Tea at a most unusual farriery |

“Would your grace care for a cup of tea while you wait for your horses to be shod?” asked the farrier’s husband. Eleanor, Duchess of Winshire, smiled at the man. “Thank you. That would be very pleasant,” she said.

He ushered her and her companion around the corner of the farrier’s shed and to a spreading tree, whose shade would be much appreciated on this hot summer day. Apparently, he had anticipated her agreement, for a tea tray sat on a table flanked by several chairs.

“Scones, Mr Hughes?” she asked. “You spoil us.”

“And raspberry jam, your grace. I hope it is to your liking.” He bowed, and made to walk away.

Eleanor was burning with curiosity about the couple. “Mr Worth, can you spare me a moment?” Eleanor asked.

“Certainly, your grace. Or I could return in a moment, after I have fetched ale for your men, if it pleases you.”

He was a conundrum, was Mr Hughes. The carriage of a soldier, the manners and language of a gentleman. One arm lashed to his body as if it was useless. He treated her with courtesy and respect, but without losing any of his own dignity. She was eager to know more about him. “Of course, Mr Hughes. Please carry on.”

She poured the tea, thinking about what had brought them here. One of the horses had cast a shoe, some five miles from this little town. They had proceeded at a slow walk, and stopped at the first farriery they passed. When the driver realised that the farrier was a woman, and an obviously pregnant woman at that, he had wanted to move on. However, Eleanor had insisted of giving her their custom. It was, after all, a single shoe and a few nails.

Were female farriers common? Eleanor would not have thought so.

The scone was delicious. Eleanor was preparing a second and her companion was eyeing a third when the farrier’s husband returned. This time, he had another man with him, an elderly gentleman who was even taller than Mr Hughes, but bent with age.

“Your grace, Miss Grenford, may I present Mr Evan Hughes, my wife’s father. Evan, the fine lady is the Duchess of Winshire, and this is Miss Grenford, her companion.”

The older man nodded, his vague eyes shifting from one of them to the other. He apparently did not find them to be of interest, for he strode past them and sat down on the ground, where he proceeded to stroke a cat that appeared from under the bushes to present itself for his caresses.

Mystery upon mystery. Was the farrier’s husband a cousin, perhaps, to have the same name?

“Evan does not mean any disrespect, your grace,” Mr Hughes explained. “He is in his second childhood, but quite harmless.”

“You are related?” Eleanor asked?

“Only by marriage,” Mr Hughes said, cheerfully. “I took my wife’s name when we wed to keep the family name attached to the forge. With luck, one of our children will want to follow my wife into the business. By the way, my wife is checking all four horses, so that this doesn’t happen to you again. Your driver says you are bound for Liverpool.”

“Yes. My husband is expected to dock there within the next few days,” Eleanor explained. And she could not wait patiently at Windsgate, their country home, to see him again when a three or four days journey would reunite them so much more quickly.

“I am curious, Mr Hughes,” she admitted. “Please do not feel you have to indulge me, but I would love to know the story of how you came to settle in Cheshire, and how you met your wife.”

Mr Hughes’ smile was easy. “And I would love to tell you, your grace.”