The Promise of Breeze Hill

by Pam Hillman

  And where it should be Isabella comforting Leah, Leah wrapped her arm around Isabella’s waist and continued on down the path. She squeezed her close to her side.

  Isabella remained silent, wishing she’d known. She would have done something to keep Leah occupied today, to keep the bittersweet memories at bay.

  Leah chuckled, and Isabella glanced at her. “Do you remember last summer when Jonathan first brought me home?”

  “Yes. You were extremely shy around us all.”

  “Yes, and very shy with Jonathan as well.” A becoming blush stole across her pale cheeks. “As a matter of fact, he courted me along this path.”

  “Courted you?” Isabella frowned. “But you were already married.”

  “We might have been married, but we hardly knew each other. Jonathan promised me that if I’d marry him, he’d wait until—” Leah broke off. “I shouldn’t be talking about this with you.”

  Isabella cleared her throat. “I agree, it’s scandalous. And a bit unnerving, considering you’re talking about my brother.”

  Leah’s laugh rang out. “Truly, the first two months after he brought me to Breeze Hill, he stayed in the master suite, and I slept in your old bedroom next door. I’m surprised Martha and Susan weren’t aware of it.”

  “I’m sure they were, but they would never say anything.”

  “Those were the most glorious months I’ve ever known.” Leah sighed, and they continued on, each lost in her thoughts.

  A rustling in the bushes brought Isabella back to the present, and she glanced around at the lengthening shadows. “We’d better head home. It’ll be dark soon.”

  “Let’s keep going.” Leah pulled her along. “The wagon road that leads to the sawmill is just up ahead. The road will be brighter than the path, and it’s probably shorter.”

  Isabella nodded, relieved that they didn’t have to make the trip back along the shadowy pathway. When they reached the wagon road, she could see the outline of the sawmill off to her right, the glow of a single lantern sending out a beacon of light, letting her know that Connor had settled in for the night. Without speaking of Connor, they turned left and headed toward home.

  “Isabella?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You know why so many gentlemen are calling on us these days, don’t you?”

  “How could I not know? With Jonathan gone and Papa’s health so shaky, they’ve got their eye on Breeze Hill.”

  Leah laughed. “Don’t sound so cynical.”

  “I’m only speaking the truth.” Isabella shrugged.

  Twilight fell quickly. Crickets began chirping in earnest, and a bullfrog croaked in the distance, but at least Leah had been right about the road. The way back would be easier than the shadowy, root-filled pathway along the creek bank.

  “And have you decided on anyone in particular?” Leah threw her a glance, the evening shadows doing little to mask the interest on her face.

  Isabella pursed her lips. “What makes you think I’m going to marry any of them?”

  “You have to. We’ll lose the plantation if you don’t.”

  “Who says? The men who are calling on me?”

  Leah looked confused. “It’s common knowledge that a woman needs a husband to manage her affairs. None of the exchanges will do business with a woman.”

  “They might if they thought they were still doing business with my father.”

  Leah’s mouth dropped open, and she whispered, “You wouldn’t.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t lie to them.” Isabella looked up at the sky and sighed. “To tell you the truth, Leah, six months ago I would have considered marrying one of them, but—”

  “Who?” Leah squeezed her arm.

  “I’m not telling.”

  “I think William Wainwright is very nice, don’t you?”

  “Yes, he is.” Isabella laughed. “But he was also Jonathan’s best friend when we were children. I can’t picture being married to a man who used to put frogs down my dress. Maybe you should consider William.”

  Isabella waited for Leah to deny that she’d ever even consider marrying again, but her sister-in-law either didn’t hear her or chose to ignore her. “So if it’s not William, then it must be Nolan or Samuel.”

  Samuel? Isabella shuddered. As for Nolan, Isabella didn’t want her sister-in-law to know that she had entertained thoughts of marrying Nolan six months ago. But things had changed. She’d changed. She wasn’t the flighty young girl she’d been then. The responsibility of her family and livelihood rested squarely on her shoulders. Until her father’s health returned and Leah’s future was settled, Isabella didn’t intend to marry at all.

  She couldn’t help but compare the gentlemen farmers who were calling on her to Connor or to the hardworking man her father had always been. Papa wouldn’t expect anyone at Breeze Hill to do work he wouldn’t do himself.

  And neither would Connor if he owned a plantation.

  She frowned. Now where had that thought come from? She didn’t know what kind of man Connor would be if he were a wealthy landowner. He was being paid to do his work. Well, not exactly paid, but he would be when the crops were harvested and they could afford to send for his brothers.

  Regardless of his station, he put in the effort of three men, making sure the others did their share as well. She’d seen how much Mews deferred to him in decisions. On one hand, she was relieved. Mews asking Connor’s advice relieved her of having to make everyday decisions regarding the plantation, but on the other hand, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was relinquishing control of Breeze Hill inch by inch.

  “You know that everybody thinks I will inherit Breeze Hill now that Jonathan’s gone, but that’s not true. If your babe is a boy, he will be the rightful heir.”

  “Truly?” Leah placed her hand on her abdomen, then lifted her gaze to meet Isabella’s. “I—it hadn’t even occurred to me.”

  “So you see, there’s really no reason for me to rush into marriage. If I married, I’d move away, and you and Papa need me here, so that’s where I’ll stay for the time being.”

  By the glow of a single lantern and the fading sunlight, Connor sanded the top of the double pedestal table he’d cobbled together from the damaged tea tables.

  Mr. Bartholomew had suggested using the original top to create an inlay, then framing it with walnut. The contrast was pleasing to the eye, and he hoped Mr. Bartholomew liked the table as much as he did.

  His next step was to perfect his varnish, and he’d been tapping pine trees for the sap, collecting wood ash, and had a good supply of linseed oil on hand. He’d been surprised to find walnut oil, mastic, and shellac in one of the cabins. He’d mix the varnish and try it on scrap pieces of lumber before he tackled the table.

  But that task would have to wait for the light of another day.

  He put away his tools and picked up the lantern. As he unlatched the door, a horse’s whinny brought him up short. Quickly dousing the flame, he reached for the flintlock. As he lifted the gun from over the fireplace, he heard a yell and the sound of horses galloping away.

  He rushed outside, determined to give the interlopers a taste of lead. Half a dozen mounted riders raced along the tree-lined path toward the main road. Connor jerked the gun to his shoulder and fired, knowing they were too far away for him to do much damage, but at least they’d know the sawmill wasn’t left unattended at night.

  “Leah!” A woman’s scream caused his heart to stop beating on the spot.

  Isabella? And Leah?

  He tossed the useless gun aside and took off at a run.

  The next few moments were a blur as he ran toward the sound of the scream. Yelling and cursing ensued, and the riders spurred their horses away. Connor let them go, his only thought to get to the women.

  “Isabella! Where are you?”

  “Connor, is that you?” Isabella’s frightened voice rang out in the night.

  There, huddled next to the tree line at the edge of the narrow wa
gon road, Isabella cradled Leah in her arms. Connor’s heart gave a sickening twist. Dear saints above, had Leah been trampled in the melee or, heaven forbid, shot? He skidded to a stop and dropped to his knees.

  “Leah.” Isabella stroked Leah’s face. “Are you all right?”

  “Is she hurt? Was she hit?”

  “I don’t think so.” Isabella shook her head. “We were walking toward the house; then we heard the—the horses and then the gunshot. We ran, but there was nowhere to go. No time—”

  Leah groaned.

  “Leah, talk to me.”

  “The babe.” Leah curled around her stomach. “Home. Please.”

  Isabella looked toward Connor, pleading in her gaze.

  “Get Martha.” Connor moved closer, gathered Leah into his arms, and jerked his chin toward the house. “Hurry. I’m right behind you.”

  Isabella picked up her skirts and raced away. Connor moved as fast as he could, fighting the urge to run. Running wouldn’t do Leah or her child any good.

  Leah grasped his shirtfront with one pale hand, her pain-filled gaze on his. “I fell. I fell and now I’ve killed my baby.”

  “No, mistress. Don’t think like that.”

  “No,” Leah moaned. “No. I’ve killed him. I’ve killed Jonathan’s baby.”

  “Shh. The babe will be fine.” Connor prayed it was so.

  Martha met him on the front lawn, and Susan had the door wide-open. “Take her to her room.”

  Connor hurried through the front hall straight to the outdoor courtyard, turned left past Mr. Bartholomew’s rooms. Mr. Bartholomew and Isabella were standing in his doorway, both as pale as the woman in his arms.

  Chapter 12

  THE NEXT EVENING, MR. Bartholomew stared out the window of his study at the darkness creeping over the land. Connor waited, hat in hand.

  In spite of the pall and worry that hung over the house, it didn’t escape Connor’s notice that Mr. Bartholomew was standing on his own two feet. Granted, he had a death grip on the wingback chair, but somehow he’d found his strength yesterday and seemed determined to hold on to it.

  Connor shifted his feet. “May I ask how Miss Leah is doing, sir?”

  Mr. Bartholomew sighed. “Martha says there’s nothing wrong with the babe, but Leah is terrified to leave her bed. She insists that something terrible will happen to the child if she does.”

  “That’s—” Connor broke off what he was about to say. Who was he to question the workings of a woman’s mind? Especially one with child who’d been through what Miss Leah had been through. His own mam had taken to her bed with Caleb—or was it Rory? He couldn’t remember. And she’d died after birthing Patrick, and he’d not been there to say good-bye to her.

  Mr. Bartholomew took a deep breath, moved to his chair, and sat. “Tell me what happened.”

  Connor relayed his part in the events of the night before. “I had no idea Miss Isabella and Miss Leah were on the road, sir. I would never have fired off that shot had I known.”

  Lopsided scowl firmly in place, Mr. Bartholomew tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair. “No, it’s probably good that you did.”

  “Good?” The shock that had shot through him when he’d heard that scream rose up to choke him again. “But I could have killed them. And Miss Leah—”

  “Martha said Leah and the babe are fine,” Mr. Bartholomew growled.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But if you hadn’t heard those men and hadn’t chased them off, it could have been much, much worse. They might have killed Isabella and Leah.”

  Stunned, Connor could only stare at him. Surely Mr. Bartholomew didn’t believe that.

  “Connor, sit down. I need to tell you something.”

  Connor sank down onto the settee and waited. Mr. Bartholomew would get to the point when it suited him.

  “I’m about to tell you something I have never told another human being, not even Isabella.” Mr. Bartholomew leaned back in his chair. “Do I have your word that you will keep my confidence?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “For months after the fire, the pain was so great I begged God to let me die. And then just about the time the fog lifted, Jonathan died.” Mr. Bartholomew shifted in his chair, a grimace on his face. “Jonathan’s death wasn’t an accident.”

  Connor grew still. Had the man gone daft? Of course Jonathan’s death wasn’t an accident. Lack of sleep and grief must have addled Master Bartholomew’s mind. “Sir, if you’ll permit me, it’s common knowledge that it wasn’t an accident. He was murdered by highwaymen on the way home from Natchez.”

  “Pshaw.” Mr. Bartholomew waved a hand. “Yes, he was murdered by highwaymen, but not for his purse. He was murdered because of who he was. The heir to Breeze Hill.”

  “Sir?” Connor sucked in a breath.

  “It might not look like much, but there’s four hundred acres of cleared land and six hundred acres of trees on this side of the Natchez Trace. There’s another four square miles of pine and oak on the west side of the trace that joins Wainwright’s land. Half the plantation homes around here were built from lumber I cut at my own mill.”

  Connor sat perfectly still, trying to take it all in. Could there be any truth to what Mr. Bartholomew was saying?

  “Whoever is after my land expected me to die in that fire and leave my holdings to my heirs.” He held up his hands, curved into claws. “Getting rid of Jonathan was the next move in a macabre game of chess with the goal of destroying my family.”

  “But why attack now? And why try to kill Isabella?”

  Bartholomew’s pale-blue eyes sparked fire. “They weren’t after Isabella. They were after Leah.”

  “Leah?”

  “Not just Leah, but the babe as well.” Mr. Bartholomew’s face hardened. “My heir.”

  “Papa?”

  Connor jerked to his feet at Isabella’s strangled cry. She stood in the doorway, her hand on the latch, face drained of color.

  “Isabella.” Mr. Bartholomew struggled to stand, holding his arms out in invitation.

  “No, Papa, that’s not true. Nobody would—” She broke off as a sob tore from her, her gaze ricocheting from her father to Connor and back again.

  “No.” She pried herself from the door and fled.

  Connor took a step toward the empty door where she’d stood, before duty rooted him to the spot.

  “What have I done?” An ashen tinge blanched the man’s features, robbing him of the pink splotches left by the ravages of the fire. He slumped in his chair, waving a hand toward the door. “Go. Go after her. See that she’s all right.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Connor bolted. He didn’t have to be told twice.

  He spotted Isabella running toward the grape arbor. He followed, her pain drawing him like a beacon in the night. The arbor sat in darkness, vines trailing about the rough-hewn beams, cloaking the structure in shadow and tranquility.

  But peace could not be found here tonight. Only heartrending sobs that tore at Connor’s insides.

  He reached for her, and she jerked at his touch, her cries all the wilder.

  “Shh, lass.” Connor tucked her head under his chin and wrapped his arms securely around her, cocooning her against him. The scent of her hair assaulted his senses, and he closed his eyes, breathing in deep.

  She stopped resisting and let him hold her, great gulping cries tearing from her mouth as if she’d lose her breath completely.

  “It’s all right, Isabella.” Connor rubbed her back with one hand. “The fright o’ nearly losing Leah and the babe upset your father. I’m sure none of that was true.”

  She groaned but didn’t answer. How long they stood there, he didn’t know. He held her, letting her mourn. Gradually her sobs slowed, became an occasional deep, shuddering breath, then quieted to a sniffle.

  Connor held her away from him, his hands gentle on her shoulders. He searched her face in the pale light from the moon. She gazed up at him, eyes large and luminous
, her lashes spiked with tears.

  “Oh, Connor, what if it’s true?” Her voice trembled. “What if someone killed Jonathan just for Breeze Hill? And tried to kill Papa? And now they’re truly after Leah and the babe?”

  “For a fact, you don’t know that.” Connor lowered his face to hers, willing her to believe him.

  “I found him, you know. His horse came home without him, and the men searched the trace for days. Papa wanted me to stay home, let the men look for him. But I couldn’t.” She shook her head, her eyes taking on a faraway look. “The hogs or coyotes, something . . .”

  “Hush.” Connor cupped her face in both hands, one thumb pressed against her lips, silencing her. “It does no good to make yourself sick thinking about it.”

  “He was on his way back from Natchez and had coin from the sale of some lumber. It’s no secret that the trace is a dangerous place, but that someone intentionally killed Jonathan for our land? It’s unthinkable.” Fresh tears swam in her eyes. “Why would anybody kill all of us for Breeze Hill?”

  “Nobody’s going t’ kill you, lass.”

  A strangled laugh escaped her. “You’re right. It’s not me they want to kill. It’s the rest of my family, including an unborn child. A baby. What kind of monster would do that?”

  “I don’t know.” Connor rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “Let’s pray your father is wrong.”

  She pulled away, wrapped her arms around her waist, and moved to the other end of the arbor, haloed by the moon.

  “Prayer didn’t keep my mother here. Or save Jonathan’s life, or keep the fields from burning last fall. It didn’t even keep my father safe from the fire that swept through the house.” She lifted her chin, a challenge in the firm jut of her jaw. “Why should I expect prayer to protect Leah, the babe, and my father now?”

  She’d lost her faith in God. He could see that clearly. So many tragedies heaped one upon another had broken her to the point she didn’t feel that God was listening to her, that He would answer her. And from the defiant look she threw Connor’s way, she wasn’t ready for him to refute her claims.