“Mrs. Estwood?” Mrs. Bartle was peering at her as she poured the tea. “Are you unwell? You look a bit warm.”
“No.” Lucy cleared her throat.
“Ah. It’s my chattering. Mr. Bartle likens me to a magpie. Can’t help myself,” she said with a shrug.
“Not at all,” Lucy said quietly, chewing on a bit of the ham. She quite liked Mrs. Bartle. The older woman had a friendly, motherly manner. “How long have you worked for Mr. Estwood, if I may ask?” The words came out smoothly. Barely any sound of the dreaded lisp. Lucy had worried that waking in a completely different bed, in a home other than her own, might be awkward, but all she felt was a sense of lightness.
Her affection for Harry Estwood bloomed bright, at the very least because he allowed her to eat.
“I’ve known him since he was nothing more than a wee lad. Mr. Bartle was the ironmaster at Pendergast when Mr. Estwood came to work at the foundry. Said he was the cleverest boy he’dever met. Always calculating numbers out loud. Measurements and such. Started out as a dresser, Mr. Estwood did.”
“A dresser?” Lucy had done quite a bit of research on how an ironworks operated, but not names of specific tasks or who did them.
“Cleans out the molds so they can be used to cast the wrought iron once more. Already knew how to run the furnace and hammer the metal, given his father was a blacksmith.” Mrs. Bartle’s lip curled slightly at the mention of Estwood’s father.
So Harry had worked at Pendergast from the time he was a lad. His love of metallurgy, his passion for archeology mainly focused on weaponry, may have started at the blacksmith’s forge of his father, but it had been honed by working alongside Mr. Bartle at the ironworks. She considered the scar on the butler’s face and now understood it must have been caused by a fire.
Papers, the ones knocked to the floor by Harry last night, covered the floor and the other side of the table near the fireplace. Lucy could just make out sketches of rods and beams. Pendergast had planted the seed for Harry’s future wealth. No wonder the ironworks meant a great deal to him.
Which was why Gerald Waterstone had taken it.
My father is a terrible person. He really is.
“Always running about, Harry Estwood,” Mrs. Bartle prattled away. “Swift of mind and feet. And a good thing, too.”
Lucy recalled Harry jogging back and forth across the grass when she’d seen him in the park. Teaching the young boy how to throw the ball with easy athleticism.
“He’s who pulled Mr. Bartle from the fire.” The housekeeper tapped her cheek. “The scar is hard to miss.” Her lips trembled. “I’m forever grateful. I would do anything for Harry Estwood.” Mrs. Bartle looked away for a moment, perhaps recalling what had to have been a horrifying experience while offering Lucy a glimpse of the loyalty of those who surrounded Harry.
“There I go again.” Mrs. Bartle turned back to Lucy, eyes misty. “Let us find you something lovely to wear.” The housekeeper strode to the large armoire standing in the corner, while a burst of steamy lemon and verbena scented air came from the bathing room.
Her favorite. “The soap?—”
“Mr. Estwood said it was your favorite,” Mrs. Bartle said, throwing open the armoire doors. “Now, you’ve quite a selection to choose from.”
“Those aren’t mine,” Lucy stammered, staring at the display of gowns and dresses, still surprised over the scented soap. The armoire was crammed full, the bottom drawer bulging with an assortment of chemises, stockings, gloves, and the like.
“Special delivery from Madame Dupree.” Mrs. Bartle didn’t even turn around. “I’ve never seen so many fripperies. I’ve had to put the rest in another room.”
Romy’s doing.
Lucy blinked back the tears threatening to leave her eyes.
Her friend had had everything Lucy ordered sent here, knowing full well she would leave the Waterstone house with only the clothes on her back. Romy had asked, as she and Granby had left Estwood’s home yesterday, if Lucy would call on her today. And Lucy would, to thank her friend for everything she’d done.
“Mr. Estwood didn’t work with his father?” Lucy asked, turning her attention from the stunning array of dresses and gowns to take another bite of ham. She’d never enjoyed anything so much in her life. Ham tasted different when every bite wasn’t being watched. “I thought he might have been his father’s apprentice rather than seeking employment at an ironworks.”
“He came to Pendergast when his father…died rather unexpectedly. Never cared to be a blacksmith. The pay was decent for a lad of his age. Didn’t even have whiskers yet. Hadhis mother and younger siblings to support. His older sister took employment in Lord Wilde’s kitchens. At any rate, Mr. Bartle oversaw the floor, and while my husband has many fine qualities, numbers are not his strong suit. Estwood helped him with the ledgers, at first. That boy could rattle off entire rows of numbers without even consulting the columns. Kept everything here.” She tapped her forehead.
Lucy suspected he still did. She couldn’t fathom what it was like to eye a column in a ledger and calculate the sum without even using a pen. She glanced at the papers littering the floor again, saw the dark scribbles of Harry’s handwriting.
I always knew he was brilliant.
Mrs. Bartle held up a gown of pale blue. “This would look lovely with your eyes, Mrs. Estwood, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“I do not. I will take your recommendation.”
“Very good. Oh, I nearly forgot. Mr. Estwood left this for you.” She pulled a note from her pocket, handing it to Lucy. “He rushed out early this morning.”
