Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [52]
I approached the doorway, and spied a small child blessed with the startled eyes of a doe; at my salutation, she took fright, and dashed within. Her mother soon appeared.
“Jenny Barlow?” I enquired.
“Yes, miss.” Her speech was suffused with the softness of Hertfordshire.
I must set down here my first impression of the girl, for girl she undoubtedly is—not much above twenty, I should say, and quite lovely yet, despite the evidence of years of hard work. Jenny Barlow's hair is gold, her eyes are cornflower blue, and her figure full and sturdy, making her seem something of a harvest goddess; but those poor particulars do not convey the truth of it. She is a beauty, her face delicate of line and her features elegant; she is just such an English rose, I judge, as is occasionally still found along its quieter byways.
“Would you like to come in, miss, out o’ the cold?”
I assented, and entered the darkened hut, which was filled with smoke; the unglazed windows were covered with oiled cloth, and only heightened the murkiness of the atmosphere. The child I had seen by the door was hiding under the table; another sat in a corner, worrying a lock of its hair; and I perceived Jenny to be yet again in a certain condition. The lot of women is indeed a cruel one—either die an old maid, reviled and unprovided, or die of hard work and childbed, both too liberally bestowed.
“You've come from the big house,” she said. “It's not often a lady seeks out the farm.”
“I am presently staying at the Manor,” I replied, “and though it appears I have been walking for pleasure, in fact I am come to speak with you.”
She looked her surprise, and was at a loss; and so provided a chair that I might more comfortably explain myself.
“Mrs. Barlow, I have sought you out of instinct rather than clear purpose,” I began, taking the proffered seat, “and I hope that in speaking with you, I may know better how you are to help me. You are, of course, aware of the death of Lord Scargrave?”
“Yes, God be praised,” she said quickly, and half under her breath.
“And why should such a death be cause for thankfulness?” I asked.
“He were an awful wicked man, the Earl,” Jenny answered, “awful wicked. I have reason to know it.”
“That is very strong language, certainly.” I paused to survey Jenny Barlow's countenance, but she did not look the sort of girl to strike out blindly, from malice or an envy of her betters. “Has Lord Scargrave had cause to injure you, my dear?” I enquired, feeling a sudden conviction of its truth.
“Hurtin’ was as natural to him as breathin,” At that she fell silent, and from the way she glanced furtively around the hut, seemed to regret having said as much; I did not probe her further, but advanced on another tack.
“The night of the Earl's death,” I told her, “I had occasion to overhear Mr. George Hearst pronounce the name of Rosie Ketch. I understand that she is your sister. Is Mr: Hearst known to you?”
“That he is, and a truer man never lived.”
Such fervour, for the melancholy ecclesiastic! I remembered the vigour of George Hearst's words, when speaking to his uncle about Rosie Ketch; and wondered at such a dour young man in the role of lady's champion. It was a role better played by his gallant brother. Jenny Barlow turned her head at a disturbance by the doon Her eyes widened in alarm.
“‘Ere, what's ‘is?” demanded a burly fellow, leaning heavily in the doorway. “Somebody from tha Maner? Well, we wants nothin’ of the likes of you, I warrant. Be off with ye!”
“No, Ted!” Jenny Barlow cried, “the lady is but resting along her way. She meant no ‘arm.”
Ted Barlow, for so I divined him to be, reeled toward his wife, the pungent scent of barley and hops preceding him, and cuffed her a stiff blow to the side of her head. I confess I could not repress a sharp cry at the injustice of it, but the lout paid me no heed,