by Kit Morgan
She swallowed hard. “No, ye won’t.” She felt nervous and giddy around him at the same time. Now why would that be?
Reluctantly he turned the wheelbarrow away.
“Your ale barrels are in the barn, then?”
“Aye,” he said and moved slowly. “I could do with something cold to drink. After all, this is hard work.”
A giggle escaped. “Is it now? I had no idea empty barrels would be so much trouble.”
He set the wheelbarrow down. “Oh, aye. Terrible business fetching barrels.”
“All three of them…”
“Just think if there were six,” he teased. “I’ll go fetch them. Be a good lass and get me a glass of water for my return trip?”
“I suppose, since it’s such a long drive back to the village, ye could do with something.” She turned without another word and headed back into the kitchen. Once there she grabbed a glass, went outside, filled it with water and set it on the stoop. That done she rushed back into the kitchen, gathered some cookies into a napkin, and return to wait for him. She didn’t have to wait long. He wheeled his three small barrels back toward the house, a smile on his face.
“I see ye took me at my word. I thought ye’d think I was telling ye a story.”
“Somehow ye don’t seem the type, Patrick Mulligan, to be telling stories.”
“But I am,” he admitted. “I tell some of the best. Ye should hear some.”
“Perhaps one day I will,” she said and handed him the glass of water.
He looked into her eyes a moment, took the glass and raised it. “To the fine lass that works for Squire Ferguson. May she bring me water whenever I thirst.”
She stared at him a moment and realized he was flirting. Oh dear! What to do? No one had ever flirted with her before. Or was he just teasing as usual? She didn’t know him well enough to tell if he the difference. “So long as the well doesn’t run dry, then I suppose so,” she finally said. She handed him the napkin. “I’ll need that back.”
He took it from her. “What’s this?” He unfolded the fabric and gasped in delight. “Mary O’Brien, ye shouldn’t have. The squire won’t miss these will he?”
“Squire Ferguson isn’t the one ye have to worry about. It’s Mrs. Wallace.”
“Oh, aye, of course. ‘Tis her kitchen after all.” He took a cookie and bit into it. “Heaven.”
One side of her mouth curled into a tiny smile. “Thank you.”
His eyes went wide. “You made these?”
“Yes, I did. Not half an hour ago.”
“Then I’ll not worry about Mrs. Wallace clobbering me with a pot.”
“No, I suppose not,” she said with a smile. A full smile. Seemed all he had to do was talk and her heart took flight.
“Do ye have anymore?”
Her mouth dropped open as her hands went to her hips. “Mr. Mulligan!” she said with feigned shock. “Don’t take advantage of my hospitality.”
He wolfed down the cookie. “I won’t. I just wanted to see what ye would do.”
She made a little harrumph sound. “Mrs. Wallace is right. Yer impossible.”
He took a step back, his mouth open. “She said that?”
“Yes, yesterday after ye left. She said a lot of other things too,” she added and prayed she didn’t turn red as a rose. Mrs. Wallace had mentioned a few things. But she praised the man. It was obvious she held some affection for him. He was a favorite in the village, and everyone knew him.
“Well then, looks like I’d best take it up with Mrs. Wallace and find out what she’s been telling ye about me. Now she’s one to tell stories.”
“I’m sure everything that came out of the woman’s mouth was true.” Mary crossed her arms in front of her and looked at the remaining cookies in his hand. “Well, ye might as well finish those and give me the napkin back.”
He glanced at the barn. She followed his gaze. Bobby, the groom, stood leaning against the barn doors, watching them. Just as well, at least they had a chaperone. Not that they were courting or anything of course …
“Be a good lass and fetch me some more. I’ll carry them in my pocket.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Do I work for you or the squire?” They were sparring, she knew, and she liked it.
“As ye made the cookies yerself, then I reckon ye can give them to whomever ye please,” he shot back.
“And what if I decide that isn’t you?”
He gave her a mock pout.
“Oh! Off with ye, ye rascal!” She shooed him away. “Get what ye need and if yer lucky I’ll have something for ye when ye return.”
He gave her a triumphant smile, picked up the wheelbarrow, and headed for the barn.
Mary, a hand to her chest, sighed in relief.
Chapter 4
Patrick loaded his barrels into the wheelbarrow and turned it toward the barn doors.
“Mighty fine piece that Mary O’Brien, isn’t she?” Bobby asked.
A flicker of jealousy struck. “Aye, she is.” He turned to Bobby, unable to keep the stern look off his face. “But of course the squire won’t allow his workers to court.”
“No, he won’t.” Bobby gave Patrick a pointed look. “Nor will he let her be courted by anyone until she’s paid her debt in full.”
Patrick’s chest tightened. Indentured servants were often contracted for seven years. “And the lass has just arrived,” he said, stating the obvious.
“That she has,” Bobby said and slapped him on the back. “Seven years is too long to wait for me.”
“Ye know how old she is, then?”
“I do. She’s of marriageable age, but barely.”
Patrick drew his lips between his teeth and thought. Why he was thinking at all, he had no idea. But thoughts of Mary O’Brien in a chair on one side of a hearth, he in another, with wee ones playing between them, hit hard and fast.
“You’d best get back to the village before Mr. Cromwell says something to Squire Ferguson. The squire and Mrs. Wallace are bound to have lunch at The Rose and Thorn. I’m sure he’ll mention how long you’re taking to return.”
Patrick couldn’t argue with that. He pushed the wheelbarrow toward the doors, glanced over his shoulder once, and said, “I think the squire’s new servant is scared.”
“Of course she is. Wouldn’t you be?”
“Aye, I would.” He pushed the wheelbarrow through the doors and headed for his wagon. There was no sign of Mary outside the house, so he chanced a quick look through the kitchen window as he passed. Nothing. Just as well. The last thing he needed was for Bobby to see him speaking with her again. He didn’t want to get her in trouble, yet he felt protective over her for some reason. Maybe because she was pretty, and he had a mind to marry when he got his own inn. But who knew when that would be?
Everything depended on how many fights Mr. Cromwell could get him. Of course, he’d have his eye on Bert the Bruiser. The pot would be big. Very big. But he didn’t dare fight him without lots of training first. Even with that, he’d be lucky to come out alive. Better to work the small fights and build his capital that way. Working for Mr. Cromwell certainly wasn’t going to do it. Fighting was his only chance to make his dream come true.
Back at the village he returned the barrels to the brewery’s storeroom then entered the inn through the back door.
“Where have you been?” Mr. Cromwell barked. “I’ve had Mr. Pike waiting for an hour.”
“Mr. Pike?”
“Yes, the man you met at the squire’s garden party?”
Patrick shrugged.
Mr. Cromwell rolled his eyes. “Bert the Bruiser’s manager?”
Patrick groaned. “Not this again.”
“You’ll fight if I say you’ll fight, is that clear?”
“Are ye going to have a pine box ready?” he shot back.
“I’ve seen you fight lad, you’re good. Real good. I think you have a chance.”
“Yes, a possible chance of dying. Something I’d rat
her not do if ye don’t mind.” He went to the stove to see what Mrs. Barker was cooking up for the inn’s supper menu. He took the lid off the pot and sniffed. Mr. Cromwell took it from him and slammed back in place. “Stop trying to change the subject. You’re going into training.”
Patrick chuckled. “Am I? And who is going to train me? You?”
“No, I’m making arrangements to bring in a professional.”
Patrick’s eyes widened. “You’re doing what?”
“Yes, a professional trainer. He’s taught fighters in New York.”
Patrick stepped to the nearest chair and sank onto it. “You’re really serious about this.”
Mr. Cromwell grabbed another chair, pulled it up alongside Patrick’s and sat. “Don’t you see lad? This is the chance of a lifetime!”
“Whose? Yours or mine?”
“Both of us,” Cromwell argued. “And with Squire Ferguson sponsoring you, we’ll attract all sorts of folk.”
“Squire Ferguson?” Patrick said in shock. “He’s sponsoring me?”
“Yes, what do you think we were talking about at his party?” Cromwell said and stood.
“Are you out of your mind?” Patrick said as his brow creased with concern.
“Stop looking at me like that. You won your last ten fights. With extra training your winning streak will continue and we all make money.” He bent to Patrick and looked him in the eye. “And so will you.”
Patrick ran a hand through his hair. “And whose idea was this?”
“What idea?”
“To get the squire involved? He’ll have advertisements up everywhere.”
“Yes, I know. And it was his idea.” Cromwell returned his chair to the kitchen table. By the time he turned around Patrick was on his feet. “The squire believes in you, lad. And so do I. You will do this fight and everyone will be happy.”
“And what does the squire get out of it?”
“If he’s backing you, then he has boasting rights. He can say he has the best fighter in three counties if not more. Maybe even the entire East Coast!”
Patrick groaned again. He was getting nowhere. He’d have to take a more direct approach. “I won’t do it.”
Cromwell’s eyes bulged. “What?!”
Patrick shook his head. “No, not going to.” He crossed his arms in front of him for good measure.
“But you can’t back out of this! I’ve already told the squire and Mr. Pike, yes!”
Patrick smiled at him. “I’m not an indentured servant you can order around. I work for you, but that’s it. I fight, something you arrange, and we each make some money. Something like this was never agreed upon.”
“I could fire you.” Cromwell crossed his own arms.
“Go ahead.”
Cromwell’s arms fell to his sides. “Why are you being so unreasonable?”
“Maybe because I like breathing?”
Mr. Cromwell threw his arms in the air. “You stubborn Irishman! You’d be passing up the fight of a lifetime! Think of all that money! You could leave my employ and start your own inn just like you planned.”
For a moment, Patrick stood stock still. “What sort of money are we talking about, Mr. Cromwell?” His voice was even, controlled, and he hoped, stern. At least it didn’t crack.
Cromwell reached him in two strides and smiled. “Enough to make me have to hire on someone else to run my brewery.”
Patrick sucked in a breath. “That much.” He swallowed hard. “I see.” He glanced at the chair but refused to sit down again.
“And with the squire advertising, we’ll draw in such a crowd it will be unbelievable!” Cromwell said. He was so excited he had to sit down again.
Patrick saw the gleam of anticipation in his eyes and sighed. “And what will ye do with yer money?”
Mr. Cromwell popped out of his chair. “Why, I’d buy this place from the squire and add on. I might even sell it to you,” he said and poked him in the chest with a finger.
“After ye add on of course,” Patrick said dryly.
“Of course. You’ll do it then?”
“I’ll have to think about it. For now, the answer is still no.” He sidestepped past his employer, left the kitchen and went straight to the taproom. He needed to work, move, do anything to keep his mind off the money. Money he could sorely use to reach his dream much sooner than he planned. It was oh, so tempting. But the risk …
Bert the Bruiser had not only killed fighters, but also maimed and severely wounded them. Some had gone deaf from blows to the head. Others were now blind. One man could no longer walk. Was making his dream happen sooner than he planned worth it? Patrick blew out a breath, pushed the thought aside, and went to work.
Mary put away the last of the silver, finished the supper dishes and let go a weary sigh.
“What’s the matter with you?” Mrs. Wallace asked as she entered the kitchen. “Don’t tell me you’re tired already. We still have plenty of work to do.”
Mary slumped near the worktable. She wasn’t sure why she was so tired, other than dealing with the squire’s party the day before. Or was it the fact she’d day dreamed about Patrick Mulligan all afternoon? What was that going to get her other than sold? She was the squire’s property after all. Not a paid employee like Mrs. Wallace. She had no business entertaining ideas of courting and marriage to someone like Patrick. “I’m fine,” she finally said.
“You’d better be. The squire is having guests for dinner tomorrow, which doesn’t leave us much timer to get things ready.”
“What sort of things? What are you preparing?”
“Pheasant if we get lucky. But if we can’t get one, then we’ll have to come up with something else.”
Mary cringed. How long would it take her to pluck such a bird? They were larger than a chicken. She hadn’t had to deal with a goose yet.
“What are you thinking?” Mrs. Wallace snapped. “Did you hear anything I said?”
Mary nodded. “Yes, Mrs. Wallace. We’re to prepare a pheasant.”
“If Mr. Gerber can bag one. Or the squire. They’re hunting this evening.”
Mary glanced out the kitchen window. “Begging your pardon, but isn’t it the wrong time of year for pheasant hunting?”
“Exactly,” she said. “But they might get lucky.” She moved to the dry sink and fiddled with a few bowls. “Put these away. I’ve got to figure out what sort of dessert to make for the squire’s guests.”
“Who is he entertaining this time?”
“Some of the men from the tea party.”
Mary thought of the guests she’d seen, remembered the big hulking fighter, and cringed. “I hope Squire Ferguson doesn’t …” she shut up and turned away. She shouldn’t have opened her mouth in the first place.
“Yes?” Mrs. Wallace drawled.
Mary shook her head. “Nothing.”
“If you were going to say something about that brute seated with that Mr. Pike, then I agree with you. Unfortunately, I believe that’s who’s coming.”
Mary blanched. “But why would the squire associate himself with such men?”
“Because it’s sport, and the squire does like his sports.”
“But, that man looks like he could …” she gulped. “Kill someone.”
“I won’t argue that. Brutal is what it is. But who are we to have any say? I’m just a cook. You, you’re lower than that.”
Mary looked away with a sigh. “Yes. I know.” When she glanced at Mrs. Wallace again, the woman had turned around “If you were married to the squire, you would have a say.”
Mrs. Wallace froze. “I don’t’ know about that. Since when does a woman have a say in such matters?”
“She does if she’s married to the squire.”
Mrs. Wallace turned to her. “Perhaps you’re right.” She turned back to the dry sink. “Perhaps not. The old windbag would have to propose first.”
Mary smiled. Was there any way to peak the squire’s interest in his cook? She studied
the other woman. Her blonde hair was streaked with grey. She had a generous build but wasn’t what Mary would call fat. She had ample hips, yes, that was it.
“The squire will want meat pie,” Mrs. Wallace muttered to herself. “That’s what I’ll make if I have to.”
Mary turned to the kitchen’s back door. “Shall I bring in the sheets?”
“If they’re dry, yes. Fold them and put them in the linen cupboard.”
Mary left the kitchen, plucked a laundry basket off the stoop, and went to the clothesline. Laundering the squire’s clothes was one thing, the bed linens another. She’d spent half the day washing tablecloths from the squire’s party along with the bed sheets. All with thoughts of Patrick Mulligan haunting her.
She took the sheets off the line, put them in the basket, and headed back to the house.
“Working hard?”
She spun at the voice. Bobby, the groom, stood not ten feet away. “What are ye doing here?”
“I came to let Squire Ferguson know how Lady Helena is doing. He in the house?”
“Aye, in his study, I believe. Best ye ask Mrs. Wallace to see him.”
He approached, took off his hat and tossed it from one hand to the other. “And how are you, Mary?”
She blushed at the casual use of her Christian name. “What do you want?”
He studied her a moment. “Well, what do you know? He was right.”
She held the basket before her like a shield. “Get on with ye then, go see Mrs. Wallace.”
He looked her up and down and sighed. “You poor thing.”
She returned his look. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Mr. Mulligan told me you were …” he looked her over again. “You don’t have to … well, be afraid you know.”
“What? Me? Afraid?”
“You look like a rabbit caught in a trap, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“What? And is that what Mr. Mulligan told ye about me?”
He shrugged and pointed at the kitchen door. “Is Mrs. Wallace in?”
“Aye, she is. Get on, then.”
He nodded, stuck his hands in his pockets and headed for the door. She waited until he’d closed it behind him to let herself think. What is that man saying about me?
