His gaze dropped to my exposed ankles, and he raised an eyebrow.
I thrust the bundle at him, then rushed back to the pile again.
It didn’t take long for sweat to gather on my forehead and my arms to feel heavy. They ached desperately and would surely fail me at any second, but I vowed to press on until they did. Rain began to fall, making my errand all the more difficult, but I wouldn’t stop,couldn’tstop, until the men had what they needed to cover every hole in this roof.
“You should go inside now,” Damon called from the roof.
“Not until you have enough thatch.” That poor babywouldsleep in a dry bed tonight.
I repeated the same process what felt like a hundred times, retrieving thatch, handing it to Damon, and then running back to the pile to do it all over again. Finally, Damon said they had enough.
I turned toward the curricle to wait for Damon.
“Won’t you come inside, miss?” the woman—Mrs. Turner, I presumed—called to me from the door. “You can warm yourself by the fire.”
I hesitated. As wonderful as that sounded, my dress was soaked through and my half boots muddy. But I didn’t know how much longer Damon would be at work, and now that I had stopped moving, I was already beginning to feel chilled.
“Thank you,” I said, and I attempted to wring water from my dress, but it made little difference; I was as wet as a fish.
“Make haste now. I don’t want the children to catch their death.”
Chapter Twenty
Inside the cottage, I wassurprised to find three more children and an older woman. It was a small space for so many people—not even as large as my room at the Winfields’ estate—but obvious efforts had been made to improve the home: a rug on the dirt floor, simple curtains over the windows, and a vase of fresh wildflowers on the table.
On the left side of the room, a fireplace and sideboard made for a kitchen; in the center were a table and chairs; and on the left side of the house was a door that appeared to lead to a single bedchamber.
“Thank you for inviting me into your home, Mrs. Turner,” I said, stepping around a bucket full of rainwater.
“What little we have, we have to share,” she said. “And please call me Betsy. Mrs. Turner is my husband’s mum.” She nodded toward the fire where the older woman was tending a large pot of what smelled like stew.
“We have a visitor, Mum. This is . . .” Betsy looked at me.
“Hannah Kent,” I supplied.
“This is Miss Kent, Mum. She’s come for a visit with the master.”
Mrs. Turner turned from her task and eyed me with suspicion. Her gaze raked over me, stopping on the hem of my skirt, which was still tied in a knot above my ankles.
I quickly stooped to untie it.
“The master?” Mrs. Turner sneered. “What business has he here? Come to grind our noses further into the dirt?”
“Now hush, Mum. You mustn’t say such things.” Betsy glanced at me worriedly. “It is Lord Jennings who has come, not Lord Winfield, and he has been good to our family. Even now he is working on our house.”
“Is that what all that racket is about?”
“All that racket is fixing our roof,” Betsy said. “Now move to the side so Miss Kent can stand by the fire.”
With a huff, Mrs. Turner moved ever so slightly to the side and resumed stirring.
I tried to take up as small a space as I could and held out my hands to warm them. The stew smelled of vegetables and herbs and had a savory aroma similar to the recipe Mama and I used to feed the poor. A twinge of guilt coursed through me, thinking about Papa being left alone to serve the community without Mama or me to help him.
“May I stir that for you?” I asked Mrs. Turner.
Her gaze turned skeptical.
I held out my hand to prove that it wasn’t an idle offer.
