That sort of thing.”
Agricultural land was like women then, full of idiosyncrasies and quirks. “How come you, a housekeeper, to know about that sort of thing ?”
“I wasn’t always a housekeeper, Mr. Kettering. My father was responsible for a great many acres, and land doesn’t farm itself.”
So her father was likely a steward to some lord. Worth hoarded up that information the way some of his clients hoarded their denarii and sesterces.
“What do the Hendersons do well?”
“Her people are Irish on her mother’s side, which is part of the reason they left their home county.”
“We’re superstitious about third-generation Irish, are we?”
“I haven’t asked her for the particulars, but Mrs. Henderson can tat lace so delicate it hardly catches sunlight. Mr. Henderson has a magnificent sow by the name of William.”
“A sow named William, and my livelihood depends on such as these?”
“The boys named the pig, because she lets them ride her, so she’s in the way of a porcine charger.”
“I hope you don’t expect me to ride this great pig?”
“Don’t let me stop you, if that’s your inclination.”
He deserved that, and it was worth the insult to know Wyeth was enjoying herself. “Goliath would never bear the shame if I rode a pig. Is there a marker for the child’s resting place?”
She was silent for a moment, and Worth was pleased to have surprised her. He’d surprised himself, but he knew what it was to lose a family member, and to some people, a marker would be important.
“We’ll go by the church on the way over,” Wyeth said. “We can look.”
They found the grave but no marker, and the curate intimated none had been ordered. Worth drew the man aside, made arrangements for something befitting a girl child, and handed Wyeth back into the gig.
“How is it you know French, Wyeth?” He slapped the reins on Goliath’s shiny black rump before his housekeeper could remark his discussion with the curate.
“I had a good upbringing, and French is not a difficult language.”
A steward’s daughter might have a good upbringing, if her father served the nobility. “Where did you have this good upbringing?”
“Dorset.”
Dorset, from whence the beleaguered Hendersons hailed, though from Worth’s observation, they did not know they were beleaguered. The lady of the house had a sadness in her eyes, but she was much loved by her beamish young spouse and doted on her menfolk. Worth dutifully asked to see the magnificent sow and, while the boys rode her around the yard, inquired of Mr. Henderson if Mrs. Henderson might consider parting with some of the exquisite lace gracing their spotless cottage.
“Whyever would a grand fellow like yourself be in want of lace?”
“I’m not, personally, but I’m also not such a grand fellow that I’d pass up an opportunity to make a coin or two. Lace like that is becoming scarce, and all the fine ladies in Town will pay dearly for flounces, ruffles and mantillas. I know modistes and tailors who’d die for as much of that lace as they could get their hands on.”
“You’d buy Trudy’s lace?” Henderson was tall, rangy, blond and ruddy. He was also besotted with his round, red-haired Trudy, and appropriately protective of her.
“If you’re willing to part with your goods,” Worth said. “I’d take a commission, for arranging the London end of things, but there’d be coin for you and yours as well.”
William came to a halt, like any well-trained mount, then—with the two little boys bouncing happily on her back—trotted off in the direction of the chicken coop.
“Trude’s proud of that lace,” Henderson said. “We’ve shown the boys how to tat a little, too.”
“You know your lady best. Discuss it with her and send word of your decision. Seems a shame to keep work that fine a secret, though, and I could use the coin.”
Henderson looked him up and down, from his brilliantly white cravat to his shiny riding boots
Agricultural land was like women then, full of idiosyncrasies and quirks. “How come you, a housekeeper, to know about that sort of thing ?”
“I wasn’t always a housekeeper, Mr. Kettering. My father was responsible for a great many acres, and land doesn’t farm itself.”
So her father was likely a steward to some lord. Worth hoarded up that information the way some of his clients hoarded their denarii and sesterces.
“What do the Hendersons do well?”
“Her people are Irish on her mother’s side, which is part of the reason they left their home county.”
“We’re superstitious about third-generation Irish, are we?”
“I haven’t asked her for the particulars, but Mrs. Henderson can tat lace so delicate it hardly catches sunlight. Mr. Henderson has a magnificent sow by the name of William.”
“A sow named William, and my livelihood depends on such as these?”
“The boys named the pig, because she lets them ride her, so she’s in the way of a porcine charger.”
“I hope you don’t expect me to ride this great pig?”
“Don’t let me stop you, if that’s your inclination.”
He deserved that, and it was worth the insult to know Wyeth was enjoying herself. “Goliath would never bear the shame if I rode a pig. Is there a marker for the child’s resting place?”
She was silent for a moment, and Worth was pleased to have surprised her. He’d surprised himself, but he knew what it was to lose a family member, and to some people, a marker would be important.
“We’ll go by the church on the way over,” Wyeth said. “We can look.”
They found the grave but no marker, and the curate intimated none had been ordered. Worth drew the man aside, made arrangements for something befitting a girl child, and handed Wyeth back into the gig.
“How is it you know French, Wyeth?” He slapped the reins on Goliath’s shiny black rump before his housekeeper could remark his discussion with the curate.
“I had a good upbringing, and French is not a difficult language.”
A steward’s daughter might have a good upbringing, if her father served the nobility. “Where did you have this good upbringing?”
“Dorset.”
Dorset, from whence the beleaguered Hendersons hailed, though from Worth’s observation, they did not know they were beleaguered. The lady of the house had a sadness in her eyes, but she was much loved by her beamish young spouse and doted on her menfolk. Worth dutifully asked to see the magnificent sow and, while the boys rode her around the yard, inquired of Mr. Henderson if Mrs. Henderson might consider parting with some of the exquisite lace gracing their spotless cottage.
“Whyever would a grand fellow like yourself be in want of lace?”
“I’m not, personally, but I’m also not such a grand fellow that I’d pass up an opportunity to make a coin or two. Lace like that is becoming scarce, and all the fine ladies in Town will pay dearly for flounces, ruffles and mantillas. I know modistes and tailors who’d die for as much of that lace as they could get their hands on.”
“You’d buy Trudy’s lace?” Henderson was tall, rangy, blond and ruddy. He was also besotted with his round, red-haired Trudy, and appropriately protective of her.
“If you’re willing to part with your goods,” Worth said. “I’d take a commission, for arranging the London end of things, but there’d be coin for you and yours as well.”
William came to a halt, like any well-trained mount, then—with the two little boys bouncing happily on her back—trotted off in the direction of the chicken coop.
“Trude’s proud of that lace,” Henderson said. “We’ve shown the boys how to tat a little, too.”
“You know your lady best. Discuss it with her and send word of your decision. Seems a shame to keep work that fine a secret, though, and I could use the coin.”
Henderson looked him up and down, from his brilliantly white cravat to his shiny riding boots
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