The Irish Bride

by Alexis Harrington

  And she was beginning to get the feeling that the housekeeper had asked to stay on, not because she didn’t know what to do with herself, as she’d said, but primarily to keep an eye on her dead mistress’s belongings.

  This was not going to work, Farrell decided, fed up with the woman’s daily emotional collapses. She didn’t need a servant, and she surely didn’t want one who treated her like a meddlesome guest in her own home. She’d rather take the woman’s salary and use it on seed and other farming equipment in the spring. This house sat on Geoffrey Brother’s donation land claim of three hundred twenty acres, the same kind of claim that Farrell and Aidan had planned to file before the business with the sawmill came along. The land had been cleared but now laid fallow, and she intended to farm it. And she’d tell Aidan so, the next time she saw him.

  For now, though, Farrell decided to go lie down. She wasn’t the type to give in to every little physical complaint, but suddenly, she was so sleepy, she couldn’t keep her eyes open. It had to be due to the commotion.

  * * *

  A week later, Farrell went to answer a knock at the back door. Aidan had agreed to let her terminate Mrs. Hill, and it was a relief to be able to answer her own door, rearrange the furniture, and do anything else to the place she wanted. She’d asked for Aidan’s help with the heavy pieces but he kept putting it off.

  When she opened the door, she saw one of the mill workers standing there. “How do, ma’am. I’m Tom Fitzgerald. Your husband sent me up—he said you want some furniture moved?”

  “Oh, yes! Please come in. I can shift the little things but some of the pieces are too heavy.” The big, carrot-haired young man stepped into the kitchen. Farrell knew she saw Ireland in his face, but heard it in only in his name and not his voice. “Forgive my asking, Mr. Fitzgerald, but were ye born here?”

  “No, ma’am. I was born in County Mayo.”

  “Were you, now?” she asked, pleased.

  “Yes, but my family came to America when I was just a baby. I don’t remember anything about Ireland.”

  “Ah, that’s a shame. It’s a beautiful place.”

  He grinned. “That’s what my ma told me. You sound like her, too. The rest of the family is in Heppner raising sheep. That’s east of here about a hundred and fifty miles. It’s nice to hear the accent again.”

  Farrell laughed. “You must hear it every day from Mr. O’Rourke.”

  His smile faded slightly. “Yes’m. Every day. Shall we see about that furniture?”

  She couldn’t help but notice the change, both of subject and Tom Fitzgerald’s attitude when she mentioned Aidan. “Have you worked at the mill long?” she asked, leading him to the parlor.

  “About three years, now. Mr. Brother hired me when I was just sixteen. I appreciated it. He was a good man to work for.”

  And Aidan O’Rourke was not. Maybe it was Farrell’s imagination, but it seemed that Tom might have finished his sentence that way if he’d been talking to someone else. Something was going on.

  “Good to his men, was he?” she prodded.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. And we always gave him our best work because of it. Some bosses, um, some people think that if you drive workers like cattle, they’ll move faster. But that can lead to trouble—mistakes, accidents, hard feelings among the crew.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s so.”

  Tom helped her move the sofa so that it faced the fireplace, and put the matching marble-topped round tables on either end.

  “There, that’s better,” she said, happy with the result. “Thank you for your help, Tom. I’m glad I had the chance to meet you.”

  She walked him to the back door. “Same here, ma’am. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  “I will.” She spied the soda bread from breakfast still sitting on the table. She’d finally figured out how to bake in the oven. “Oh, here, I have something for you.” She cut a slice and gave it to him. “To remind you of your mam.

  Genuine pleasure lighted his face. “Thanks, Mrs. O’Rourke. I haven’t had soda bread in a long time.”

  She watched him bound down the steps and walk back toward the mill, savoring his bread as he went. He seemed like a very nice young man.

  But she was worried by what he’d revealed about Aidan. Her husband had bought her a satin dress and fancy table linens, and he often brought her silly little gifts. And God above, he’d even bought two suits for himself and had taken to wearing one every day. He looked very handsome dressed nicely, but what good was any of it if he lost the man inside whom she’d come to love?

  Yes, she had to finally admit it to herself. Farrell was in love with Aidan. He was tender, considerate, loyal, funny—in fact, he was everything that his brother had not been. Looking back, she wondered why she’d been so blind and insistent about Liam. She saw him now as Aidan had described him, and as Liam had described himself. Methodical and dispassionate, as steady as a rock, but just as dull.

  Aidan, was a good man, probably the best she’d ever met.

  She let her gaze drift to the roof of the mill in the distance and remembered Tom Fitzgerald’s barely subtle comments.

  Aidan, she thought, Aidan what are ye doing?

  * * *

  After she closed the back door, Farrell felt her own soda bread coming up and she knew something wasn’t right. After retching into the slop bucket, she rinsed out her mouth and caught her breath. This had to be more than just worry and nerves. Then she stopped to think, and counted backward. Her jaw dropped as she stared at the three fingers she’d ticked off. She’d missed three monthly cycles—well, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, she was pregnant. In fact, she had probably conceived the first time she made love with Aidan.

  She smiled to herself, and thought of how she would tell him. Over supper tonight, maybe. Yes, that would be good. She’d cook something special, a roast chicken and some potatoes—thank the Holy Mother that they finally had enough to eat.

  A child. Aidan’s and hers. This might be just what he needed to make him remember what was really important.

  * * *

  Aidan hurried up to the house at four o’clock to wash and change clothes. He’d received a message from Dr. McLoughlin, asking him to a attend business dinner at his home. The man was not well these days, but occasionally he brought a gathering together.

  “Farrell?” he called, walking through the front door. “Farrell, ye need to dress for supper.”

  “What?” She came out of the kitchen and met him in the back hallway. She wore an apron with chicken feathers stuck to it.

  He laughed and gave her a casual kiss. “I’ve seen ye like this before, a muirnín. You’ve been wringing necks again.”

  She arched a brow at him. “Yes, and I’m very good at it, so you’d best watch your step.”

  “Well, you need to get dressed. We’ve been invited to supper.”

  “But—tonight?”

  “Yes, I got a message from Dr. McLoughlin. He apologized for the short notice, but he wants me to come for supper to introduce me to some new customers. We need to be there by six o’clock.”

  “But what about the chicken and potatoes I’m roasting? And the pound cake I’m making for dessert? I was planning something special.”

  He was already heading upstairs to their bedroom. “They’ll hold, won’t they? Maybe you can take them out of the oven and finish them when we get back. Besides, this is more important.” There was a crash downstairs in the kitchen. “Did ye drop something?” he called.

  She came into the bedroom while he stripped off his shirt. “Would you like me to demonstrate how I wrung that chicken’s neck?” She sounded angry, and he knew to tread carefully.

  He rummaged through the bureau, looking for his cravat. “Did Tom Fitzgerald come up to help with the furniture?”

  “He did.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at her. “What, was he not properly respectful to you?”

  She reached into the wardrobe for a dress. “He’s v
ery nice. He told me about his family and their sheep farm in Heppner, and talked about Mr. Brother. He said that he was a good man to work for.”

  “Sure and everyone and their donkey is moaning about Mr. Brother this, and Mr. Brother that. I think all Mr. Brother did was spoil that crew so I can’t get a decent day’s work out of them. I’m trying to remedy that, but I’m worried the damage may already be done. Most of them have got ten thumbs and they’re slower than the Second Coming.”

  “Aidan!” She worked at the buttons of her bodice.

  “‘Tis true. I’ve got orders coming in right and left. I don’t want to just deliver them on time. I want to beat that time. I’m not asking anything of them I wouldn’t demand from myself. When I think of how hard we had it, and how we slaved in those fields—”

  “Like whipped curs, ye mean? Or maybe like those people we saw chained together in New Orleans.”

  He ducked, trying to see his image in the mirror to comb his hair. “God, what bee slipped under your bonnet, Farrell?” He looked up at her and she was taking off her dress again. “Don’t dawdle, lass. We don’t have much time.”

  “I have a headache and I’m not going. You go and have your business meeting. I’ll be here when you get back.” She left the room then and went downstairs. For such a small-boned woman, she had a heavy step sometimes. He could hear her heels thumping through the hallway.

  Aidan winced. She was angrier than he’d realized. Ah, well, a ruined supper plan wasn’t the end of the world. He’d buy her a little gift tomorrow, and she’d forget all about it.

  He rode the horse that had come with the mill to Dr. McLoughlin’s house. Inside, he was ushered into the parlor where he was given a drink by a serving woman and presented to several businessmen and their wives. As he worked his way through the introductions, he spotted a man who looked vaguely familiar. There was nothing remarkable about his balding head and squat roundness, but still—

  “I feel we’ve met before, but not around here,” he said to the man. “Are ye newly come?”

  “We have met before, O’Rourke. I’m Seth Fitch, and you won a sizeable amount of money from me in a card game in New Orleans.”

  “Of course, now I remember!” If nothing else, his southern accent gave him away as an outsider, just as Aidan’s Irish accent marked him. He pumped the man’s hand. “Whatever brings you to these parts? Surely not another sugar cane contract.”

  “Oh, no, I left that position. I’m in business for myself now, with a few select clients.”

  “Are you? Well, that’s good news. So you’ll be staying in the area?”

  “No, no, I’m just here on a special assignment. I don’t imagine I’ll be here long. But I was hoping I’d have a chance to meet your wife.”

  Aidan gave him a sharper look. “Oh? Why is that?”

  He smiled. “You’d told us all what a beauty she is that night at the Lass of Killarney. I was hoping to see for myself.”

  Despite the tension that night, he knew he’d done no such thing. He never would have discussed Farrell’s appearance in a place like that. It would have been insulting to her. “What special assignment are ye working on?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “I’m just investigating some business opportunities.”

  Aidan couldn’t put a name to what he felt, but a cold hand of apprehension gripped his heart and then faded.

  Supper and the meeting went smoothly enough, but he found himself talking less and listening more. With Fitch in the room, he was on guard and he didn’t know why. There was just something about him that Aidan didn’t like.

  Something very bad.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  When Aidan came around the bend in the road that led to his house, he was grateful for the light pouring from the windows. All the way home, he’d kept glancing over his shoulder, trying to peer through the cold and damp November darkness to see if he was being followed. Now and then, when the clouds parted to let the moon light his way, he’d speed his mount, ducking under the canopy of tree branches that lined the road. Then he would slow it again and listen. It was quiet here and it would be hard for someone to follow him on horseback without him hearing it.

  He had nothing on which to base his cautiousness and unease except Fitch’s presence at that meeting. It had gone well otherwise. Aidan had met several men who were interested in doing business with O’Rourke Lumber Mill. The territory was growing, his prospects were good, and the future more promising than he’d ever dared hope when he undertook this operation. He’d expected to have to work for years to attain even half the success he saw looming ahead.

  Yet, as he led the horse into the stable and lighted a lamp hanging from the doorframe, Aidan realized there was another side to this good fortune. He’d begun to worry about losing it, about something going wrong. The success of his business was not only vital to his sense of accomplishment, but he also saw it as critical to winning and keeping Farrell’s heart. He’d promised her so much and he had to make good on those promises.

  Aidan unharnessed and dried his mount with a piece of sacking, fed him, and then, with a last look around, went to the back door. Farrell wouldn’t appreciate him tracking mud into the entryway, and she was already put out with him over supper. Just inside the kitchen, he kicked off his boots.

  A faint aroma of roast chicken still lingered and he felt a twinge of regret that he’d had to miss it. She had a talent for cooking that he hadn’t suspected. In Ireland, the food had been so basic and the options so few, there hadn’t been much opportunity to learn to do anything beyond baking soda bread—when they had the flour—and preparing potatoes in one of three ways, boiling, frying, or baking them.

  Carrying the candle she’d left burning for him on the table, he went upstairs to their bedroom. Farrell, was still awake and sitting up in bed reading. Her lovely red hair hung in a braid over the front of her shoulder and she’d propped the book on her bent knees like a young lass.

  “Hello, céadsearc,” he said from the doorway. “Am I allowed to come in?”

  She looked up at him and he could see she still harbored a bit of annoyance with him. “If you’ve a mind to visit for a while before you’re gone again.”

  He walked in and put the candle on his bedside table. “What are you reading?”

  She flipped to the title page. “It’s called The Life and Strange Surprizing Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, of York, Mariner.”

  “You’re reading about an Englishman? And a seaman? I’d have thought you’d had your fill of both.”

  “This one is shipwrecked.”

  Her brief answers confirmed his suspicions. “You’re still displeased, aye?” he asked, sitting next to her.

  She sighed and put a scrap of ribbon in the book to hold her place. “I wanted to spend the evening with you. I had something to tell you.”

  He loosened his collar. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t go with me tonight.” Realizing this didn’t sound very good, he was about to tell her about Seth Fitch, then changed his mind. It might frighten her, and he didn’t want to do that. He would have to keep a sharp lookout himself for the man. Instead he finished, “You’d have been bored.”

  She looked at him. “Do you think me not smart enough to follow a conversation that doesn’t have to do with housekeeping or babies or the quilting bees at St. John’s Church?”

  He realized he was only digging himself a deeper hole. “No, I didn’t mean that. Besides, I thought you were glad that we have a parish now so we can attend mass and see the neighbors. You have some friends like Marigold Lewis and—and—” He tapped his forehead with his fingertips, trying to remember the other women she’d met.

  She gave him a look of utter frustration and closed the book with a loud clap. “I am glad, ye great dunderhead! But I expect to see you, as well!”

  Didn’t she understand that he was working this hard for her? He sat on the bed. “I’m sorry, little red one. I know I’ve been busy, but it will all pay
off for us. I promise. And I haven’t broken a promise to you yet.” He locked his little finger with hers where her hand rested on the coverlet. At least she didn’t pull away. He remembered something she’d said when he walked in. “Ye wanted to tell me something? What?” She turned her face away and a moment or two passed. “What is it?” he urged.

  When she looked back at him, tears streamed down her cheeks. “It’s important. More important than your damned meeting.”

  He’d heard her swear only one other time, and it was when she was very angry. Her tears were a harsher punishment than her anger, though. “What is it, then?”

  “I—we—there’s going to be a child.”

  He squinted at her and shrugged, perplexed. “A child?”

  “Yes, a child! You and I, we’re going to have a baby.”

  He stared at her with wide eyes and a huge grin. “A baby? Really?” Now she was crying in earnest, and he felt like the world’s greatest cad.

  “Would I joke about such a thing? I planned a nice dinner and I was going to tell you after. But you left.”

  No wonder she was so upset. He took her into his arms, and though she was stiff at first, she relaxed against him. “I wish you had told me before I went out the door. I never would have left ye if I’d known.”

  “I didn’t want to just blurt it out like that. It’s—it’s special.”

  “Aye, it is, very special.” He looked off across the room, imagining a red-haired lad. “A son.”

  She gave him a slight frown. “I didn’t say that! It might be a girl, ye know.”

  “It might be,” he agreed, but thought to himself, a son! “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Then you must rest,” he said, pulling back to look at her tear-streaked face. “Do you think we can get Mrs. Hill to come back?”