by Bonnie Leon
John half grinned. “Don’t suppose that was much fun.”
“No, indeed, it wasn’t.” Hannah stood, her irritation growing. “And while they were out having a bit of fun, they managed to devour a good deal of my potatoes. And the boar bit Thomas.”
Concern replaced John’s smile. “Are you all right, Son?”
“Fine.” Thomas shoved his hands into his pockets and stamped the foot of his uninjured leg down on the porch step. “He didn’t hurt me much.” Defiantly, he stared at his father. “We’re not leaving, are we?”
“Leaving? How do you mean?”
“Mum said we’ll have to move. That this place is yers.”
John’s expression turned glum. “This is your home just as much as mine. Nothing can change that.” He moved to Thomas and laid an arm over the lad’s shoulders. “You never have to leave.”
Furious, Hannah walked into the house. She knew differently. John was simply putting off the inevitable and misleading the boy. They would have to go.
John followed her indoors. “Hannah, I’ll never make you leave. I promise.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“I mean it, Hannah. This will always be your home.”
And what of your wife? What happens when she wants to move in? Hannah didn’t have the energy to thrash any of it out. “Will you be here for dinner?”
“No. That’s why I was late. Seems Murphy Connor’s set to go boar hunting today. I came to get Thomas and Quincy.”
“Oh. I haven’t prepared anything for you.”
“No need. Murphy’s wife has it all taken care of.”
Hannah felt the wrenching pain of the loss. She was no longer in possession of her wifely responsibilities, no longer John’s partner.
“I’ll take care of that pen and then we’ll be off. We should be back day after tomorrow, unless we do well and get our boars right off.”
“I’ll get Thomas’s things.” She tried to keep her voice light. John moved toward the door. “I’ll tell him.”
“Plan on dinner when you get back. I’ll have something hot for you and Thomas when you return. You’ll be hungry for sure.”
John glanced at Hannah and rubbed his day’s growth of beard. “That would be fine . . . except . . . I’ll have to get back into town . . .” He seemed at a loss for words.
“Do you have something else planned?”
“I just promised to have dinner . . . with a friend.”
Hannah knew. “You mean with Margaret.”
John looked at the toes of his boots and then at Hannah. “I’ll see you in two days. We’ll be back in the afternoon, most likely.” He walked out and down the steps.
Hannah’s heart felt as if it had been crushed beneath her ribs, and she wondered if she’d ever breathe again.
7
Oblivious to the chill air and misting rain, John pulled his horse to a stop in front of Margaret’s cabin. He leaned forward slightly in the saddle and studied the small cottage. A planter box crowded with colorful flowers that spilled over the rim rested beneath the front window. And on either side there were two wooden rockers resting on a cleanly swept porch. A disquieting image of him and Margaret sitting there together nudged him. It was Hannah he longed to spend tranquil moments with.
He dismounted and tied his horse to a post at the front of the porch. The smell of pork wafted from indoors as he moved toward the front steps. It reminded him of earlier days with Margaret. Pork was a favored dish, and the cook had prepared it often.
Unexpectedly the door opened. Margaret crossed her arms, a smile playing at her lips, and leaned against the doorjamb. Her dark eyes were alight with mischief. She wore a simple, pale green frock cut low across the bodice. It fit snugly at the waist before falling freely to the floor. John was careful to keep his eyes on her face.
“You’ve been standing out here for some time.” She raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you ought to come in. It would be more seemly if we sat at the table for our meal.”
John swiped his hat off his head, embarrassed at being caught hanging back. “Of course. Just taking a moment for reflection.”
Margaret’s expression turned serious. “I don’t mean to tease. I know this isn’t easy . . . for either of us. I was just thinking that a bit of levity might ease the tension.” She stepped back and opened the door wider. “Please, come in.”
With his hat tucked beneath his arm, John walked up the steps and moved indoors. His eyes swept over the tidy, wellfurnished room. “It would seem you’ve done well in my absence.”
“I’ve managed. But not without cost.” Sadness touched her eyes. “Last year my parents died, within days of each other.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. They were fine people.”
“Thank you. They were.” She blinked back what looked to be tears. “It was the fever. But in God’s mercy they went quickly.”
John nodded, rooted in place.
Margaret closed the door behind him. “Your hat?”
He handed it to her, and she set it on a shelf beside the door. “They were gone so quickly, we were all taken by surprise.” Margaret helped him remove his coat.
She felt too close, the contact too familiar. John tried to keep from touching her.
Margaret hung his coat on a rack. “My brothers were kindly disposed toward me and included me in the family inheritance.
It’s enough to see me by.” She moved to a small kitchen. “Dinner will be a few minutes longer. Might I get you a beverage?”
“Water will suit me fine.” Unable to recall a time when he’d felt more awkward, John moved to a mahogany side chair and sat. His eyes went to a large Bible lying on an occasional table.
Margaret moved to it and rested a hand on the well-worn leather cover. “This was my mother’s. I find comfort in it.”
John didn’t recall Margaret being especially religious, but he said, “Of course.”
“I have wine if you’d prefer that. I understand it was grown locally.”
“No. Water’s fine. Thank you.” John needed a clear head.
Margaret filled a glass with water. “It’s fresh. I had the barrel filled this morning.” She walked to John, her movements graceful and unhurried. She handed him the glass.
“Thank you.” He took a long drink, wetting his dry mouth.
Margaret crossed to the hearth and knelt, lifting the lid of a pan. “Good. The rolls are nearly ready.” She glanced over her shoulder at John.
She’d worn her auburn hair partially down, and hints of red gleamed in the lantern light. John tried not to notice.
“Could you help me with this pan? It’s a bit heavy. The roast is overly large. I must say I was a bit surprised by the butcher’s generosity.”
“Most chaps in this town have healthy appetites. They work hard. I figure the wives . . .” The word “wife” rang through John’s mind. Margaret was his wife. “The wives feed them well.” He had to reach around Margaret to lift the pot. He could smell the subtle scent of roses and remembered it had been one of her favorite perfume fragrances. Disconcerted, he quickly straightened and stepped away. “Where would you like it?”
“On the table, please.” She lifted a baking kettle out of the hearth and carried it to the table. “Our first meal together since . . . well, since you were arrested.” She managed a tremulous smile. “It’s an answer to prayer. I’ve made some of your favorites—pork, turnips, and carrots, plus fresh rolls. And I baked an apple cake for dessert.”
Against his will, John’s mind turned to Hannah. Her apple cake was the best he’d tasted. He doubted Margaret’s would compare.
She perched on a settee.
John threw one leg over the other and tried to appear composed. He couldn’t think of anything to talk about.
“I’m so pleased you accepted my invitation. I was afraid you might not.”
What should he say? He couldn’t tell her he was here out of duty. “I suppose it’s inevitable . . . ou
r spending time together.”
She clasped her hands in her lap, appearing nearly as nervous as he. “I do hope you feel more than a sense of inevitability. We had a life together once. And it makes sense that we do again, don’t you agree?” When John didn’t answer right away, she added, “Surely you haven’t forgotten how it was with us.”
“No. I’ve not forgotten.” John’s mind carried him back to their early years—theirs had been a passionate marriage—in the beginning. “I’m just not accustomed to anyone but . . . Hannah.”
“Of course.” Margaret glanced at her hands. “She does understand, doesn’t she?”
“Understand?”
“That you and I are married and that she is . . .” Margaret hesitated, seeming to search for the right word. “Well, that you and she are no longer together.”
“She knows,” John said flatly, thinking how unfair life could be. “It will take time . . . for us all.”
“Of course.” She moved to the hearth and lifted the lid of the baking pan that held the rolls. “Ah, finally.” Using a towel, she grasped the handle and carried it to the table. Standing beside her chair, she said, “Dinner is ready.”
John moved to Margaret and pulled her chair out, then helped her scoot closer to the table.
“Thank you,” she said, touching his hand.
Feeling as if he’d been burned, John forced himself not to jerk his hand away and then took his place. It felt peculiar to sit across the dinner table from Margaret as if it were a natural thing to do.
She sliced into the pork. As the juices spilled into the pan, the aroma of roasting meat intensified. She placed three wedges on his plate, added turnips, carrots, and two rolls, then set the meal in front of John. Handing him a crock with butter in it, she said, “It’s fresh. A woman at the boardinghouse was kind enough to give me some. Perhaps I’ll soon have a cow of my own for milk and butter.” Her tone hinted at some unspoken desire.
John took a scoop and spread it over a roll. “It looks delicious. Thank you for going to the trouble.”
“It’s no trouble, not for you.”
“I rarely recall you cooking when we lived in London.”
“I learned . . . out of necessity. But I rather like it.” She served herself.
John waited. “It’s a grand meal.”
“We’ve yet to taste it and so we can only guess as to its grandness.” Margaret took two rolls and set them on her plate. “I still have a weakness for breads,” she said apologetically. “I shan’t be able to tie my stays if I continue to overindulge.”
John thought the subject of her underclothes a bit too intimate, and yet what wife felt constrained to keep such topics from her husband?
She placed her napkin on her lap and looked at John. “Would you be so kind as to say a blessing over the food?”
John felt momentary confusion. Had she changed so much? None of this felt right. Still, he bowed his head. Lord, what should I pray? Silence hovered over the room.
“Heavenly Father, thy Word says life will be filled with the unexpected. Margaret and I are facing such a time, but I trust thee and know thy will shall be revealed in due time.” Hannah’s face flashed through his mind. Oh, how he missed her. “I ask thy blessing on this food and upon Margaret for her efforts in preparing this fine meal . . . Amen.”
He looked up to see her staring at him, humor in her eyes. “Do you find our circumstances amusing?” he asked.
“Not at all.”
“By the look on your face, it would seem you do.”
“I can’t know what look you see, but I assure you that all I feel at this moment is gratitude for being blessed with a husband as honorable as you.”
“Oh.” John knew he ought to say something more but couldn’t find an appropriate response, so instead he picked up his fork and knife and cut off a bite of roast. He chewed. The meat was tender and savory. “It would seem you’ve become a first-rate cook. This is quite good.”
“I’m glad it pleases you. I must confess to being nervous. I wanted our first meal to be special, and you’ve always had refined tastes.”
John set his fork and knife on the plate. “A taste that is refined no longer. I spent too many months in the belly of a ship and in prison, hoping for just enough to stave off hunger.”
“I can’t imagine how horrible it was for you. It must have been dreadful.”
“It was.” John’s mind carried him back to the putrid hold with its nightmares. The fear, the smells, and the hopelessness swept over him. And then he remembered Hannah and how she had brightened his days—just thinking about her had made life bearable. His gaze settled on Margaret. All those months, he’d hated her; she’d tormented his thoughts.
Picking up his knife and fork, John cut into a turnip and acted as if all was well, when in fact, he felt that he belonged at the farm with Hannah and Thomas. Sitting here at Margaret’s table made him feel unfaithful to Hannah.
He stabbed the turnip with the fork. “Margaret, I don’t know what you are hoping for or what you expect—”
“I’m expecting to share a pleasant meal with my husband.” Her gaze caressed his face. She reached across the table and took his hand. “I know this can’t be easy for you . . . or for Hannah. But it’s time we set things right. It will be difficult, especially after what Henry did, but I believe we can begin again.”
John stared at her hand. How should he respond? He didn’t want to repair the marriage. He wanted Hannah. “I’m not sure what we ought to be doing,” he finally said, letting out a long sigh.
Margaret smiled, her eyes alight with devilishness. “I remember a time when you knew exactly what to do.” She pressed her lips to the palm of his hand.
John felt old passions flair. He had loved her, once. Was it possible to reclaim that love? Hannah’s gentle smile and warm brown eyes cut through the thought. He took back his hand. “We can’t create love.”
“Of course not, but it was ours once.”
“That was a long time ago.”
Margaret’s eyes welled up. “All the more reason to give ourselves time to rediscover it.” She pushed her plate aside and rested her arms on the table. “I’d hoped being here together would spark some of the old feelings.” Her expression hardened. “It seems you’ve set me aside.”
“Margaret . . .” John stopped to collect his thoughts. He didn’t want to misspeak. “I remember when we first met—our love, indeed, was fervent. But in time, that changed. I don’t recall you having any passionate loyalty or love for me—I remember you going into the city too often, where you spent time with your friends. And I remember your extravagant expenditures in the London shops. I’m not familiar with this new domesticity. And . . . if I’m to be honest . . . it’s a change I don’t completely trust.” He met her gaze, hoping to see what really lay behind Margaret’s dark eyes. “Have you someone else? And if so, would you be agreeable to . . . divorce? That way you’d be free to marry anyone of your choice. You’re a handsome woman. I’m sure there is a goodly number of gents hoping for your attention.”
“Divorce?” She pressed a hand to her throat. “How can you ask that, after what I’ve told you? I don’t want anyone else—only you. There never has been anyone but you.” Tears spilled onto her cheeks. “How can you hand me off so easily?” She stood. “This is impossible.”
“Margaret, please.” John pushed to his feet. “I don’t want to hurt you, but these matters must be discussed. The idea of divorce is no reflection upon you. I just needed to make sure you weren’t hoping for your freedom.”
“If that’s what you wish for us, then so be it.” She sniffled and tried to quiet a quivering chin. “However, I doubt the governor would grant a divorce in any case.”
Flustered, John didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry. It’s not my intention to cause you grief.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her.
Taking the handkerchief, Margaret patted her eyes and face. “When I thoug
ht I’d lost you, all I could think about was how to find you again. I wanted to be with you.”
“As you’ve seen, life in Parramatta is nothing like London. There are no fine shops or restaurants, no debutante balls or visiting royalty.”
“I don’t want any of those things. I just want you. Why can’t you believe me?”
“It’s not easily done. I believed something else for so long.” “That’s not my fault.” She blew softly into the handkerchief. “We must find a way.”
John nodded. He didn’t want to hurt her more. And if what she said was true, he would do the right thing.
Margaret glanced at his plate. “Have you finished?”
John looked at his partially eaten meal. He wasn’t hungry but didn’t want to risk offending Margaret further. “This is too delicious to let even one bite go to waste.” He returned to his place at the table.
Margaret managed a smile and sat back down.
John cut off a bite of carrot and put it in his mouth. “This is quite good.”
“Thank you. I believe it’s the art of patience that makes the difference.” She took a sip of wine. “You sure you wouldn’t like a bit of wine? It’s not the finest, but it is tasty.”
“I suppose a bit wouldn’t hurt.”
Margaret fetched another glass, filled it, and handed it to him. She set the bottle on the table. “I understand you have a farm not far from here.”
“Yes. It’s small but growing.”
She smiled. “I can barely imagine you a farmer.”
“It’s not farming exactly, although we do have a garden and other stock. Raising sheep is something altogether different from farming.”
Margaret sipped her wine. The red of it nearly matched the color of her lips, reminding John of the passionate moments they’d once shared.
“What plans do you have for the estate?”
“It’s not an estate by any measure, but I’ll continue to increase the flock, which will mean more wool to sell. I’ve also been making tools for chaps ’round about, but I’ll do less of that. I suppose I’ll keep after it for a while, though.”
