder of the impact a man’s deeds had on his reputation. He’d be wise to remember that when he inherited the earldom.
He embarked on the slow, steady climb of Long Mountain, confident he had the makings of a good earl, especially with Sarah at his side.
Sarah had never sought spiritual guidance, wanting to avoid clerical censure as the daughter of a regicide and a wife who wished her husband to the devil on a daily basis.
However, those resentments belonged in the past. Her mother had remained deeply religious in spite of everything. Perhaps answers to the worries that plagued Sarah were to be found at St. Martin’s. Reverend Grove was a kindly man who had never censured her or her parents.
She put it to Giles as they ate oatmeal for breakfast. “Would you like to accompany me to church this morning?”
He looked askance. “I didn’t know you were a church-goer. Am I supposed to offer a prayer of thanks for Mr. Battersby’s offer?”
She had deliberately refrained from mentioning the school, so his remark was hurtful. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Giles. The decision about the future is yours to make. I have worries of my own.”
He scooped out another spoonful of oatmeal, then paused. “If you’re worried about Mr. Pendray, there’s no need. He’ll be back as promised, and you’ll get married.”
The inevitable could no longer be avoided. “You realize that will mean moving to Scotland.”
He finished off his breakfast before replying. “I can’t go to Scotland if I’m at King Edward’s.”
It was a child’s reasoning. She was no closer to knowing what he might decide, and wondered about the wisdom of entrusting such an important decision to a child. It made sense for his future that he return to the school, but that wasn’t where his heart lay. However, the notion of taking him to Scotland opened up another hornet’s nest. How would Munro feel? And his parents?
Kingslayer's Daughter (The House of Pendray Book 2) Page 16