by Susan Page Davis, Darlene Franklin, Pamela Griffin, Lisa Harris
She leaned back in her chair, a frown puckering her brow. Jack watched her, thinking how pretty she was in the soft firelight, with her hair hanging loose about her shoulders.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
She hesitated. “Jack, you need help right now. If the boy were to stay on and give you aid with the mowing and the wheat harvest …”
He smiled. “I like the idea. With a strong boy to help, I’m sure I could handle the work that needs doing before cold weather sets in. I can get to know him better, and perhaps in time I can discern whether to contact his father. Yes, I believe I’ll put it to him that he can work off his debt for the things he stole.”
Lucy smiled, and Jack’s heart flipped. “Drink your tea now,” she said, rising and fetching his mug.
“Aye. And when I go back to the barn, I’d like to take the lad something to eat, if you can fix it. Not much, just enough to keep his belly from growling and keeping me awake tonight.”
She stopped with the kettle in her hand. “You’ll sleep in the barn with him?”
“That was my intention.”
Lucy turned away, and he sensed that she was not happy.
“You’re not afraid he’ll cut my throat in the night after I offer him food and a place to stay, are you?”
She shook her head but kept her back to him.
“What, then?”
She brought a roll of linen from the blanket chest. “Let me bind up your arm again.”
As she worked, he tried to assess her mood, but he couldn’t read her expression. At last she stood back and surveyed the new sling. “Now, you mustn’t do anything vigorous for a few days.”
“Lucy,” he said gently, “you don’t want me to bunk with Simon. Why?”
“It’s nothing. Only …”
“Speak, wife. Please.” He laid his free hand on her sleeve.
She stepped away from him. “How will it look to a hired boy if his master sleeps in the barn?”
Once again, Jack tried unsuccessfully to read her expression. “Perhaps he’d think I don’t trust him yet, which I don’t.”
She bit her lip and picked up his empty mug. “You know best.”
Somehow Jack felt he had failed a test. Her words did not match her thoughts, he was certain, but what those thoughts were, he couldn’t divine. What did she expect of him? Surely she couldn’t mean …
He eyed her as she straightened the dishes and banked the fire. There was no softness in her straight back and stiff shoulders. Nay, she couldn’t mean she wanted a husband’s caresses.
He stood and breathed slowly for a moment until the pain in his side passed.
She brought him a dish of cold stew with a slab of corn pone on top. “Take him that.”
Jack started to speak, but she plucked a candlestick off the mantel and hurried into the bedchamber. The door closed softly, but with a finality that assured him his place tonight was in the barn.
He looked about for another blanket. A quilt his mother had pieced lay over the back of the chair. Lucy had hauled the straw pallet back up to the loft, he realized, but she’d left the quilt here. He picked it up and took it, with the dish of food for the boy, to the barn.
It was very quiet. When he entered, Battle—no, Sir Walter, he corrected himself—gave a low woof.
“Simon?” he called softly.
A snore greeted him. Jack sighed. If he set the food down, the dog would eat it, but he refused to stay up and guard the boy’s supper. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to waken the lad. He supposed he could take the dog to the house and return. Of course, when Simon awoke in the morning and found him there …
What does it matter? he asked himself. Who cared what a hired boy thought of his master and mistress?
At once he knew the answer. Lucy cared. She didn’t want it getting about the neighborhood that she’d relegated Jack to the barn as soon as his wounds were healed. That’s the way it would look, or at least she probably feared it would. He didn’t want her to be anxious over more village gossip.
He set the dish beside the sleeping boy and gave a low whistle. “Come, Sir Walter.”
The dog scrambled up and padded to him. Jack took him outside, closed the barn door firmly, and limped back to the house. He and the mongrel entered as quietly as possible. Jack hesitated a moment, staring at the bedroom door. No light showed from the crack beneath it.
“Go lie down by the fire,” he whispered to the dog. “And mind your manners.”
Jack slowly climbed the ladder to the loft, setting his teeth against the pain, and felt about until he found the straw tick. He was clumsy in the dark, stumbling against Lucy’s spinning wheel and the clock reel that wound the skeins of yarn. At last he felt the rustic mattress and managed to unfold the quilt, pull it over himself, and sink in a weary heap on the pallet.
Chapter 15
Lucy rose early and dressed in the gray light of dawn, wondering if Jack had everything he needed in the barn. She scurried to the kitchen and snatched up the water bucket. During her quick trip to the well, she prayed that God would give her husband wisdom in dealing with Simon Brady.
She lugged the bucket of water back to the house and stepped over the threshold, then stopped when she saw Jack climbing down the ladder.
He gave her a sheepish smile. “Good morning.”
“You … slept in the loft?”
“Aye. I’ve no wish to subject you to a boy’s speculation or a town’s gossip.”
She stood beside her worktable. Was she supposed to thank him?
“Lucy …” The question in his voice needed a response.
She whirled toward him with a forced smile. “I’ll get you some wash water. And you make that boy wash, too.”
While Jack went to fetch Simon from the barn, she set out double portions of samp, along with a great quantity of sausage and applesauce. In moments, it all disappeared. The boy drank a full quart of milk to wash down all the food he put away.
Jack worked outside with him all morning. When they came into the house for dinner, Lucy learned that Simon had received instruction in using a scythe. He was a well-proportioned boy, taller than Lucy, though several inches shorter than Jack. Auburn hair and green eyes accented his tanned face. He was thin but seemed capable of a full day’s work.
“He needs gloves,” Jack said. “His hands are blistering. I believe I have a pair of doeskin gloves in the bottom of the clothespress.”
Lucy found them, and after dinner the two went out again. She refrained from cautioning Jack against using his arm too much.
When she came in from an hour in the garden, she prepared to pickle a batch of beets. Going to the bedchamber for a large apron her mother had lent her, she noticed that all of Jack’s clothes had been removed from the pegs and the clothespress. Frowning, she climbed to the loft. His things were folded in a neat pile on a stool beneath the eaves, on the other side of the loft from her hand loom and spinning wheel.
So he saw this arrangement as permanent. But it was silly to feel hurt, wasn’t it? He wasn’t rejecting her. He was only going on as he had for the past four years.
Still, she couldn’t help remembering the moment in the jail when he had held her in his arms. They’d had that one glorious moment just after their wedding, a moment of desperate hope for a life together. At least it had been that way for her. What had it been for Jack? A moment of grim satisfaction, knowing he’d stymied Dole and Rutledge?
Lucy caught herself up short, realizing she was angry. Lord, why do I feel this way? Let me be content with what You have given me.
She resolved to submit to this humiliating turn of events. If her husband wanted to live apart from her, so be it. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she mopped them away with the hem of her apron.
Give thanks in all things, she told herself. As she went about her work, her anger cooled, and she was able to list her blessings. Thank You, Lord, for my husband. Thank You for this snug little house, and for a stout
barn and a thriving garden. Thank You for bringing Jack home, and for his health. And thank You for sending Simon. May he be a boon to Jack.
When the two came in weary and dirty at suppertime, she was able to greet Jack with a cheerful smile.
“You look happy.” His voice held a touch of wonder.
She spoke the truth from the depths of her heart. “I am happy.”
As she set the table and heaped their plates with food, she felt him watching her. The thanks she received from him and Simon were gratifying, but it was the spark in Jack’s eyes that made her pulse trip.
On Sunday Jack walked to church beside Lucy, with Simon trailing along behind them. The boy had shown reluctance about going to service, but Jack had given him no choice. The Hunter family was going to church.
His mother-in-law greeted them with obvious pleasure, and several other parishioners spoke to Jack outside the church, telling him they were glad he was well enough to attend meeting. There were others who did not speak to him or meet his gaze, but all in all, fewer people shunned him than he had expected, and no one outwardly reviled him. Alice Hamblin even invited them to come and take dinner with her after church and bring the boy along. It was Jack’s first meeting with her since he’d regained consciousness, and he was glad she showed no animosity toward him.
He sat between Lucy and Simon, listening to Parson Catton’s homily on honesty and thinking how appropriate it was for the first sermon Simon had heard in months. Yet after a time, the truth of the scripture pierced his heart, and Jack began to feel guilty.
Was he being honest with Lucy? When he proposed to her in the jail, he hadn’t expected they would have the opportunity to live together. He knew she hadn’t, either. She seemed nervous now whenever he got too close, and he’d thought she was upset when he announced he would move to the barn. In the few days since Simon’s arrival, she’d seemed more docile and content. Perhaps continuing to keep his distance was the best course.
Still, she was his wife. Wasn’t a married couple supposed to be open and frank with each other? Or was there such a thing as being too honest? He tried to imagine Lucy’s reaction if he told her how he truly felt about her. It would shock her for certain. It might even be enough to cause her to pack up and move back to her mother’s cottage. He didn’t want that to happen. No, he would bide his time and hope that eventually he could show her what she meant to him and they could start their marriage over, not as a business arrangement but as a love match that would last a lifetime.
He glanced at her. Lucy was watching the pastor, eyes forward. Jack wondered how she could concentrate on the parson so intently. He was barely able to breathe steadily when he peeked at her profile. The way her hair was pulled back sleekly above her ear tempted him to reach up and touch it. He knew how satiny it would feel and how beautiful she would be when she turned in amazement to stare a rebuke at him, her cheeks flushing at his boldness.
When had he acted like such a schoolboy? If Lucy could listen to Catton without being distracted, so could he. Just as he turned to face the pulpit again, Jack noticed a delicate pink blush flooding his wife’s face. Her long, feathery eyelashes swept down and lay against her smooth cheek. Jack pulled in a ragged breath and stared at the parson.
After services, Captain Murray approached them in the churchyard. His wife, Katherine, came with him, and their two little daughters clung to her hands.
“Hunter, I’m glad to see you up and about,” the captain boomed.
Jack shook his hand, then wished he hadn’t. He’d left the sling off, and Murray was far too vigorous.
“Who’s the boy with you?” Murray asked.
“That’s my new hired help,” Jack said. He beckoned to Simon, and the boy stepped forward but stared at the ground, digging a hole in the dirt with the toe of his shoe.
“I believe you’ve met Simon Brady,” Jack said.
“Oh, yes.” Murray looked the boy over. “I thought you’d gone back to Yarmouth.”
Simon shook his head.
“Well, I think you’ll make a good farmhand.”
Jack nodded. “He’s been a big help with the haying.”
“Well, now, Hunter,” the captain said in a jovial voice, “I’ve kept your oxen a fortnight longer than we stipulated. Suppose I return them tomorrow and give you a day’s labor with the scythe.”
Jack noticed that several men were watching them with unabashed curiosity, and he knew Murray had timed his offer so that a large part of the congregation would hear it and take it as his endorsement. This was not the time to refuse a friend’s offer due to misplaced pride.
“I would appreciate that most kindly,” he said.
Lucy’s eyes glowed as Katherine Murray stepped forward and extended her hand.
“Goody Hunter, I haven’t had a chance to congratulate you on your marriage.”
“Thank you,” Lucy said with a little curtsy. “If it’s convenient for you, I wish you and your daughters would accompany your husband tomorrow and spend the day with me.”
Jack continued to chat with the captain about the harvest, keeping half an ear cocked toward the women’s conversation. It pleased him greatly that Katherine Murray was showing Lucy her favor.
“I seem to have far too many cabbages,” Lucy said. “If you can bring a crock with you, we shall both have pickled cabbage when the day is done.”
Isn’t that just like Lucy, Jack thought, sharing her bounty with others. She was both compassionate and diligent: the ideal wife. She was frugal, too. All during his time in jail, she had managed on what she’d earned herself by teaching and weaving, never once needing to tip over the clothespress for the coins he’d hidden there against a day of need. Yes, he had chosen well.
Jack saw Alice greeting some of her many patients as she waited for them. “Pardon us,” he said to the Murrays, “but we’d best be going. We are to be guests of my wife’s mother for dinner.”
Lucy was setting the table on Wednesday evening when Jack brought in the full bucket of foamy milk. “Where’s Simon?” she asked.
“Putting up the oxen,” Jack said. “Lucy, I need to talk to you.”
“What is it?” She stopped with the spoons in her hand and studied his face. Jack seemed anxious, more agitated than she’d seen him since he’d been able to leave his sickbed. “Has something happened?”
He leaned on the back of the chair. “I’ve spent near a week with that boy now, and he’s beginning to trust me.”
“I’ve noticed that, though he’s still wary of me.”
“That’s my fault, and I’m sorry. I’ve begun trying to rectify it by assuring him that you are actually a kind-hearted woman, if a bit strict. And you know he appreciates your cooking.”
“Thank you. But what is it that has you so concerned?”
“He told me …” Jack glanced toward the door, then met her eyes. “He says he saw a man go into my barn early in the summer and come out with an ax.”
She stared at him, her fear returning. “When?”
Jack winced. “Simon wasn’t sure of the day, but from what he told me, I believe it was about the time Trent was killed. Perhaps the day before I was arrested. He said he stayed hidden for a while after the man took the ax, and he saw me come out of the house not long after and hitch up the oxen. I broke some ground with my team the day before Dole and Rutledge came for me.”
“Could Simon describe the man he saw?”
“He did, but his account was vague. At first it sounded as if he were describing Barnabas Trent himself.”
Lucy caught her breath. She hadn’t considered that. If Goodman Trent had come and “borrowed” the ax without permission, then whoever visited him at his cottage would have found the weapon ready at hand.
“Could it have been he?”
Jack shook his head. “Nay. Simon knew Trent when I described him. He tried to pilfer some eggs over at his place one morning, and Trent nearly caught him. After that Simon stayed away from there until that day
when he saw the gathering of men. The next day he went back out of curiosity and saw that there was no smoke coming from the chimney and the house was empty.”
Lucy nodded. “So … what did he say about the man who took the ax?”
“Simon was about to sneak into my barn when the door opened. It startled him, and he hid ‘round the corner. He watched the man come out with the ax and walk into the trees.”
“Not down the path?”
“No. It sounded as though he took a shortcut from the barn to the lane.”
“What did he look like?”
Jack scratched his chin. “Simon mostly saw his back. He was wearing a blue jacket, dark breeches, and a hat of some sort. The lad couldn’t recall what the hat was like, but the fellow wore shoes, not boots.
“Half the men in town would fit that description. Was he tall or short? Old or young?”
“Simon thought he had brown hair and a beard, but he was a bit fuzzy on that. Said the ax caught his notice more than anything.”
“Would he recognize the man if he saw him again?” Lucy asked.
“He thought he might.” Jack was quiet for a moment, his expression pensive.
“You’ve formed an opinion, haven’t you?”
He met her gaze. “It may be ridiculous, but I can’t help thinking … could it have been Richard Trent who stole my ax?”
Chapter 16
Jack saw Lucy’s blue eyes cloud with confusion. “How could it have been Richard Trent? He was in Portsmouth when his father was killed.”
“Was he?”
Her lips thinned, then twitched. He drew a deep breath as pride surged through him. He’d married well. His wife was hardworking and intelligent. Not only that, she was striking, with her golden hair, creamy skin, and sweet features. Although her beauty had always held him captive, it was not the main reason he’d pursued her. No, it was the cleverness and courage she was exhibiting now.
