A Bride Most Begrudging

by Deeanne Gist

  There was never enough time to weed the entire field, but Drew had gotten a pretty good jump on weeding the little area around each mound, having his men help him finish up last week.

  Now, they were searching the massive plants for great horned worms about the size of Drew’s little finger. Many a time had he walked these fields pulling grass-green worms off the leaves, snapping them in half, then dropping them onto the ground.

  The task required a sharp eye but not a great deal of thought. And therein was the trouble, for his mind kept wandering, recalling Constance as she looked yesterday with her fear masked as indignation. With her arms about his baby sister. With her hair rippling over her shoulders. By Pharaoh, if the color of it wasn’t starting to look downright...pleasing.

  Still, when she actually ran her fingers through that thick, curly mane of hers, he’d been in complete control. Not a single carnal thought had crossed his mind. He nodded. Yes. That was what was important.

  Now he needed to focus on suppressing the panic he’d experienced, for he’d been filled with an inordinate amount of it when Sally had half run, half stumbled into the fields out of breath, wide-eyed and crying that Constance was “scare-ed.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. It was clear something would happen to Constance. It was only a matter of time. Bolster my defenses, Lord, so when the worst occurs, I won’t be affected.

  He sighed. Affected very much, that is. For the truth of it was, he would indeed be affected. Perhaps it was because he felt it his responsibility to keep her safe for her father. Maybe panic wasn’t bad.

  Yes. That was it. Panic was acceptable, for her father’s sake. Desire was not. And if yesterday was any indication, he’d just about gotten the desire under control.

  He’d found no trace of the Indians when he’d gone to find her basket nor had they been to visit--yet. They would, though. And when they did, Lord willing, it would be of a peaceful nature.

  “You missed one, Isaac.” Drew picked the worm off the tobacco leaf, snapped it in two, and tossed it aside. “The next one you miss, you eat.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Drew smiled as Isaac searched the next plant more carefully. He would eat one before the day was through, just as Drew had eaten more than he could count when his father followed behind him during the worming of the fields.

  None of those occasions was pleasant, but swallowing that first one was always the worst. Still, one worm could wipe out a whole section of tobacco within a day. The men must be made to understand the importance of killing every last worm.

  The sun beat relentlessly upon them, the moisture in the air encasing them. Drew thrived on it. This was his legacy and he could always find solace here, where he’d spent the largest amounts of time with those he now missed.

  He wiped his brow. To his way of thinking, nothing could compare to laboring over his crop, tending to it with meticulous attention and vigilance while sweat sluiced down his body and the sun burnt into his skin. He inhaled deeply, his chest expanding with pleasure over all that was his. “Isaac?”

  Isaac stilled, then turned back to the plant he’d just deemed worm free. Drew lifted a leaf, revealing a green worm about two inches in length clinging to the underside. “You missed one.”

  Isaac swallowed. “I’ll be more careful, sir. Much more careful. Won’t happen again.”

  Drew raised an eyebrow.

  Isaac straightened. “Sir, I...” He looked at the worm and then back at Drew.

  “In the past, I most often swallowed them whole. They’re a bit on the crunchy side if you chew them.”

  Isaac wiped his hand across his mouth. The other men stopped to watch. “You, sir?”

  Drew nodded. “My father used to follow me when I wormed the fields.”

  “They didn’t hurt you none?”

  “No, it’s just a little worm.”

  Normally, you were a youngster when you ate your first worm. Being the eldest, Drew had had the pleasure of watching Josh eat his first worm. But never had he seen a grown man have to eat one.

  Wiping his hand against his leg, Isaac peeled the worm from beneath the broad leaf. His Adam’s apple bobbed several times, then he looked again at Drew. “Swallow it whole, you say?”

  He shrugged. “I did. Of course, the risk is it might get stuck in your throat. Whichever way you prefer, it makes no difference to me.”

  “Would you be willing to let me have another chance, sir?”

  “That worm could’ve wiped out a good portion of the field by this time tomorrow. There are no second chances when it comes to worms.”

  Isaac looked to the others. A couple appeared sympathetic, while most displayed fascination. He again looked at the worm lying rather dormant between his fingers.

  Drew lifted his hat and repositioned it on his head. He saw no reason to treat a grown man more delicately than he would a little tyke. One’s first worm should be a memorable occasion. “I might ought to mention, the first worm I ate didn’t stay long in my stomach. Of course, I was but a lad, barely out of wet pants. You, I’m sure, will have no such trouble.”

  What color there had been in Isaac’s face left him. Drew chuckled. “Come, it’s just a little worm. Eat it and be done so we can continue our work.”

  Squeezing his eyes shut, Isaac took a fortifying breath, popped the worm into his mouth, chewed two, maybe three times, and swallowed. A cheer rose up from the men. Drew whacked him on the shoulder. “Well done, man!”

  Isaac turned as green as the tobacco.

  Drew’s smile widened. “Sweet saints, Isaac, don’t cast up your accounts in the field. Run yonder if you must.”

  A great many chuckles followed Isaac as he clapped his hand over his mouth and sprinted to the edge of the field, heaving the moment he reached its edge. Upon his return there was much back slapping and congratulations all the way around.

  The worming proceeded, but an air of festivity had taken over, and poor Isaac was the brunt of much ribbing for the rest of the afternoon.

  Drew smiled, thinking farming was indeed a wonderful occupation.

  The sky rumbled and the air smelled of rain. Mary noted, however, that the men hardly seemed aware of it, so much fun were they having at Isaac’s expense. As she served them their evening meal, she peeked over at Isaac, having by now heard in great detail of his initiation into farming. The men had been ruthless in the telling, each having their own slant.

  She knew the poor man had never farmed in his life. Indeed, he had been the night watchman back home, shouting, “Past four o‘clock of a fine spring morning. Past four o’clock, and all’s well,” as he made his way through London aside lifeless shuttered houses.

  She’d felt a kinship to him, though, for one of the few signs of life displayed at such a time would be on Bread Street, where she and the other bakers of London worked. Their ovens glowing, they would withdraw piping hot loaves, the aroma filling their little bakeries and escaping out into the street. Isaac’s cry would always be a bit more buoyant as he neared the end of Bread Street, knowing his duty for the night was almost over.

  She’d heard his cry every morning for years, yet they had never met, nor even seen each other.

  As fate would have it, though, it was Bread Street that caused Isaac’s fall. One of the bakers down a ways from Mary’s shop had started to make a habit of slipping a pinch of fresh bread to Isaac as he passed by. On one such morning, the store’s owner caught them and had them both arrested. Isaac’s sentence was deportment; the other man lost his life.

  Such were not the ways here, not with Master Drew. Here, she was able to make an extra bit of bread for Isaac, glad to see him never went wanting again. It was a small thing, really, but it made them both feel they’d somehow cheated the hangman.

  “Miss Mary, what’s this green stuff in our carrot pudding?”

  Chuckles reverberated along with the thunder. Isaac’s spoon paused on its way to his mouth, his face still looking a bit sickly.

&nb
sp; The infectious mood tugged at her. “I’m not right sure, Thomas. Master Drew brought them to me this noon, he did. Said they would make better farmers of any man who ate them and would I please mix them into the evening meal.”

  Isaac made a show of digging through his pudding before taking a big mouthful. “It’s the best carrot pudding I’ve ever ‘ad in me whole life, Miss Mary. Course, it’s the only carrot pudding I’ve ’ad in me whole life.”it

  More chuckles. “Ho, that’d be the truth of it,” Thomas teased. “He’d been spendin’ all ‘is time eatin’ bread, he ’ad!”

  Mary shook her head at their nonsense, while the men murmured in agreement.

  Constance came out to the yard to check on things, immediately sensing a mood shift, caused by her presence, no doubt. Still, she could do nothing about it. Such was the way of master and servant. She’d never much thought about it before, but never before had she longed to be included. It wasn’t to be, though. There were strict rules governing the relationship between master and servant. There always had been and there always would be.

  The rain held off throughout the rest of the meal and into the evening’s chores. She and Drew didn’t linger over their time at the creek, though. The air was heavy and mosquitoes swarmed about. Constance spent almost as much time swatting them as she did cleaning the dishes.

  After that first night of Drew’s forfeit, never again did she recline against the birch tree. She sat side-by-side with him as his helpmate, and to her surprise, when the week was up, he did not revert back to his old ways. Only after he had helped finish the dishes would he pick up his pipe and relax. It wasn’t too long before she looked forward to the quiet walks with him where they shared this task, as well as time alone together.

  Ever since her Indian encounter, he had carried his musket with him, and tonight was no exception. She smiled, remembering his blatant efforts last night to calm her lingering unease. He’d managed quite nicely by throwing her an unexpected mathematical challenge.

  “Twenty-eight,” he had said.

  Muddy sand filtered through her fingers as she paused in her scrubbing. “Pardon?”

  “Twenty-eight eggs. Seven hens would lay twenty-eight eggs in six days--at the rate you suggested, anyway.”

  She sat back on her heels. “Yes. You are quite right.”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “I know.”

  Suppressing a smile, she returned her attention to her chore.

  “I’ve one for you now,” he said.

  She glanced at him. “Oh?”

  Running his hand across his trencher, he laid it down and picked up another. “Sally and Sissy, four feet apart, walk side-by-side around a circular pond. How far does each walk if the sum of their distances is one mile?”

  She bit the inside of her cheek. “Have you a solution already?”

  He shook his head. “No. It occurred to me the other day when Sally regaled me with tales of daisy-chain crowns and meals by the pond, but I haven’t given it much thought since.”

  She reached for a noggin. “I’ll need to work in some soot. That’s an algebraic problem.”

  “Humph. You need to work in the soot for all your problems.”

  She smiled. “We’ll compare solutions tomorrow.”

  He winked. “Prepared I will be,” he said with a wink.

  Droplets of rain found their way through the tree’s covering, and the wind picked up speed, putting her recollections to a close. There would be no comparing of solutions this eve, not when the skies might open up at any moment. She sighed. She’d come up with an answer to his puzzle and had looked rather forward to lingering here with him.

  A huge clap of thunder shook the very ground beneath them. Gathering up the dishes, the two hurried down the path toward the sanctuary of home.

  Constance awakened at Drew’s prodding. The cottage was still shrouded in darkness. “What is it? Has something happened?” she whispered.

  “No. It’s simply time for you to learn to milk the goat. I’m tired of doing it for you every morning. Come.”

  Wonderful. She rubbed her eyes. “I’m not dressed.”

  “See to it then. I’ll meet you outside.”

  Rising from her pallet, she slipped on a dress and twisted her hair up into a cap. Maybe she would have time to go back to sleep after the milking.

  Last night’s rain had cooled things off but left a muddy mess to walk in. The mud oozed through her toes as she headed for the goat barn. Rubbing her arms against the chill, she saw Drew had already brought out the animal and stood conversing with it.

  One hand held the stool and pail while the other scratched the goat’s chin. She watched as he bent his head to its ear, whispering, nuzzling, chuckling. The animal bumped its nose against Drew’s face in response.

  Ruffling the area between its ears, Drew straightened and turned to find her watching him. Their gazes collided and her heart did something peculiar.

  The animal nudged him. Without releasing her from his intensive focus, he slid his knuckles up and down the goat’s jawline, yet it was her own body that did the reacting.

  Had he done it a’purpose? No. She didn’t think so.

  Finally he set down stool and pail and patted the ugly gray creature. “This is Snowflake.”

  Constance moved a little closer. She’d seen the goat many a time wandering about the area rummaging for food, but she’d kept well away from it. “Shouldn’t we tie her up or something?”

  “No. She doesn’t mind the milking. Come and sit.”

  Rubbing her arms again, Constance took her place on the stool. Drew squatted and reached around her, grabbing one of Snowflake’s teats. He squeezed and milk squirted into the bucket.

  Fascinated, she watched the flexing and giving of the muscles along his arm, the sweep of short dark hairs decorating its surface. She closed her eyes, inhaling the morning’s dew and dampness combined with a blend of man and beast.

  Dawn touched the sky and, like some mighty conductor, cued a solitary songbird for the morning’s prelude. First a tentative chirrup from far away, and then another before it received a lonely trill in response. Next came a warble, and in the moments that followed a melody burst forth, grounded by the steady pang, pang, pang of milk hitting the bucket.

  The panging stopped. “Now you try.”

  Constance opened her eyes, allowing her gaze to journey from his rolled-up sleeve, along his brawny arm to his hand, where it coddled the goat’s pink teat. He released it, resting his elbow on his updrawn knee.

  Her leg muscles contracted, then she reached out and touched a teat, quickly withdrawing her fingers.

  He chuckled. “It won’t hurt you.”

  Wiping her hand on her skirt, she reached forward again, grasped one, and pulled. Snowflake jumped. Constance squealed and the forest quieted for a moment.

  “No, no. You roll your fingers down her teat. Like this.”

  He reached around, magically making the milk flow out. She tried again. Snowflake turned her head and baahed.

  “Baah, yourself.” She looked to Drew. “This isn’t working.”

  “Watch.” He placed an open palm on the teat. “Roll your fingers down. First this finger, then this one and so on. You must set a faster pace, of course, but yanking is not what milks her.”

  She attempted to copy his actions, but still no milk.

  He placed his arm alongside hers, cupping her hand in his, then guided her movements. Her skin leapt to life at every point he touched. It was most unnerving.

  The milk hit the pail. “After you squeeze, cup her udder so more milk will flow in.”

  His chest now lay against her shoulder, his muscled arm still flexed against hers. And in a rush, the thought tumbled upon her. Sweet heaven above, she was falling in love.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  In love? But how? How could that be? She paused while her breathing grew rapid and her heart pulsed. Then she made herself be completely honest, realizing it wasn’t all that ha
rd to believe.

  He was, after all, a God-fearing man. He had agreed to her marriage terms, comforted her when she’d needed it, shown her how to survive in a new land, and at long last, he had believed her. He’d accepted she was Lady Constance Caroline Morrow, daughter to the Right Honorable the Earl of Greyhame. He’d accepted it because she had told him so. He also dallied in mathematical challenges.

  Add that to a beautifully made body and a breathtaking face, and you have one lost battle before it ever began. She swallowed. The question now was what to do.

  “Constance? Go ahead, you try.”

  She took a deep breath, throwing back her head. “Look at the sunrise, Drew. It’s exquisite.”

  He glanced up at the sky. “It’s exquisite every morning. If you’d like to watch the sunrise, I’ll wake you early tomorrow. Right now, we need to milk the goat.”

  She gave him a sweet smile and turned back to Snowflake. Cupping the udder, she rolled her fingers down the teat, ejecting a squirt of milk. She caught her breath and turned to him with delight. “I did it!”

  He gave the slightest of nods. “Very good. Now continue with that over and over until the pail is filled.”

  Turning back to the milking, she tried again. Her expression fell. None was forthcoming. She tried several more times.

  “You’re squeezing too hard. Remember to let the milk flow in after you squeeze.”

  She tried again.

  “No, like this.” He placed his hand over hers, his whiskers grazing her cheek. Her insides fluttered.

  “Relax your hand, Constance.”

  She relaxed. He repositioned her fingers.

  “Cup the udder. Like this.”

  The pit of her stomach felt queasy. In truth, she needed to decide what to do about this and right quickly. She cupped the udder.

  “Good. Now try to milk her.”

  He guided her hands. The concert playing through her veins drowned out all other sounds. Did he know? Could he tell? She angled her face to look at him. He was so close. He turned toward her then, which brought their lips near touching. What would he do if she tilted her head and pressed her lips against his?