Page 43 of Everything But the Earl
“Does she even like you?” Lark asked, handing back the letter.
“I thought so.”
“Maybe she just feels awkward conveying emotion in a letter,” said Hugh. “You could write her a letter telling her what you just said to us. That you miss her.”
“I suppose.”
“It might at least get you a less dry letter. I’ve gotten more exciting letters from my solicitor,” said Lark.
Owen slipped the letter back into his pocket. “So what you’re saying is, I should send the sort of letter I’d like to receive.”
“Yes,” said Hugh.
“And please, for the love of God, do not talk to her about roads,” said Fletcher.
*
It took nearlyevery one of Owen’s footmen to carry the crate of Grace’s pottery equipment into the cottage. She got their help settingup her pottery wheel and carrying her recently purchased clay into a dark cupboard where she could wrap it up and keep it cool so it wouldn’t dry out.
She stood in front of the house as the men finished, when another woman came by.
“Helô, sut mae?” said the woman.
“Pardon?”
“Hello. Are you English?”
“I’m afraid I am. I hope you do not mind my presence here.”
“Oh, not at all, not at all.” The woman had a thicker accent than Owen and Morfudd, whose accents were a bit watered down by spending time in England. It was more like that of the Williams family, who were locals. “Were you the one who purchased this cottage? I’d heard the previous owners were selling it. Well, it was just Old Man Owens and his daughter and son-in-law, who decided to move to Liverpool. What can you do?”
“My husband purchased the cottage. He is from this region.”
“Oh, indeed? Well, if you teach your children a few Welsh phrases, you should have no quarrel with me. But I thought I knew everyone in this town. Who is your husband?”
Grace hesitated. This woman—she was perhaps a decade older than Grace—seemed friendly, and Grace did not want to intimidate her. “The Earl of Caernarfon.”
“Oh, my lady, I did not know!”
“Please do not worry about that. I do not need special treatment. I was hoping to blend in here a bit.”
The woman winked. “Well, Lady Caernarfon, my name is Catrin Davies. I live just down the street. I was out for my afternoon constitutional when I spotted your men carrying those great crates inside and I became curious. New furniture I presume.”
“Yes, but also a potter’s wheel.”
“Oh, aye, do you make pottery?”
“I do. I intend to use this house as a pottery studio, not as my primary residence.”
“Oh, how nice. And certainly you have that big estate up the road.”
A wagon pulled up then. When the driver hopped off his perch, he said, “Lady Caernarfon?”
“’Tis me. Is this the brick?”
“Yes. Where should I put it?”
Grace told a footman to help the brick man carry the bricks to the back garden.
