Gwen Hughes

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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.”

To find out Mr Hughes’ story, read Love In Its Season, in Under the Harvest Moon, out on 10 October. 

Only 99c until 18 October.

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Falling in love in WIP Wednesday

This is an excerpt from Love in Its Season, my contribution to Under the Harvest Moon, the next Bluestocking Belles Collection with Friends.

Jack strolled through the lower town considering ways to approach Miss Hughes without her turning him away. As the farrier’s cottage came into view, there she was. Gwen, his heart said. Stupid heart. What use would a magnificent woman like her have for a broken-down soldier, soon to be an ex-soldier, old before his time, beset by nightmares, with only one working arm, no job and no idea where he was going or what he would do?

She was harnessing a horse to a little vehicle—something between a cart and a gig, with a gig seat in front and a small cart tray at the back. The frown on her face hastened his steps. She was worried, and he wanted to fix it.

“Good morning, Miss Hughes.”

She turned at his greeting, her eyes widening in surprise. “Captain Wrath!”

As an ex-cavalry man, he recognized the setup in the cart back of the vehicle—the farriers and blacksmiths in the army had carried larger versions of the little portable forge, and the other boxes undoubtedly carried the tools of Miss Hughes’s trade.

“Off to work?” he asked, trying to keep the disappointment out of his tone.

“Yes, if…” Relief spread across her face as a boy of about nine raced around the corner of the cottage and skidded to a stop in front of her.

She continued to look in the direction he came, welcome turning to puzzlement. “Is your mother far behind?” she asked the boy.

“Mam can’t come,” the boy reported. “Said to tell you she’s sorry, Miss Hughes, but Chrissie got too close to the fire, and her apron caught, and Mam’s had to take her to the doctor.”

Miss Hughes paled, her eyes widening. “I hope Chrissie is not too badly hurt,” she told the boy. “Does your mother need anything?”

“It’s not too bad, my Mam says. She dropped Chrissie in the rain barrel straight off,” he was backing away as he spoke. “I have to go back and watch the baby. Sorry, miss.” He took off the way he had come.

Miss Hughes nibbled at her lower lip, her eyes full of worry.

“Anything I can do to help?” Jack asked.

Hope lit her face, followed by rejection. “I do not know you, Captain Wrath,” she pointed out. True, but Jack was more and more certain that his heart knew hers. Which surely meant that her heart knew his?

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Meet the hero and heroine of Love in Its Season

Meet Gwenillan Hughes

Gwen Hughes, is too tall and too independent to suit the bachelors of Reabridge. She has helped in her father’s farriery from the time she could toddle, and since her brother left for the wars and her father faded into second childhood, she has been the farrier.

She loves her work and is proud of the family business, but she is also tired. It’s the busiest time of the year for a farrier, when the big houses are preparing for the hunting season and the farms around Reabridge are bringing in the harvest. On top of that, she has a house to manage, meals to prepare, and an increasingly dependent father to look after.

The retired soldier who offers to help out with her father is a God-send, especially when he takes over the housework and cooking, as well. He says his motive is simply that he is at a loose end, and he enjoys helping people. Can Gwen dare to hope that she means more to him than that?

Meet Jack Wrath

After twenty-five years in the cavalry, Jack Wrath has resigned his commission and come home to England. Or not home. An orphan who enlisted when he was fourteen, he doesn’t have a home, and he is only in Reabridge because he brought his doctor home. After all the man saved him from losing all use of his arm after he took a bullet to the shoulder. Besides, someone had to make sure the poor beggar made it home.

Meeting Gwen Hughes strikes him all of a heap. There’s no point in courting her. She is far too good for an unemployed orphan of dubious origins. But he knows something about looking after dazed old men. He can help to make her life easier.

So he volunteers his services. He can help her through this busy season, but every day he loses more and more of his heart to this brave, clever, magnificent woman. When she finally sends him away, he will leave the best part of himself behind. Can he dare hope she will allow him to stay?

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Wounded heroes on WIP Wednesday

I’ve been working on my story for the next Bluestocking Belles collection, and thought I’d share. Jack has offered to look after Gwen’s father, who has dementia (not that they called it that then, while Gwen works.

Back at her home, she soon found her father and Captain Wrath. All she had to do was follow the two voices singing in the kitchen—a somewhat bawdy song about a miller and his customer. Her father’s deep bass and Captain Wrath’s light tenor wound around one another to turn the silly lyrics into a thing of beauty. On impulse, she joined in the chorus.

“To me right ful la, my diddle diddle lay do,
Right ful, right ful ay.”

Captain Wrath turned to smile at her. “That was just what the song needed,” he observed. “An alto.”

“My Ellen,” Da said, smiling. Once again, he thought she was her mother. Gwen had given up arguing with him when he was like this. Captain Wrath put a bowl down in front of him—stew, which he was eating with a spoon. What a good idea! Gwen had been serving her father on a flat plate, and with a fork and knife. And where did the stew come from? Had Mrs. Carr sent it in apology? Which reminded Gwen that she would have to call by and see how Chrissie was.

Captain Wrath had filled another bowl. “Are you ready for stew, Miss Hughes?” he asked. “I can make a pot of tea, too. The kettle has just boiled.”

“Thank you,” she said, taking a seat on the bench next to her father. Jack put the bowl in front of her. “What have you two men been up to today.”

Da was shoveling stew into his mouth. He spoke without waiting to finish the mouthful. “Jack tells stories,” he swallowed. “He went to the war.” He took another spoonful.

“Did he?” Gwen asked, at a loss for what else to say.

“Damn fool thing to do,” Da grumbled. “No good comes of going for a soldier. Thugs and villains.”

Gwen took a worried look at Captain Wrath to see if he was offended, but he grinned as he brought his own bowl to the table. All three of them with bowls and spoons, and bread they could tear with their fingers. Well, why not? It was not a formal dinner party.

“Ellen likes us to eat proper,” Da said to Captain Wrath in what might be intended as a whisper. He dipped his bread into the soup, scooped soup on to it and lifted it up, dripping, to shove into his mouth.

“It’s not the officers’ mess,” Captain Wrath whispered back. “Proper doesn’t count if it’s not the officers’ mess.” He nudged the bowl toward Da, so more of the soup would fall into the bowl while the bread was being transferred to Da’s mouth. Da had a towel tied round his neck, so the rest would at least be easy to clean up. Another good idea.

Father accepted Captain Wrath’s explanation, and continued spooning up his stew, while Captain Wrath gifted Gwen with a twinkling smile.

“How has your morning been?” he asked. The kettle whistled again, and he got up to pour the water into the teapot, then brought it, a cup, and a jug of milk to her place at the table. Gwen had not been waited on since she could toddle. It felt both wonderful and slightly uncomfortable. Shouldn’t it be her job to serve the food and the tea? But if it did not bother Captain Wrath, why shouldn’t she enjoy it?

“Is all well?” Captain Wrath asked.

Gwen collected herself and answered his question. “I have had a busy morning, thank you. Everything is well.” What was it about Captain Wrath that scattered her thoughts? “How have you and Da enjoyed yourself?”

“I think it has been a good morning for him,” Captain Wrath confided. “He has been talking well, and has accepted me, though he keeps forgetting who I am.”

At that moment, Da pushed back from the table and glared at them both. “What are you doing in my house?” he demanded. “Who are you?”

Gwen tensed. Last time he had suddenly had no memory of her at all, he taken offense at having a strange woman in his kitchen and had chased her from the house brandishing a broom.

“I am Jack,” Captain Wrath said, “And this is Gwen. You may remember you invited us to a meal with you.”

Da frowned, but didn’t challenge Captain Wrath’s statement. He pointed. “Something wrong with your arm?”

“Bullet in the shoulder,” Captain Wrath said. “Dr. Wagner says it damaged the nerves and muscles. Now the arm is pretty much just a useless lump of meat.”

Da nodded thoughtfully. “Poacher, was it? Or highwaymen. Not a duel, I hope.”

“No,” Captain Wrath said. “Not a duel.”

“Good,” Da said. He bent over to take a closer look. “No movement at all?”

Jack wiggled the fingers that poked out of the sling. “A little.”

“Hmmm.” Da frowned in thought. “A good sign. Keep it bound so you don’t bang it into things. But make sure you get your wife to exercise it twice a day. Massage, too. Ellen can give you some of my liniment to use. Do the dishes, Ellen, and see this stranger out. I’m going to have a little lie down.”

Gwen was back to Ellen again. She began to get up to see that her father made it up to bed, but Captain Wrath gestured for her to sit. “I’ll do it,” he said. “You finish your meal. I know you have a busy afternoon ahead of you.”

Gwen should have insisted. After all, it was her job to look after her own father. But it was such a blissful luxury to sit and eat a meal on her own; to finish a cup of tea while it was still hot. She had to admit that Captain Wrath was handling her Da well. Better, in fact, than she did.

The least she could do was offer him the liniment Da mentioned, and help him exercise his arm. Unless he had a wife. He had not mentioned a wife.