“Now go, go,” Cecilia encouraged. “I have work to do,” she whispered as he leaned over her.
James straightened and raised his eyebrows as he looked down at her. “That is what I’m afraid of.”
CHAPTER 6
THE PUB
Cecilia looked about the inn’s pub room. It was airy in feeling and appearance, though it smelled of burning peat and pipe tobacco. Wainscoting covered the lower half of the walls to elbow height, topped with a shelf all around wide enough for setting down mugs of ale and pipe ashtrays and an elbow or two. The wall to the ceiling, originally white-washed, now appeared a creamy gray color. A few prints hung on the walls in a nod to décor.
The room was not inordinately crowded; however, those here seemed to know each other. Cecilia wondered if her party were the only travelers at the inn. Most of the patrons were men, though there was a woman seated in a corner, knitting. Her smooth, worn, wooden needles were held in hands with enlarged arthritic knuckles. The needles clicked in a rhythmic manner. While the woman sat to the side, she obviously listened, for she raised her head now and again, her nimble facial movements betraying her keen attention to the conversations in the room.
She appeared old—perhaps the oldest in the room—but Cecilia knew that appearances could be deceptive as life’s circumstances often wrote largely upon a person’s countenance. She wore a plain white cap on her head. Coarse gray hair strandsescaped from under it. A dirt-streaked apron covered her dress made of a rough brown wool. Around her shoulders and over her chest she wore a dark blue serviceable shawl crossed in front and tied behind her to keep it in place.
She caught Cecilia’s regard, smiled a gap-toothed smile, and then winked. Her face might have been a map of care and hardship, yet her rheumy gray eyes twinkled in the lantern light when she looked up.
Cecilia decided this would be the person for her to get to know. She motioned the woman to come over and sit with her, patting the bench space beside her.
The woman jerked her head back in surprise, her face registering questions. Cecilia nodded.
The woman stuffed her knitting into a worn canvas satchel at her feet and rose to walk over to Cecilia. She rocked left to right in a duck’s waddle as she came, but she stood and walked upright, without the stoop of infirmity. Judging by her walk and her clothing, Cecilia thought the woman might have been in service.
But just as she was studying the woman as she approached, Cecilia realized the woman was studying her. Cecilia rounded her shoulders a little and looked about the room again, this time with what she hoped was an apprehensive expression. She turned back to the woman and patted the bench beside her again.
“Please?” she said, her voice faint—and she hoped—frail. “I am Lady Branstoke. When our traveling companion became ill, my husband brought me down here while he searches out Mr. Price.” She looked about the room, her eyes wide. “I told him I would be fine. But…”
“You’re a mite fearful,” the woman said.
Cecilia nodded. “Yes,” she said, her voice a thread of sound, then stronger, “I saw you and thought, well, I thought if I was by another woman I wouldn’t be so fearful,” she said.
The woman nodded slowly and reached over to pat Cecilia’s hand. “I’m that happy to be of service.”
“Your voice. It sounds like you are in service?” Cecilia asked.
The woman laughed, then nodded again. “I was. For more than forty years. My name’s Janet Hammond.”
“I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Hammond.”
The woman shook her head. “Not Mrs. Hammond, Miss Hammond. Never found a man who could put up with me,” she said with a cackling laugh.
“Would you join me in a mug of ale?” Cecilia waved to the barmaid. The young woman hurried over and Cecilia requested watered ale for herself and a large mug of ale for the old woman. When the barmaid left to get their drinks, Cecilia turned back to her companion.
“My stomach is a bit queasy from traveling and with Mr. Stackpoole’s sudden illness up in the private parlor, it is a bit worse. Sometimes an ale can settle a stomach.”
“That it can, and I would be honored, Lady Branstoke. Excuse me, did you say Mr. Stackpoole?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“Some. I’ve talked to him a time or two. His mother introduced us.”
Cecilia’s attention sparked, then a cough interrupted her eager words. She cleared her throat. “You worked at the sanatorium? At Camden House?” she asked.
Miss Hammond nodded. “I was matron for the women that had private rooms. A bit of a housekeeper, bit of a nurse, and bit of a friend when they needed one,” she said, tilting her head to the side. Cecilia could tell the woman’s smile was for her memories.
“You retired?”
Miss Hammond looked quickly over at Cecilia, her expression collapsing into a bitter frown. “Hardly. I was let go—would have been let go with nothing if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Worcham. She insisted I have a pension for all me years.”
The maid came up with their ale. Cecilia couldn’t believe her good fortune to actually meet someone who worked at the sanatorium. It was all she could do to keep her manner fragile and ill.
