Miss Leslie's Secret

by Jennifer Moore

  Aileen pressed her eyes closed. Oh, Jamie.

  Chapter 4

  Conall spread butter over another of Mrs. Ross’s excellent scones and took a bite, chewing slowly and washing it down with fresh coffee. He looked up when the housekeeper entered the dining room. “Another excellent breakfast, Mrs. Ross. Yer spoilin’ me.”

  Her round cheeks turned pink, and her mouth tugged to the side. “Thank ye, Sergeant.” She dipped in a small curtsey. “Now, if ye please, sir, ye’ve visitors.”

  He raised his brows, looking to Miss Ross for a clue as to the visitors’ identities, but she gave none. “Verra well then. Show them in.”

  Callers at this early hour was surprising. He didn’t imagine it was a social visit. Perhaps Davy had returned to tell him something more about the plow.

  He took another bite of scone and was still chewing when Mrs. Aileen Leslie and Jamie entered.

  The boy’s eyes were red as if he’d been weeping, and his mother’s face was pale. She clutched the boy’s arm, much as Conall had done the day before. Conall felt instantly wary.

  “Mrs. Leslie. Jamie.” He wiped his mouth and stood, dropping his napkin onto the table. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  She released Jamie’s arm, giving him a small push forward. “Go on then.”

  Conall was surprised to hear her voice shake.

  Jamie looked up at his mother, his eyes wide and pleading. “Mam, do I have to?”

  She nodded, her brows drawn tightly together. “Aye, lad.”

  Conall looked between them. There was no trace of the coddling he’d seen last night. Mrs. Leslie’s expression was firm, but her eyes seemed sad and anxious. His curiosity grew, as did his unease.

  Jamie exhaled. He turned and took a step toward Conall. He glanced back once more at his mother then held forward his fist.

  Conall glanced at Mrs. Leslie then reached out. Jamie placed his brass shako plate into his palm and stepped back, not lifting his eyes.

  Aileen’s hands were clenched together. She cleared her throat, speaking in a voice that managed to be gentle and firm at the same time. “Go on now, Jamie.”

  “I’m sorry, Sergeant Stewart,” Jamie said, his voice nearly too soft to hear. “I’m sorry I took yer golden treasure charm.”

  Conall slipped the shako plate into his pocket. “Jamie, robbery is a serious crime.” He looked up at the sound of Mrs. Leslie’s gasp.

  “Please don’t call the constable, Sergeant.” Her voice shook, and her eyes filled. “Jamie won’t do it again. And he intends to pay for his mistake.” The woman was nearly frantic.

  Conall looked back at Jamie.

  The boy raised his head, pushing back his shoulders, but his chin trembled. “I’ll make it right. I can take care o’ yer animals or dig rocks from the garden. Whatever ye need. I’m a strong worker, Sergeant Stewart.”

  Conall was tempted to tell the boy his offer wasn’t necessary and send them home, but he knew from experience, if he let Jamie leave with no more than a warning, he’d not learn a lesson. “Nay, I won’t call the constable.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Mrs. Leslie’s shoulders relax. “But if something like this happens again . . .”

  “’Twon’t, Sergeant,” Jamie said. “You’ve my word.”

  “Verra well then.” Conall considered for a moment what type of work he could have the lad do. He could send him into the kitchen with Mrs. Ross or to beat rugs with Brighid the maid, but he had a feeling Jamie should be treated like a man, and giving him adult responsibilities would grow the boy’s confidence and hopefully keep him from more trouble.

  Raising his gaze from the lad, he met Aileen’s eyes and, for a moment, stared. He’d not noticed their light-blue color last night in the smoky cottage. When they weren’t flashing with anger, her eyes were remarkably bright, even compressed with worry as they were now. “Come, Mrs. Leslie. I’ll walk ye to the door.”

  As they left the room, Conall thought through the tasks still needing to be done on the farm and tried to determine something appropriate for a young lad—something that would challenge him yet leave him with a feeling of accomplishment. She tapped his arm and his mind registered the fact that she’d spoken. “I beg yer pardon. What did you say?”

  “I said thank you, Sergeant Stewart.”

  “Yer welcome, Mrs. Leslie.”

  She looked as if she intended to say more, but she closed her mouth and glanced at the door.

  Conall opened it.

  “I’ll call for him this evenin’, then, shall I?” she said.

  “No need. I’ll see him home.”

  Aileen nodded and stepped over the threshold but then stopped. “Sergeant?”

  It took only a glance at the apprehension in her face to know what she meant to say. “Don’ fret yerself. No harm will come to the lad in my care.”

  “I ken he’ll be safe here, but . . .”

  “I consider corporeal punishment to be a duty for a father or a commanding officer, Mrs. Leslie.”

  The tension in her face relaxed into relief. She curtseyed and departed.

  Conall returned to the dining room and found Jamie standing where he’d left him. The boy’s gaze was fixed on a plate of sausage.

  “Well, Jamie. The chore I’ve in mind requires a verra strong man. I’m tryin’ to decide whether I think yer up to the task.”

  “I told you. I’m strong.” Jamie looked up at him as he spoke then darted another glance at the sausage.

  Conall clasped his hands behind his back. “Tell me, lad. Did ye have breakfast this mornin’?”

  “Aye,” Jamie said. “Porritch.”

  “And did it fill yer belly? Or would ye have a bit more?”

  Jamie’s eyes grew wide, and he looked to the table but just as quickly looked back. “I thank ye, sir, but me mam’s porritch is all I need.”

  Conall knew firsthand the stubbornness of Highlanders and their unwillingness to accept any sort of charity. “Well, ye see,” Conall rubbed his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “For farm work, a man needs his strength. I’ll not have ye too weak to work because ye’ve not eaten enough meat.”

  Jamie chewed on his lip. Conall could just imagine the struggle going on in the boy’s head: the worry that he’d already disappointed his mother battling with a growing boy’s constantly empty belly.

  “And ye see, ye’d be doin’ me a favor,” Conall said. “Mrs. Ross made far too much sausage this mornin’. How can I ever finish it all?”

  Jamie finally gave a shy smile. “I’ll help ye.”

  Ten minutes later, after Jamie had eaten every scrap of pork on the breakfast table, Conall led him out through the kitchen, across the back garden, past the byre and stable, and inside the storehouse. He watched the lad studying everything around him with a child’s curiosity. In the storehouse, he handed the child buckets, chisels, and a trowel, indicating they should go into the hand wagon.

  Conall hefted two sacks into the wagon and pulled it out of the building, heading toward the orchard. Jamie grabbed the handle and pulled beside him.

  The pair followed the path around the edge of the orchard until they reached a spot where the stones of the wall had crumbled.

  “Do ye ken how to repair a wall, Jamie?”

  The lad hesitated then shook his head. “Nay, but Mr. Graham says I’m a quick learner.”

  Conall smiled at the boy’s eagerness to please. “It’s lucky that the sun’s shinin’ today.” He lifted a sack from the cart. “The mortar, ’twon’t set in the rain.”

  “And what are those?” Jamie pointed to the sacks.

  “One’s lime, and th’ other’s aggregate.”

  “Aggregate?” He pronounced the word slowly, as if testing the feel of it in his mouth.

  “Aye. River sand. To bond the mortar.”

  Jamie pointed at the bucket. “We mix them together?”

  “Right ye are, but first we’ll need to remove the auld mortar from the stones.” He handed Jamie a
chisel and showed him how to chip and scrape away the crumbled grout.

  The task was one Conall had hated as a boy. Cleaning old rocks was time consuming and dull. But each time he stopped to watch Jamie, the lad was focused, meticulously inspecting each stone then, when he was satisfied, moving it to the growing pile. He worked with an energy that Conall envied, doing a thorough job, which was commendable. As a lad, Conall had complained constantly and let himself become distracted. His da had again and again pulled his focus back to the task. But Jamie seemed intent on the chore, wanting to do his best work.

  Eventually, when they’d cleared away all the loose rocks and mortar, Conall sent Jamie to the brook to fetch a bucketful of water. As he waited, leaning back against the wall, he spied Mrs. Ross walking up the path. He strode toward her, sliding the basket from her arm.

  She looked toward the broken wall, her lips tugging to the side. “I’ve brought yer luncheon. But it appears Jamie Leslie’s escaped already.”

  “He’s gone for water.” Conall lifted the cloth from the basket, peeking beneath at the food. He raised his brows. “Buns, cheese, and . . . sausage?”

  She shrugged, her mouth pulling to the side. “I thought ye needed a robust meal after all yer gruelin’ labor.”

  Conall wasn’t fooled in the least. So far, his days of “gruelin’ labor” had been rewarded with a bun, cheese, and sometimes a bit o’ broth.

  Jamie’s face lit up when he saw the food, his thanks making Mrs. Ross blush. Once she’d ensured they wanted for naught else, she returned to the house, and the pair of them sat on the wall to eat their luncheon.

  “Do ye eat meat every day, Sergeant?”

  Conall turned toward the lad, glad they wouldn’t eat their meal in an unpleasant silence. The child watched him with an open expression, seeming to have completely forgiven their earlier conflict. “Aye, I suppose I do.”

  Jamie’s mouth formed an O, and his eyes rounded. “Most days, we have fish for supper.” He wrinkled his nose. “Herring or haddock.” He licked a drip of grease off his bun. “But when the honey comes in, sometimes we get to eat lamb.” He took another bite, speaking as he chewed. “Once, Mr. Ferguson paid for candles with a piece o’ venison. Have ye eaten venison, Sergeant Stewart?”

  Conall nodded, feeling something verra close to sympathy for the young burglar.

  Jamie brushed crumbs from his legs and eyed another link of sausage. “Mam says ye fought in the war.”

  “Aye, she speaks true.”

  “And did ye fight Napoleon then?” Jamie’s legs swung, not reaching the ground as he sat atop the low wall.

  Conall grinned. “Not personally, but I did see him one time.”

  “An’ what was he like? Mrs. Campbell showed me a drawing.” Jamie wrinkled his nose. “He looked to be short and stout and sulky.”

  “Tha’s just how he appeared,” Conall said, chuckling. “But I didna see him close. A ship I was assigned to, Undaunted, was part o’ the convoy, escortin’ Napoleon to his exile in Elba. I saw him for just a moment as he went aboard the French ship. He was short and stout and sulky, just like ye said.” He lifted the basket, offering Jamie the last piece of sausage. “But there was somethin’ aboot the man. He radiated power. I could feel it clear across the water, though I wasn’t near enough to even see his face clearly.”

  Jamie froze, staring at him with the sausage halfway to his mouth. “And did he see ye?”

  Conall frowned and set down the basket. “Nay, I dinna think so.”

  “If he did, he’d have been frightened.”

  “Ye think I’m frightening, do ye?” he said, amused.

  “Aye. When ye’re angry, ye’re verra frightening.” Jamie blushed and took a bite of the sausage. “And I think ye’d have been angry at ol’ Boney. I reckon if he had seen ye when ye were cross, he’d have run away cryin’, ‘Ooh la la!’’”

  Conall burst into laughter. “Aye, I’d have liked to see it, Jamie lad.”

  Jamie grinned and, seeing Conall rise, hopped off the wall to join him.

  Conall tore both bags, pouring aggregate and lime into the bucket. He handed a trowel to Jamie. “Stir it well. We want the consistency to be even. Now pour in the water slowly. That’s it.”

  Jamie’s tongue popped out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated. “Like this?”

  “Aye.”

  “And do we put it on the rocks now?”

  “Not yet.” Conall shook his head. “We’ll be needin’ to take our time. Mortar tha’s not mixed well won’ set right, and ye’ll get spaces between the stones.”

  Jamie stopped stirring, his brows drawing together for an instant as he apparently thought about what Conall said. He blinked and continued moving the trowel through the thick mixture, a sheen appearing on his face from the effort.

  Once it was mixed thoroughly, Conall stopped him, sticking the tool into the mortar. “There now. ’Tis finished when the trowel stands upright.”

  Jamie let out a breath and wiped his arm across his forehead. Conall showed the lad how to use the trowel to apply the mortar then set a stone, careful to ensure a tight bond.

  “And spaces create gaps in the wall, right, Sergeant?”

  “Aye.” When the repair was nearly complete, Conall stepped back and watched the lad, who was intent in his task. Conall poured more of the mixture into the bucket and stirred, creating another batch of mortar.

  “I dinna think we need so much now. ’Tis nearly finished,” Jamie said.

  Conall looked at the wall, complete save for a few more stones. “Och, lad, I overestimated. I suppose I’ll have to throw out the rest.” He glanced at Jamie.

  The boy was watching the bucket, and Conall could practically hear his mind working. “If ye please, Sergeant. Perhaps I could take away the mortar. If ye mean to throw it out, that is.”

  Conall felt much like Mrs. Ross as he held back a smile. “Would ye, Jamie? I’d appreciate it verra much.”

  Once the wall was completed and they both agreed it would last as long as Hadrian’s Wall, the pair started back. Conall had decided to walk the long way around the orchard to check if any other sections of wall needed repair.

  They walked quietly, enjoying the companionable silence as they pulled along the wooden wagon. Despite years of neglect, the orchard seemed in good condition. Healthy buds covered the branches, ready to burst.

  Jamie stopped suddenly. “Sergeant, ’tis yer apiary.” He hurried from the path then slowed, walking in a circle around the structure.

  Built of the same stone as the orchard wall, the apiary was about six feet tall, divided horizontally into two shelves with an overhanging sod roof. Conall didn’t know when last it had been used, but he thought it would likely need some work before ’twas ready for hives.

  “Look ye here, Sergeant.” Jamie waved him over. “A bird nest. ’Twill need to be swept out. And here.” He pointed to another section. “Some o’ the stones are missin’. The bees won’t like the draft nor the rain.”

  The boy must tend the bees with his father.

  Jamie stepped back, folding his arms as he scrutinized the apiary with an expert eye. “Would ye like me to put it to rights? I can return tomorrow after my lessons wi’ the minister.”

  Conall studied the lad. He saw no deceit in his face, just a desire to please. Was he truly willing to return and work? “Thank you, Jamie. I’d be verra grateful to ye.”

  Jamie gave a proud nod. “I ken all about bees. Did ye ken worker bees dance to tell the others where to go for pollen? And they don’t like the smell o’ horses. Sometimes I’m allowed to look inside the hive and find the queen. She’s the longest bee. The drones are fat with large eyes. Would ye like to help harvest the honey, Sergeant? Mam might give ye a piece o’ sweet comb to chew.”

  Conall shuddered. Bees were one thing he wasn’t keen to learn more about. A boy who’d made the mistake of throwing a rock at a swarm had learned to keep his distance. “I’ll leave that chore to the beek
eeper.”

  They returned to the wagon and walked the remainder of the way to the storehouse, listening to the lowing of the cattle and the singing of the birds around them.

  “Sergeant Stewart?”

  After the boy’s chatter throughout the day, the hesitant way he spoke told Conall he had something serious on his mind. “Aye, Jamie.”

  “I didn’t mean to take it. Your golden treasure charm.”

  “And why did ye then?”

  “Like I told ye, ’twas the cat ran in yer house, an’ when I followed him inside, he ran into the bookroom and hopped out o’ the window.” He glanced up at Conall. “I should have left, but I saw yer treasures on the table. I only wanted to have a look. But when I heard ye comin’, I hid away. I didn’t mean ta put it in my pocket, ye ken. I was frightened.” He looked down at his bare feet. “I’m not a thief,” he said in a soft voice.

  “I believe ye.”

  ***

  After seeing Jamie safely home to the cottage, Conall took the longer route out of the village toward his farm. Lifting stones and scraping mortar had left his lower back in need of a stretch. Jamie hadn’t seemed to mind working through the day. He’d not run out of energy even after hours of lifting rocks—the blessing of a young body. Conall couldn’t help his smile as he thought of the lad. Jamie Leslie was earnest, hardworking, and anxious to please, and Conall had found his conversation amusing. Something he’d have not imagined possible after the evening before.

  The child’s guileless questions, his honest curiosity—no wonder Mrs. Ross had cooked up an extra serving of sausage. Those red curls and his infectious laugh could enchant the fairy queen herself. Conall stopped, looking over the village and the harbor below as realization settled. He was actually fond of the boy. Well, tha’ was unexpected.

  He continued walking, chuckling to himself at the image of Napoleon fleeing from the English soldiers with the cry of “Ooh la la!” Aye, he was fond of the lad indeed.