‘I’m as bad at remembering names as I am at avoiding obstacles, though I’m certain if the family is even remotely genteel, then Felicity will know of them.’
‘What did you think of George?’ Jennifer went on to quiz her companions.
‘Well, Flossy liked her, and Anthony’s mutt appeared to worship the ground she walks on, so despite the smoky business surrounding her, I’m inclined to go along with the dogs’ view.’
‘There definitely seemed to be something more than master and servant between her and Anthony, though,’ Grace mused. ‘He was very protective of her.’
Reverend Shackleford frowned. ‘Agnes will have a deuced apoplexy if the lad doesn’t marry into royalty at the very least. If this girl turns out to be some minor nobleman’s by blow, then I think we’d all be better off leaving the country.’
‘I hate to disillusion you, Father, but the chances of Anthony marrying anyone remotely connected to royalty are exceedingly slim.'
‘She might turn out to be a Princess in disguise,’ Jennifer breathed excitedly.
‘And I’m the deuced Pope,’ muttered her grandfather morosely.
‘Take heart, Father,’ Grace murmured, trying to hold back her laughter. ‘Anthony is a handsome young man, and I’ve no doubt he will make a perfectly acceptable marriage when the time is right.’
‘Agnes has it in her head that he’ll need to take care of us in our dotage,’ the Reverend sighed. ‘And in truth, that’s been the whole reason for getting all of you girls wed.’
Grace smiled and touched his shoulder. ‘You and Agnes will never be without a home, Father, you must know that. All ofus girlswill not allow Anthony to shoulder the entire burden of you without any teeth.’ She softened her words with a wink before adding, ‘When the time is right, Nicholas will use his influence with the Bishop of Exeter to have Percy installed as the next incumbent of the parish. You and Agnes may not even have to leave the vicarage.’
The Reverend snorted. ‘Let’s hope not. The only way they’ll get Agnes out of that house is in a deuced box.’
∞∞∞
Agnes Shackleford went through a myriad of emotions on discovering that her erstwhile heroic husband was in fact a lying toad. Naturally, she was happy to see Mrs. Morton still hale and hearty and left her a piece of Mrs. Tomlinson’s apple cake by way of apologising for having her in the ground before the old lady was actually dead.
However, her descent downstairs was anything but quiet and when she emerged from the cottage, she marched straight past the cart towards Percy and Lizzy’s house. If anybody knew where her errant husband was, it would be his curate. Her wrath surrounded her in a palpable force, and after one look at her determined features, anybody even thinking of passing the time of day, hurriedly stepped aside.
However, as Agnes walked past the Red Lion, she suddenly spotted someone she didn’t recognise. Automatically slowing her steps, she eyed the newcomer suspiciously. In truth, it was his loitering that attracted her attention. If there was one thing Agnes couldn’t abide, it was loitering – especially when she was in a dudgeon.
‘Are you looking for someone?’ she quizzed in her haughtiest tone. The man, a large unwashed individual whose face even his mother had undoubtedly winced at the sight of, turned towards her and hurriedly took off his cap.
‘I’m lookin’ fer me son,’ Mrs.,’ he mumbled. ‘There ain’t no one wot’s seen ‘im in there.’ He waved in the vague direction of the inn. ‘But the last time anyone seen ‘im wos near ‘ere, so I keep ‘opin’ someone, somewhere...’ He trailed off and wiped at his eyes with a grubby kerchief.
Agnes frowned. The man looked entirely unsavoury and doubtless he had less than sixpence to scratch with. But it was commendable that he was looking for his boy. She was about to suggest he try the next village over, but suddenly remembered the skinny lad Anthony had brought home a few weeks earlier.
‘What does he look like, this boy of yours?’ she asked
‘’E’s so high,’ the man returned, holding his hand to his shoulder, ‘wi’ blondish wavy ‘air. Thin ‘e be, no matter ‘ow much grub ‘is ma puts in front o’ ‘im, there ain’t no fat on ‘im.’
Agnes thought back to Anthony as a lad. He was coltish too, even though he was forever eating.
‘If’n you seen ‘im Mrs., I beg ye to tell me where,’ Henry Atkins pleaded, recognising the old baggage knew something. ‘Is ma’s so afeared, I ain’t sure wot she’ll do if ‘he don’ come ‘ome.’
Now, under normal circumstances, Agnes would never have been taken in so easily by what was plainly a Canterbury tale. But her ire was such that it had completely eclipsed her common sense, and she found herself saying, ‘Does his name happen to be George…?’
Chapter Twelve
The news that she was being pursued by not just her foster father but also by some unknown gentry cove, instilled a terror so acute that George found it difficult to breathe. Despite her employer’s avowal thatthey would never find her here, she wanted nothing more than to grab her bag and run.
Huddling on her makeshift bed, she instinctively felt for the coins, back safely under her bandaged chest. She’d retreated to her small cubby hole as soon as Anthony’s family had departed and nothing he said or did could get her to move. At length, he decided to leave her be, at least for a couple of hours. Hunger, he decided would eventually draw her out.
And he was right, though only in part. George had never had anybody give a rat’s arse what happened to her. She’d spent the whole of her life looking out for herself until eventually it had become instinctive. But suddenly, having someone care – and more than just one someone – was a completely new experience. One she'd find it very hard to walk away from.
In the end, her instinct to be alone was overtaken by a desire for comfort, and hesitantly she emerged from her bolthole.
‘Are you hungry?’ Anthony asked evenly. George nodded her head. ‘Mrs. Parsons has left us some rabbit stew. Sit down, and I’ll get you some.’
