Caitlin waved to Jenkins. “Parker gave me your list. I’ll add the nails to the order on Thursday.”
Jenkins saluted her and turned back to his work.
As Gregory joined Caitlin, she arched a brow. “Impressed?”
“Deeply.” He cast a last glance over the workshop. Jenkins had already joined his men, and the three were tightening the wheel nut. Gregory looked at Caitlin. “Where to next?”
“The forge.” She pointed at the building that sat to one side of the carriage works, farther from the house.
As they headed that way, she informed him, “Henry Kirk is our blacksmith, and the forge produces not only horseshoes but anything made of iron or steel that people on the estate or around about need. In addition, over recent years, the Kirks have turned their hands to metal sculptures, which, of course, are all the rage. Armillary spheres, sundials, lanterns, posts, and pedestals as well as other pieces.”
They reached the wide-open door of the forge. It was a deep building, toward the rear of which sat the forge itself, currently roaring and belching out heat. Gregory stopped on the threshold; the difference in temperatures between the air inside and outside was dramatic.
The blacksmith was standing behind the middle of three anvils set up across the forge. He swung his massive hammer down, and sparks flew, then he raised the tongs he held in his other hand and inspected the horseshoe he was fashioning. He grunted in satisfaction and doused the shoe in a barrel of water standing nearby. Metal hissed and steam rose, dissipating quickly in the heat.
“Henry?” Caitlin called.
The big man looked up, then smiled, put down his tools, and wiping his hands on a rag, strode out to join them.
Gregory saw, in the strange reddish light thrown by the forge, two others, both wearing heavy leather aprons, masks of sorts, and thick leather gauntlets as they manipulated a crucible of molten ore, carefully pouring a golden-red stream of liquid metal into a rather delicate-looking mold.
Gregory drew his gaze from the activity to smile at Henry as the big man halted before them, and Caitlin introduced him.
Henry nodded politely and rumbled words of welcome, then said to Caitlin, “Glad to see you, Miss C. We need more of that nice leather for grips and more nails for shoeing.”
Caitlin nodded. “I’ll add both to tomorrow’s order.”
She glanced at Gregory, and he caught Henry’s eye. “Miss Fergusson has told me what you make here.”
“Aye—we do the horseshoes, of course, and we also keep all the tools in good nick. Not just the ones used at the Hall itself, but we also work with the farms, keeping their equipment in good condition. Anything metal, we’re the people anyone round about talks to.” Henry dipped his big head Caitlin’s way. “Miss C can tell you we clear a tidy profit every year—the last six months were good. We managed more than seven hundred total and put five of those into the Hall fund.”
“I see.” Gregory glanced into the shop. “So it’s you and two others?”
“Aye.” Henry turned to look at the pair, who had finished pouring and had returned the crucible to a stand and were now hauling off their protective layers. “Here, you two. Come and say hello to Mr. Cynster.”
Both looked up, and Gregory realized the younger worker was a woman.
The pair grinned—white smiles bright in faintly soot-streaked faces—and came forward.
“This is my daughter, Madge.” Henry draped a proud arm around his daughter’s shoulders, and she smiled at Gregory and nodded.
Henry went on, “Madge is responsible for all the sculpture we do. Not really blacksmith’s work to my way of thinking, but she enjoys it, and it surely brings in the guineas.”
Madge smiled fondly at her father, then looked back at Gregory and volunteered, “Many of the local ladies developed a craving for ironwork, and now they’ve talked of our work to their friends, we find we can sell anything we make through the markets in Northampton and Kettering.” She smiled cheekily at her father. “Armillary spheres and the like are far too delicate for ham-fisted men to make, but someone has to do them, so I do.”
Henry huffed and beckoned his other worker forward, and a wizened old fellow—with straggly white-gray hair and skin turned to leather long ago—shuffled nearer.
As weak sunlight hit the man’s face, Gregory smiled spontaneously. “Blackie, isn’t it?” When the man blinked his very blue eyes, Gregory was sure of it. “I remember you from long ago. You used to work in the stable.”
Blackie grinned widely, plainly pleased to have been remembered. “Aye, that was me. I remember you as a nipper, always running everywhere with that brother of yours. And your sister, too—she was a little miss, no doubt about it.” Blackie nodded at Gregory. “I can see you’re doing well. Your brother and sister and your baby brother—are they well, too?”
Still smiling, Gregory replied, “Therese is now the Countess of Alverton. But you would have seen her when she visited Timms over the past years.”
Blackie nodded. “Aye, I did, now you remind me. She and that husband of hers, Lord Alverton.”
“They’re both well and have three children and a fourth due later in the year. As for Christopher, he married more recently and lives in Kent, while our baby brother is a grown man but not yet of an age to be thinking of marrying.”
“Aye, well.” Blackie bobbed his head. “It’s good to see you back and all.”
