The Grey Lady of the Manor

Chapter Three- in which we meet the hero, and the entity reveals itself

"Master Merrick!"

Perkin wobbled a moment on his ladder, then tucked his hammer into his belt and gazed down.

"Mistress Smythe. Good day to you." He settled his bundle of reeds so it couldn't slide down the roof, then backed down the ladder, leaping to the ground and missing the last three rungs.

He made his bow. "The work progresses well—"

"I didn't come here about the work. There is little time—I have a favor to ask."

"Whatever you say, Mistress." Why was his employer's wife glancing around surreptitiously? Was she here without her husband's knowledge, and if so, what could she possibly want with him?

He felt a sharp slap on his arm. "It's not that kind of favor, you foolish fellow. Well, not exactly. I need you to distract a young woman for me."

He grinned broadly. Intrigue? Trysts? Flirtation? He was greatly fond of those things.

"I see no difficulty there, Mistress."

She frowned up at him. "This is no time for vanity, sirrah. The maid is much troubled. Her home is unhappy and her mind is greatly afflicted by a fear of ghosts and curses."

"Hah!" She must be young if she had such fancies. Or simple.

He tilted his head to one side. "What kind of distraction did you have in mind?"

"I understand that you enjoy a good jest."

Where had she heard that? He didn't want to be thought shallow—he played tricks on people and attempted to make them laugh only to fill the void within himself.

"I try to be hearty and cheerful if that's what you mean. Occasionally, I might play the fool." He hoped he wasn't revealing too much. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to guess at the amount of pain he carried.

"If, as a boon to me, you will play some of your tricks on Lettice Carter, I shall support you against your master. I know you don't see eye-to-eye."

Perkin pushed his cap back from his forehead. This clever young woman knew far too much.

"I don't understand. You want to support me against my master—are we talking about my efforts to convince you to use tile instead of thatch?"

She nodded. "I know Hugh Thatcher doesn't care for tile. But I understand that tile's less flammable than thatch despite its cost and weight. I shall tell your master of its merits if you'll help me with Letty."

Perkin folded his arms across his chest. He'd already thatched half the roof of this lady's former dwelling—was she about to change her mind? Despite his conviction that tile would soon become the preferred building material in the area—even on the roofs of common cottages—he would not enjoy having to undo his handiwork.

"Better continue as you have with this place. It contains pleasant memories despite the fire last year. I'd like to see it restored to what it once was."

Good. But what game was Mistress Smythe playing?

"If you succeed with Letty, I'll persuade my husband to have you tile one of the less important buildings—the shippon, mayhap. We can then convince Master Hugh Thatcher that it is time for him to add tiling as well as thatching to his business. Would that suit? Ah! Here comes Letty—I must make haste. Follow her, befriend her, make her think that otherworldly things have occurred, then prove to her they were merely tricks, illusions. She must cease to believe in ghosts, or she will never be happy. She mustn't see me—farewell!"

Leaving Perkin gaping, his employer's wife vanished among the village cottages.

He glanced around for the person he was meant to be cozening and spotted an elfin young woman driving geese into the village pond. She laughed at them as they honked and splashed, then glanced around as if filled with guilt for having dared to smile.