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“What is his name?” asked Miss Pendleton.
“He told the tavern keeper Jake Wendell, but I didn’t believe him.”
“Why not?”
“I just didn’t.” Tom shrugged. “Growing up on your own, you get a feel for liars. Or you get in a mort of trouble.” He received their sympathetic glances with a shrug.
“What does he look like?” Miss Pendleton’s face showed the anxiety that Daniel had hoped was eased.
“Tall and well set up,” replied Tom. “Long, sharp nose and a chin to match. Black hair but light eyes. The kind of fella you don’t want to cross, in my opinion. Like the bully boys in Bristol.”
“Does that sound familiar?” Macklin asked her.
“No. I don’t remember anyone like that.” She crossed her arms and gripped her elbows protectively.
Daniel longed to wrap her in his arms and shield her from harm. Which he had no right to do. Or ability? What could he do about a suspicious visitor? “He was the only stranger in the neighborhood?” he asked.
“The only funny one.”
“You should keep an eye on him, see what he does.”
“But be careful not to let him see you following him,” said Macklin.
“He won’t, my lord.”
“This isn’t the streets of Bristol.”
“I’m used to the country now.” Tom sounded confident.
“Really,” said Miss Pendleton. “These people are not gentle or patient. Do not put yourself in jeopardy on my account.”
“No need to worry, miss.”
“That is what you think,” she replied, almost too quietly to hear. “And then you discover how naive and ignorant you were.”
It would be vastly satisfying to thrash the men who’d made her feel that way, Daniel thought. He realized that Macklin was watching him. He unclenched his fists.
They rounded a clump of trees and saw Henry Carson standing beside the stream with a short, plump man in buckskin breeches, an old-fashioned skirted coat, and a tricorn hat. Daniel recognized Walter Simpson, the local miller. They’d met before on estate business, and he’d found Simpson brusque but extremely competent. Daniel moved forward to greet him and introduce the others.
Simpson nodded with the air of a man who valued manners but had no time to waste. “You’ve got a decent head of water here,” he said. The stream was fifteen feet across at this point, tumbling over good-sized rocks. “And it runs pretty strong all year, as you know, my lord.”
“Quite a spate when it rains,” Daniel replied.
“Which is why you need the right bit of bank for your wheel,” said Simpson. “And I’ve found you one.”
He led them upstream to a spot where the riverlet narrowed between two rock outcroppings and dropped in a picturesque waterfall. “You wouldn’t even need a dam here,” said Simpson. “You could fit an overshot wheel right in there. The fall has hollowed out a space behind, y’see.”
They all peered into the dim space behind the cascading water.
“And the water here is deep enough to fit your pump,” the miller said, indicating the pool below.
“I had thought of that bigger pool near the house,” said Henry Carson.
“Aye, but that’s where all the kiddies hereabouts swim this time of year and the young people picnic,” said Simpson.
Daniel met the miller’s sharp green eyes, impressed that he’d taken this into account.
“You don’t need too tall a wheel for a pump, my lord.” He turned to Carson. “You just have to figure how to cut off when your water tank up at the house is full.”
