An elderly woman in a mob-cap, her hair in curl papers, opened the door to Bess. The servants had fled the house, and Peter Gladden and his wife alone remained to minister to Jeffray in his sickness. The butler was sitting by the open window of Richard’s room, watching for Surgeon Stott and listening to his master’s delirious mutterings. It was Mrs. Barbara who opened the door to Bess that morning and stared at her in some surprise. Mrs. Barbara was a sour-tempered person, very sure of her own importance; nor had the flight of her maids tended to sanctify her resentful soul.
“Well, what d’you want, eh?”
Bess colored under the woman’s curious stare. There was nothing suggestive of courtesy in Mrs. Gladden’s manner.
“I have come to see Mr. Jeffray.”
The woman’s eyes studied the girl’s person with impertinent composure. She looked at Bess’s handsome face, considered her clothes, and prepared for circumspection in her dealings with so gypsyish a wench.
“What’s your name?”
“Bess Grimshaw.”
“Grimshaw?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you come from?”