Pulling out the finished poker, he surveyed his work, the finely curved handle making the piece not only useful but elegant. He held it up for Peter’s inspection.
“That’s fine.” Peter nodded, a tiny grin creeping over his lips. “Shall I start on the haft for George Allen’s shovel? He do wish it mended by Saturday. Then there’s the handle for Will Trigam’s plough.”
“Aye. I’m away to Launcegrave this afternoon to deliver Mistress Rundell’s poker … and conduct some other business.”
“Must be glad business for ye to wear that look.” Peter grinned at him over the slack tub.
Josiah scrubbed a hand across his face. Was he really so obvious? “’Tis for Mistress Hendrick. A surprise.”
“I be that glad ye wed her, if ye don’t mind my saying so.” He looked up, hair falling into his eyes. “She sings nice. And her tattie pie is better than me own mother’s.”
Josiah chuckled. “I’ll be back in a few hours.” He grabbed towel and soap from his pile of belongings and headed toward the pump. As September neared its midpoint, the nights grew chillier, but warmth still pervaded the afternoon air.
I’m glad too. Perhaps more than I’ve a right to be.
Setting soap and towel on the grass, he began to pull off his shirt.
“Finished for the day already?”
He started at Elowyn’s voice and hastily pulled his shirt back down over his chest. She stood on the grass, two mugs in hand.
“I’m away to Launcegrave.”
“Oh. I was just bringing you something to drink.” She handed him the mug, their fingers brushing over the handle. Wind stirred her hair. She’d taken to wearing it up, a kerchief banded round it, loose tendrils falling round her cheeks. With every day, she seemed to grow lovelier.
“Thank you.” He downed the water in two gulps, relishing the coolness, and swiped a hand across his mouth. “I’m sure Peter will appreciate it too. What have you been about this morning?” He handed her the empty mug.
“Laundry.”
“Did you not need help managing the kettle?” He’d always helped Mary. ’Twas no small task to haul water for washing, heat it in a great kettle on a fire outside, then beat the clothes with a wooden mallet until all the dirt and grime had loosened. Fresh water had to be gotten for rinsing then the clothes run through the mangler to wring out excess water.
Elowyn shook her head. “I’ve managed for years and am not like to stop now.” Her tone was matter of fact. “It’s all washed, and drying on the line.” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear with a reddened hand. “I felt almost idle, with so little of it to do, I washed the bedclothes too. I used to take in laundry, when …” She didn’t finish the sentence.
Truly, she must be stronger than she looked. Her slight frame didn’t appear sturdy enough to accommodate the labor of a laundry maid. Her father had been no kind of man to let her work thus without lifting a finger.
“Will you be wanting something to eat before you go? Because of the laundry, I haven’t prepared anything, so it might be awhile.” Hesitancy flickered in her gaze. As if he were her master and would scold her for being remiss in her duties. Thankfully, in the past two weeks, the look had dwindled from fear to hesitancy. And each time he coaxed a smile from her, warmth unfurled in his chest.
“Nay. Not hungry. Is there anything I can fetch you while I’m in town?” He’d offer to take her with him, so she could choose household stuffs for herself, but ’twould ruin his surprise.
She bit her lip, a sure sign she was debating whether or not to voice her request.
“Write up a list. I’ll collect it after I’ve made myself decent enough to set foot upon your floors.” It had taken three times of him tramping across her freshly scrubbed floors before he took the consternation on her face to mean he’d best see his boots were clean or take them off at the door.
She flushed. His grin broadened. Unsuccessfully hiding a smile, she turned and walked toward the house. He stared after her. Her hips swayed as she walked, Mary’s dress altered so it molded to her slighter frame. He swallowed.
Two weeks of marriage had slipped by, the familiarity of his old life blending with the newfound cadence of Elowyn’s presence. Flaky pasties for the evening meal, a drink of something cool brought to the smithy, wildflowers in a vase on the dining table.
The way her nose crinkled as she laughed at Peter’s jokes. Her soft singing as she washed the dishes. The rapt wonder in her gaze as they watched the sunset at Althea Beach. Her hand in his as they sat round the table while he blessed the food. Looking up after, to find her studying him with a hint of a smile, something indecipherable in her sea-hued gaze.
Frigid water poured over his skin as he cranked the pump.
After Mary’s death, he’d thought he’d never again have a heart whole enough to bestow upon another. Now, here he was, after a union made in the most improbable of circumstances.
Finding himself slowly, day by day … giving his heart to her.
Elowyn’s needle slid through cotton as she mended a hole in the sleeve of one of Josiah’s shirts by the light of fire and candle. She’d noticed the rent while hanging clothes to dry this afternoon. Now, several hours later, the cotton baked by the sun, she could rest her back and turn her hand to a less arduous task.
The quietness of this new life settled in her soul like a balm. Days of work that left her with a satisfied weariness, walks along the beach watching the sun sink lower, ribboning the waves in gold, nights curled up on a real mattress in a sturdy bed. The folk who stopped to drop by items for repair, request a piece made, or pick up a finished one had been curious when Josiah introduced her as Mistress Hendrick, but mostly friendly. On walks to the beach, those they passed greeted Josiah with tips of the hat and respectful greetings or hearty handshakes and friendly words, stirring something akin to pride in her chest that ’twas she on his arm. When she’d walked beside Tom Brody, they’d been greeted with naught but derision.
Most noticeable of all, Josiah never stumbled in with drink on his breath, nor fell asleep at the table with gin dribbling down his chin. Not once had she seen him drink anything stronger than coffee. And she recognized the scent of liquor well enough that he’d not have been able to mask it.
Aye. ’Twas a peace she knew not how to reckon with, but had begun to bask in nonetheless.
The door creaked open. Josiah came in, arms laden with packages. She set aside her mending and hastened to him. He laid the parcels on the table. He wore his gray coat, his tricorn. Clothes betwixt the garb of a gentleman and a smith.
“It looks like your trip was a success.”
“So it was.” He handed her a parcel, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Open it.”
“Why? What is it?” She turned it over in her hands uncertainly.
“Open it and see.” From a man who measured every word and showed his feelings but moderately, he looked fair to bursting with anticipation.
She untied the twine, letting it fall to the table as she undid the wrapping. That too fell away as fabric unfolded in her hands.
“’Tis a cloak,” she breathed. Of deep green, thick and buttery soft, the ribbons at the throat a match to the rest. She’d seen ladies decked in such garments, but had never dreamed they were so warm to the touch, so smooth and fine.
“’Tis yours.”
“Nay, Josiah.” She shook her head. “’Tis too fine … too grand for the likes of me.” What miner’s daughter glimpsing the finery of the prosperous hadn’t imagined wearing such a thing in her heart of hearts? As a girl, she’d been no exception, gazing wistfully as open carriages bearing ladies and lords passed by. As a woman, she’d thought she’d outgrown such fancies. She smoothed her fingertips across the ribbon.
She hadn’t.
“Do you like it?”
“Aye, but—”
“Then it’s yours.” His eyes crinkled with a smile. “As are the contents of those other two parcels.” He pointed
to the largest one. “Come. Let’s have a look.”
As she undid the wrapping, a gasp escaped.
“Hold it up.”
She did. ’Twas a gown of burgundy, lace trimming the square neckline. Though simple in cut and made of cotton, not silk or velvet, never had something so new, so beautiful been hers. Her breath caught as she held the dress against herself, turning so the skirt swayed.
“Well? Does it suit?” His voice brought her gaze up.
Her first instinct was to fling her arms around him. She took a step toward him then stopped herself. ’Twould be childish to do so, hardly seemly.
“It’s beyond anything.” Did the fullness in her heart make its way into her voice by half? Carefully, she folded the dress and laid it in its wrapping.
“There’s another parcel there.”
Like a child at Christmas, she tore it open. A pair of fine stockings and embroidered garters caught her gaze before she flushed and folded the parcel, realizing exclaiming over underthings would hardly be proper. She refolded the parcel.
“But why?”
“Cannot a man buy presents for his wife?”
She stilled at the gentleness with which he said the word. Wife. When she’d wed him, she’d thought to be a well-treated servant, given food and shelter in exchange for work, but little else. Certainly not luxuries like cloaks and gowns.
“I suppose so.” She flushed, but surely ’twas from the firelight.
His boots sounded on the floorboards as he crossed to her, standing a pace away. “I know naught about these matters, fashion and suchlike. But I do know you cannot go to church in that old dress, and your other gown is little better.” His scent overwhelmed her senses, wind, soap, a hint of leather. Close as they stood, bathed in firelight, she noticed the nick on the corner of his freshly shaven jaw, the shades of dark and light in his eyes. “I didn’t want you to feel out of place,” he said softly.
“Thank you.” The words seemed gossamer in the face of his kindness toward her. Surely there was something she could do for him.
“I’ll be going to church come Sunday. I hoped … with the clothes, you might join me.”
She nodded. “I’d be glad to.”
Something she could do for him …
Did she dare? Would he take offense if she asked? But—she took in the ragged ends of his hair—it truly needed to be tamed.
“Shall I … would you like me to … that is … I really do think I ought to trim your hair.” This time, she couldn’t blame the fire for the fierce heat of her blush.
His eyes widened, then a grin crept across his lips. “You do, do you?”
“Aye.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I do.”
He took off his tricorn and ran a hand through his crop of unruly strands as if assessing its state. “Very well then. Saturday night, you may do just that.”
Chapter 8
As he sat by the fire, hair wet from his bath, a towel draped round his shoulders, Josiah questioned yet again the wisdom of agreeing to Elowyn’s request. And kept on questioning as she approached, hair damp and loose about her shoulders, a pair of scissors in one hand, a comb in the other.
He glanced at her. “You’re sure you know what you’re doing?”
She nodded, firelight soft on her features. “Of course I’m sure. I tended to my … Tom Brody’s many a time. Now, turn round.” ’Twas the first time she’d given him an order, especially in a voice that brooked no refusal. He instantly obeyed.
“So long as you’re sure.”
A giggle escaped. “What are you so afraid of? Are you Samson, afeared you’ll lose your strength?”
He liked the sound of her laughter, even if ’twas at his expense. “Of course not. It’s just …” He frowned, unsure how to phrase it. “I usually manage myself. Not since my mother has anyone ever …” His words trailed away. Did this woman ever have a way of making him tongue-tied, stumbling over the simplest of sentences. If she knew, she’d likely think him a half-wit.
“I understand.” She worked the comb through the thick strands of his hair. Her hands were gentle, and as they every so often brushed his neck, the side of his jaw, he relaxed.
For long minutes, the only sounds were the snip of her scissors and the crackle of the fire. ’Twould have been a peaceful way to fall asleep, had he not been acutely aware of every time her fingertips brushed his skin.
“Have you always been a blacksmith?”
“I learned the trade when I was sixteen.”
“Your father taught you?”
“He took to the trade in time, but nay, ’twas not he. Ned Coggin, the smith here before me. I worked alongside him for two years.”
“Keep your head still and tilt it forward, so I can make the back even.”
He dipped his chin toward his chest. Her lavender scent washed over him as she bent toward him, scissors snipping. He drew in a breath of it, then another. ’Twas delicate yet defined. Like the woman it belonged to.
“So what did your family do before blacksmithing?”
A piece of wet hair fell down his collar, making his back itch. Yet ’twas her question, not the tickle in his back that made him uncomfortable.
“We were in mining. My grandfather and father both.”
“What changed? You can put your head up now. I’m done with the back.” She walked round and clipped at his right side.
“After my grandfather’s death, the mine fell on hard times. We were attempting to break through to a new level when we suffered a flood, which took months of time and resources to restore. During which the workers labored for not even an ounce of copper. My father did the best he could, and truly, threw everything he had into restoring our fortunes. But in the end, it came to defeat. He—” He swallowed, the words wooden on his tongue. “He wagered the mine on a card game, in the hopes of regaining enough to pay part of his debts. It did not end well.” He jumped as the scissors nipped a corner of his ear.
“I’m sorry, Josiah.” Her hands stilled. He turned to look at her and sensed ’twas not for snipping him that she apologized. Compassion shone in her gaze. “Misery piled upon misery. ’Tis not an easy load to bear.”
“Nay, but learn to bear it we must. For misery is part and parcel with life.” His ear tingled, though the skin hadn’t broken. He stopped himself from rubbing it.
She moved to the other side and resumed trimming, curlings of hair falling onto the towel and to the ground. “What happened then?”
“My father’s mind was in no state to think of work, so I filled the gap. Old Ned Coggin took me on. We sold our house, rented a room in town. My … mother died.” The door he stared at became a canvas, painting pictures he’d rather not see. His father’s crumpled expression as he clutched his mother’s hand atop the coverlet, powerless to stem the tide of her life. “Ned died not long after, and we scraped together enough to buy his forge and cottage. Two buildings in sorrier repair, I’ve rarely seen.” He gave a dry chuckle.
“And mining? Do you miss it?”
Perhaps scissors in her hand emboldened her. When she wasn’t being timid, she could ask questions direct enough to rival a magistrate. “’Tis in my blood. A thing like that doesn’t change overnight. Nor ever, if truth be told. But we made do, my father and I. Forged a life.”
“A goodly one.” She picked up a hand mirror from the table and held it up. “Well, what do you think?” A smile played about her lips. Slightly parted, the color of strawberries. A curl dangled near her neck. He ached to capture it with his fingers, tuck it behind her ear. Touch her skin as she’d touched his.
I think you are beautiful. I think I’m in a fair way to falling in love with you.
His gaze held hers. A beat passed. She kept smiling, a look of expectancy on her face.
“Do you not like it? I only trimmed it up a bit.”
He glanced in the mirror. She’d trimmed the edges of his hair with such deftness, leaving no traces of the raggedness his own efforts had a
lways achieved. One would almost think him a gentleman.
“It looks … fine.” What else was he to say? That he cared little about the state of his hair or the reliving of his past. He only wanted more of this nearness, to unravel the mysteries of the woman he’d wed. “Thank you.”
She pulled the towel from his shoulders, bits of hair falling to the floor. “You’re welcome.” She walked across the room and took the broom in hand.
He stood, rolling his shoulders and rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. The broom swished against wood as she swept up his hair.
Two weeks. That’s all that had passed.
He stared at her, moving about his house with the assurance of one who’d dwelt there for years, humming a low tune in time with her sweeping.
Two weeks since she’d come into his life …
And made him wonder if losing his heart again might be worth the risk.
’Twould be their first outing as husband and wife. Besides church, that is. Though they’d been wed a month, they’d spent most of the time at home, except for the occasional trip to Launcegrave for errands.
Mistress Elowyn Hendrick, the blacksmith’s wife.
A role that still seemed strange to her, but one she’d begun to slowly settle into.
The village fair had been going on since morning, but they’d remained at home until early evening. Josiah had labored in the forge alone, Peter having secured the day off to spend at the fair.
Autumn’s breath hung in the late September air as they approached the green on the outskirts of Launcegrave. The wind bore strains of merry fiddling high onto the air, blending with laughter and voices, woodsmoke and roasting meat.
As they drew near the crowd, her fingers tightened atop Josiah’s arm. She’d never been fond of crowds or parties. But she intended to do her best for Josiah tonight, so he’d have no cause to be ashamed of her. For she did take pride in being on his arm.
Most of the stalls that had earlier held dairymen selling cheese or hagglers’ bits and ends had emptied. Beneath a tent, folk sat and ate at long wooden tables, while in the center of the green, couples fligged up in their finest skipped to the lively tune of a country dance. The dance ended as they approached. Lydia Wingfield hurried toward them on the arm of her partner, cheeks pink and eyes sparkling.
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