Cate bent over to face the girl. “What’s wrong, Ellen?”
“It’s Jenny, milady. She’s in a bad way. Ye’ve got to come with me now.”
“Charlie visited me last night,” Cate said, her voice suddenly tired. “I’ve already done what I can for Jenny.”
Ellen shook her head. “No, milady. It got worse after ye left.”
Cate’s expression turned thunderous. “Damn his black soul to hell,” she said, so softly I almost missed it. Standing back up, she patted Ellen’s cheek. “Run along. I’ll be over just as soon as I’m done here.”
Ellen didn’t budge. “There’s more, milady. Hannah Thorpe didn’t make it home last night.”
“Sure she did,” Cate said. “I brought her there myself once I was done with Jenny.”
“No, milady. Her papa found her this morning, dead as a doornail, curled up not ten steps from the back porch. Folks say she was covered head to toe with the pox.”
Cate’s eyes narrowed. “I see,” she said, then looked at Mr. Faber. “Tom, I need you to keep Miss Kilbrid company while I’m gone. Fix a pot of tea and put out some biscuits, if you don’t mind.”
“I should come with you,” I said, having no intention of spending the afternoon alone with the metal smith.
Cate put a hand on my shoulder. “Stay with Tom. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
I started to protest again, but she turned and hurried from the shop, Ellen close on her heels. The door closed behind them, leaving me alone with a man I had known for less than five minutes. For a brief moment I was tempted to run out, to insist that Cate take me along.
Mr. Faber shifted his weight. “Would you care for some biscuits and tea?” he asked.
I glanced up at him, unable to keep the dismay from my face. Mr. Faber was a large man, tall as Henry with powerfully built arms that looked strong enough to snap a person in half. A smithies apron covered his white linen shirt, the dark leather emphasizing his broad shoulders and narrow waist, and lending him a savage quality I hadn’t noticed earlier. Looking at him now, I saw a different man altogether from when Cate had been standing beside me—younger, unkempt, his shirtsleeves stained and his long chestnut hair barely contained by the leather lacing.
Good Heavens! How well did Cate even know this man? The obvious answer was not well at all, he being a smithy and she a lady of the first rank. Yet she had abandoned me to his care with nary a second thought for my safety. He stood across the counter, no more than an arm’s length between us. Unsettled by his nearness, my first instinct was to take several steps back. I forced the urge aside, thinking it best not to cause offense. It was his shop and, thanks to Cate, I was officially his guest. So rather than retreating, I attempted a smile, failing miserably when my lips faltered into something closer to a grimace. Blast it all! Why did Cate have to leave!
The corners of his mouth twitched up. “Don’t worry, Miss Kilbrid,” he said reassuringly, reading either my mind or my pained expression. “I’ll not bite. Come have a seat. Lady Dinley will return shortly.” He walked to the end of the counter and waved me over. “This way.”
Seeing no other option, I took a deep breath and followed him into the adjoining room. The furnishings were simple, a sofa and armchair near the hearth, a wooden table and two chairs beneath the one window, and a bed along the far wall. Fabulous. Not only was I alone with a strange man, I was now standing in his private chamber.
“Sit there,’ he said, pointing to the sofa. “It’s the most comfortable seat in the room.”
A fire burned in the hearth, and I sat down on the cushion nearest the flames. A kettle was already steaming, having been set earlier on a trivet next to the coals. He picked it up with a thick pad, carried it to the table where he tossed a handful of tealeaves directly into the steaming water. While the tea seeped, he set out teacups and a plate of biscuits.
“They’re left over from breakfast,” he said in way of an apology as he passed the plate to me.
My stomach growled expectantly. I took a biscuit and bit into the sweet, buttery layers. “It’s delicious,” I said, surprised that a lone man would have something so tasty on hand. “Did your wife make them? I would like to thank her if she’s nearby.” It was a shot in the dark, and my one hope of redeeming what was becoming an increasingly awkward situation.
His mouth quirked, so quickly I almost missed it. “No one lives here but me, Miss Kilbrid. A boy delivers fresh bread and biscuits each morning from the bakehouse.”