by Pam Hillman
“I am. But nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”
“All went well? When did you get home?”
“I found someone to repair the damage to the house.” A blush stole over her cheeks. She wouldn’t lie to her father. She just hoped he wouldn’t ask more questions about her trip home.
“I want to meet him as soon as possible,” he rasped.
“Do you think you’re up to it? Mr. Mews could—”
Her father’s dark brows drew together. Pink scarring from the fire gave him a ferocious one-sided look, but Isabella knew he wasn’t truly angry.
“I’m still the owner of Breeze Hill, and I’ll oversee the repairs even if I have to do it from this confounded bed.”
“Yes, Papa.” Isabella ducked her head, barely able to contain the joy that leapt in her breast. She’d done the right thing by finding a skilled carpenter to repair the damage caused by the blaze. Papa’s excitement over the coming renovations proved it.
“Bring him to me immediately. No, show him the damage first, then bring him here.”
“What about Mews? He could show Con—Mr. O’Shea—what needs doing.” She’d never dreamed she’d be spending more time with Connor once they arrived home. Couldn’t he manage the repair job without her?
“Mews couldn’t build a pigsty.” Her father scowled. “No, you’ll have to show the man around. O’Shea, you say? Irish?”
“Yes, sir.” Would Connor’s ancestry be a problem? Surely not. Her father judged a man on his work ethic, not his homeland, and she’d never known him to say an unkind word about anyone. “Mr. Bloomfield said he apprenticed with a master craftsman by the name of Benson.”
“Ah. I’ve heard of Benson. Your Mr. O’Shea should be well qualified.”
Isabella cleared her throat. “There’s something else.”
Her father speared her with a look. “What is it, Daughter?”
“Mr. O’Shea is indentured to Breeze Hill.” She held out the papers that Connor had signed. “In exchange for passage for his four brothers from Ireland.”
“Indentured?” Her father glanced over the papers. “Why would the man go to such extremes? Why not just save money to send for them himself?”
“Perhaps he felt that someone with connections would be better able to find passage for all of them.”
“Perhaps.” Her father reviewed the agreement, then nodded. “Very well. I’ll send inquiries to Bloomfield. We can probably work something out after the harvest.”
Relieved, Isabella stood.
“And bring the plans and your sketch pad when you return.”
“But . . . you can draw so much better than I can.”
The excitement left her father’s face and his right hand curled into a claw. Isabella wanted to grab the words back, obliterate them from the sorrow-laden air surrounding them. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“I know.”
“You’ll get better. You will. You’re getting stronger every day. I can see it.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears.” One side of his face tilted in a lopsided smile. “Now, be off with you. I want to meet this carpenter of yours.”
“Yes, Papa.”
Isabella kissed him and hurried to her room to grab her drawings, feeling more exhilarated than she had in months. Connor O’Shea might have been giving the orders on the way home from Natchez, but the tables were now turned. She’d be in charge of the repairs to the house, not her father and not Mews.
And she’d wipe that cocky grin off Connor’s face once and for all.
Chapter 4
“I’LL BE TAKING orders from you?”
“Will that cause a problem, Mr. O’Shea?” Isabella arched one delicate eyebrow.
Connor clenched his jaw. Should it bother him that a woman bought his papers, a woman tried to order him around, then the same woman would be overseeing his work on the plantation?
It bothered him a great deal.
He needed to prove that he had the skills to construct a dwelling as finely as his former master, and he didn’t need the distraction of sparring with Isabella Bartholomew day in and day out. But he’d deal with it.
For his brothers’ sake.
He made a conscious effort to relax his jaw before he busted his teeth. “No, ma’am. No’ a problem at all.”
She smiled. “Good.”
“After you.”
He bowed low but caught a glimpse of the scowl that narrowed her pretty dark eyes before she turned away.
“Beggin’ your pardon, but have I offended in some way?”
“No.” She walked away. Suddenly she whirled to face him, her skirts billowing out like sails under a strong gaoth. “Yes. We don’t stand on formality at Breeze Hill. No need to bow.”
“Yes, mistress.” Connor held himself in check, fighting the urge to bow just to see the fire in her eyes again.
Her eyebrows dipped in annoyance, and a slight tightening of her lips proved he’d needled her as expected. Perchance she didn’t like being called mistress. He’d remember that.
“This way, then.”
His lips twitched as he followed her through the front door and into a corridor flanked by rooms. Isabella walked the length of the hall, past a stairway that led to the second floor.
She opened a door and Connor was surprised to find himself outside once again, standing on a shaded porch of the U-shaped house with a one-story wing on his left and the burned-out shell of another wing on his right. Isabella moved down the steps to the expansive courtyard, and Connor followed.
He glanced at Isabella. “Do all the rooms in that wing open to the courtyard?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
“My mother was from Spain and loved her courtyards. Papa built Breeze Hill to accommodate her wishes. We spend a lot of time on the galleries catching the breezes.”
Connor blew out a deep breath, the heavy air already suffocatingly thick. “Yes, I can see how that would be a good thing.”
“If you think this is bad, just wait until August.” Isabella smiled, then turned to face the damaged wing of the house.
He moved closer, being careful of the charred remains. Hollow-eyed windows gaping at him revealed where the bulk of the damage lay. “What happened?”
Isabella stared at the house, her face filled with sorrow. Sparring with him would be better than that look of utter dejection on her face.
“The cotton caught fire right before harvest.” She gestured toward the open fields in the distance, and when she did, he spotted clumps of charred trees between the field and the house. A few trees showed signs of new growth and might be salvaged, but others would not. Cords of firewood stood in silent testimony to the ravages of the fire.
“Before we could do anything, the fire raced toward the house. We let the fields burn. Papa . . . Papa did everything he could to save the house.”
Connor wondered at the catch in her voice but didn’t comment on it. He had yet to meet Mr. Bartholomew. “You did save most o’ it.”
“At a high cost.” Pain laced her words. “Do you think we’ll have to tear the whole wing down and start over?”
Connor smiled. She’d asked his opinion instead of ordering him around. It was a start. “Most of this will have to be torn down.” He pointed to a spot past a massive fireplace where the roof was still intact. “There, closer to the main house, I think we can salvage some of the materials.”
They walked around the perimeter of the wing, Connor looking inside. “Looks like two suites of rooms were destroyed. Do you want to rebuild them exactly as before?”
“I think that’s what Papa has in mind. We have some drawings.”
Back at the latticed porch, he stepped up, being careful of the charred flooring. He spotted a hastily erected barricade next to the blackened fireplace. “Does that lead to the main house?”
“Yes.” Isabella grimaced. “Mews tried to block off the damage but didn’t do a very good job
.”
Connor had to agree. “No need t’ worry. I’ll put up a more secure wall first thing.”
“That would be wonderful.” She gestured uncertainly toward the adjacent, undamaged wing. “My father would like to meet you. If that’s all right?”
Connor couldn’t imagine why she thought he wouldn’t want to meet her father. Actually, he wondered why the man hadn’t put in an appearance already and why he’d left it to his daughter to retain a carpenter to repair the house in the first place.
They retraced their steps through the courtyard and mounted the stairs to the first-floor gallery. There, Isabella paused, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.
“My father was badly burned in the fire.” Her eyebrow arched in warning. “He hates pity.”
Connor knew something about pride and pity. The incident that took his own father’s ability to walk taught him about gathering the remnants of one’s pride after a devastating accident. “I’ll remember that.”
She searched his gaze, love and concern for her father stamped on her features. Not a trace of the haughty plantation owner’s daughter remained. Simply a woman intent on protecting someone she loved. The moment was fleeting; then she blinked and it was gone before she nodded and turned away.
Connor followed. There was something odd, something extraordinarily quiet about the house, about the entire plantation. Suddenly it dawned on him. It was the absence of servants. If he’d learned anything during his years of indentured servitude, he knew that when the very rich snapped their fingers, servants jumped. He’d failed to jump plenty of times and lived to regret it. Where were the servants? The slaves? Did the Bartholomews not have a horde of servants and slaves to see to their every need?
Were they any different? Might Isabella be different?
He wanted to believe that she was.
A tall, thin man shuffled across the courtyard, straw hat in hand. “Miss Isabella?”
Isabella stopped. “Yes, Mews?”
“Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but the lower forty is too muddy for planting after last night’s rain. What do you want us to do?”
She hesitated a moment before answering. “Send Martha and Susan to the house. I could use some help with the cleaning today. Send a couple of men to haul more firewood. Also, see that someone mucks out the stables. We’ve been so busy in the fields, we’ve let that chore go.”
“I’ll get right on it.” Mews nodded at Connor, then took his leave, looking relieved to have instructions for the day.
“That was Mr. Mews, Toby’s father. He’s the overseer here. If you need anything, see him.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Connor watched the man rush off, then turned to Isabella as she rapped lightly on a door next to the main entrance. Mews might have the title of overseer, but he took instructions from Isabella Bartholomew.
Not only would she be making decisions regarding the repairs to the house, she ran the plantation, too.
Interesting.
Did she have the backbone to juggle so many tasks?
Only time would tell.
A raspy voice bade them enter.
Connor stepped inside, his gaze taking in the sitting room first and foremost. A masculine room, large but simple and comfortable, situated in the corner of the main house to optimize the view. Tall, floor-to-ceiling windows graced both exterior walls, giving a panoramic view of the stables and the fields beyond. A door led to another room. A bedroom, perhaps. Across the room, a wingback chair and two spindly chairs faced a fireplace flanked by built-in bookcases.
Miss Bartholomew moved forward. “Papa?”
“Bring him in.” A gnarled hand, streaked with pink-and-white welts, waved them forward.
Isabella Bartholomew’s gaze met his, and her expression dared him to shame her father. Connor braced himself, not knowing what to expect but prepared for the worst. No matter how hideous the man appeared, he would do the honorable thing and ignore the injuries.
Connor rounded the chair and came face-to-face with a man who’d been through the fire, literally. The gnarled hands were the worst, as if Mr. Bartholomew had used his bare hands to put out the fire. Fire-damaged skin distorted his face into a grimace, and patches of soot-black hair covered his head, interspersed with spots of pink, puckered skin. Not willing to look away, Connor focused on the man’s eyes.
Blue eyes stared back at him, bright, steady, firm. What kind of man had Master Bartholomew been before the fire that almost took his home, his family, and his life? Connor bowed slightly at the waist, enough to be deferential without becoming a simpering fool. “Good day, sir.”
“Mr. O’Shea.” Mr. Bartholomew cleared his throat. “Isabella tells me you’ve come to repair the damage to Breeze Hill.” His words were low and raspy, his vocal cords as tortured inside as he’d been on the outside.
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you toured the house?”
“Only parts of it. I’ve seen the damaged wing, sir.”
“And your opinion?” He arched a brow, and Connor spotted the resemblance between father and daughter in that one look. “Are you capable of rebuilding the wing?”
Connor remembered Mr. Benson’s confident response to such a question. “Yes, it would be an honor to take on the job, sir.”
“Good. We have lumber on hand, but give Isabella a list of anything else you need. She’ll see that it’s ordered and delivered.”
Connor flicked his gaze to Isabella. “Miss Bartholomew, sir?”
An amused expression twisted Mr. Bartholomew’s face even further. “Isabella has a head for numbers. I wouldn’t trust anyone else to manage my affairs. You’ll need some assistance. Isabella, Jim and Toby should be a big help to him, and it won’t hurt those two lads to learn a bit of carpentry. Mews, too, for that matter.”
“I’ll tell them, Papa.”
“May I ask how you want the rooms fitted out, sir?” Connor glanced around the room again before coming back to rest on Mr. Bartholomew. “Do you want something along these lines?”
“Maybe something not quite as austere as this. I’ll let Isabella help you with that.” Mr. Bartholomew reached for a set of drawings. “Here are the original floor plans, but Isabella has been working on some new ideas as well.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Isabella, have Mews show O’Shea the sawmill.”
“A mill?”
“It’s primitive, but I cut the lumber off the surrounding land to build this house myself. In recent years, my—” Mr. Bartholomew cleared his throat—“my son, Jonathan, had taken over the saw pit and was in the process of securing contracts to supply lumber for new construction in Natchez when he met an . . . an untimely death. I’d hoped to continue—”
“Papa, I’m afraid that’s out of the question now.” Isabella put a hand on his arm. “We’ll need all the lumber to repair the house.”
“Maybe someday, eh?” He patted her hand. “There’s ample lodging at the mill, or Mews can put you up in one of the cabins closer to the main house.”
“I’m sure the sawmill will be fine.” The thought of living alone, away from everyone else enticed Connor like no other. Having time to himself was a luxury he’d never enjoyed.
“What part of Ireland are you from, O’Shea?”
Connor paused at the sudden turn in the conversation. “Kilkenny, Leinster Province.”
“Ah.” A ghost of a smile twisted Mr. Bartholomew’s lopsided features. “Would you be Protestant or Catholic now?”
“Protestant.”
“What do they say of Cromwell there?”
Could this be where Bartholomew threw him out on his ear? If the man knew anything at all about Kilkenny, he’d know that they celebrated Cromwell’s death every year.
A cackle erupted from Bartholomew’s damaged throat, and he waved a gnarled hand. “You don’t have to answer. Cromwell destroyed many an Irishman’s hopes and dreams.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, if you don’t mind,
I think I’ll rest awhile before dinner. And, O’Shea, stop by every evening with a report of how things are progressing.”
“Yes, sir.”
Connor followed Isabella out the door, her carriage as straight and regal as a queen’s. The weight of this entire family—no, not just the family, but the plantation itself—rested on her slim shoulders.
No wonder about the desperation he’d seen in her eyes.
Chapter 5
ISABELLA JOINED her sister-in-law on the front porch, dropping into one of the rockers and resting her head against the slatted back.
Exhaustion threatened to overtake her. She hadn’t slept at all last night at Harper’s Inn, and she’d been busy with one thing or the other all day. Had it really been just last night that she and Connor stayed at the inn? It felt like a lifetime ago.
The clattering of hooves on the drive roused her.
“Why, it’s Nolan Braxton.” Leah clapped her hands. “We haven’t seen him in ages.”
Isabella sat up straight, smoothing her skirt with one hand. Before she could gather her wits, their nearest neighbor pulled his spirited mare to a halt and dismounted.
“Good afternoon, ladies.”
“Afternoon, Mr. Braxton. Please join us.” Leah’s gaze slid to Isabella’s, eyes twinkling. “We haven’t had the pleasure of your company in quite some time.”
“My apologies for not calling on you sooner.” Nolan braced his booted foot on the second porch step and rested his forearm against a sturdy post. “I had business in New Orleans and just returned to oversee the late planting.”
“Please have a seat.” Isabella motioned to a chair. “Would you like a cup of tea? Leah and I were just about to have some.”
“Thank you, Isabella. That’s most kind of you.”
Isabella made her way to the kitchen, where Martha had the evening meal simmering on the stove. Little Lizzy Mews sat at the table eating a biscuit drenched with butter and syrup. Her red hair looked like it hadn’t seen a brush in a week, not since Isabella had braided the child’s hair herself before she’d left for Natchez.
