“You can’t have had much time for cooking once you went into service as a groom,” Luisa insisted.
Mr. Flynn dropped his gaze from her face to his plate and made a great deal of fuss over which piece of potato to spear with his knife. “I’m not precisely in service.”
“Oh,” Luisa said with some surprise. “Then you aren’t here at the abbey to act as groom to His Lordship?”
He swallowed a mouthful of egg and shook his head. “I am here more as Percy’s reluctant companion than anything else, though I oft’ feel more like his nursemaid. I am the groom only in my father’s household, leastways when I’m home. We were all made to work; it’s his way.”
Luisa wondered again about Mr. Flynn’s background. A man who had horses to groom, but hadn’t the money to pay someone to do so was a puzzle indeed, but perhaps that was how it was done in Ireland. “I am the one who benefits, as it means I shall have the escort of an experienced groom for my journey home,” she said with a warm smile.
“Aye, that!” he said, with what felt like a sense of relief. “Ye are a brave soul to trust such a poor groom as I!”
“Me? Brave?” Luisa exclaimed. “The first time you saw me, I was hiding in the passageway like a quivering blancmange, I beg you to recall.”
“I know that ye are brave,” he said, shaking his head in denial of her words. “How much it must have cost you to come here when everyone has been so against ye.”
It was Luisa’s turn to swallow hard. “You know about that, do you? I suppose Percy spoke of it to you.” She felt her body turn cold and then hot with shame.
“He didn’t have to; I saw it for myself last night. But, yes, he did, and I confess, I couldn’t understand it.” He gave another shake of his head. “One minute you are the Sun, the Moon and the Stars to him, and the next he has a letter from someone telling him of your friend’s unfortunate marriage. Suddenly you were beyond the pale. It was then I decided I had had enough of Percy Brooksby.”
“Then why are you yet here? You could have been home with your family for Twelfth Night.”
He opened his mouth to answer, but he paused, looking, for the first time since she’d met him, a bit unsure of himself. Leaning back in his chair, he asked, “Would it sound like a load of slippery untruths if I told ye I had a mind to meet this paragon of his?”
Luisa felt her cheeks blush; she looked down at her plate. “No. That is, yes! Oh, I don’t know!” She raised her gaze to see he was laughing, if only with his eyes. She laughed too, then asked, “All right then, Mr. Flynn, what do you make of her, pray tell?”
Mr. Flynn cleared his throat and returned to his breakfast. He took so long to respond that Luisa wished she might sink through the floor. Finally he said, “Well, it’s clear to me that ye have not an ounce of spite in ye, else ye would have had Miss Gardner between your claws such as I have seen with any number o’ girls of my acquaintance. She deserves no less. Yet ye seem to bear her no ill feelings.”
“I confess, I did at first, but then I realized she’s just as much a victim of Percy’s whims as I.”
He nodded. “It’s naught but the truth. Your seeing that so clearly, it’s that which makes ye wise. Ye are also humble, else ye would have thought naught of borrowing a few fine cloaks for your bed. Then there’s the way ye let Percy off so lightly. Had I been ye, I would have given him the tongue lashing of his life. That tells me that ye are kind and forgiving.”
“It is you who are kind. So very kind!” Luisa dared to look into his face and was taken aback by the tenderness in his eyes.
Again he cleared his throat and, in a lower voice, said, “Ye are pure and chaste. From all that Percy said of ye, I knew it could not be otherwise. And ye are honest.” He hastened to add the last as if he was as anxious to change the subject as she was for him to do so. “There is no pretense about ye. Ah! And ye are grateful!” Placing his hand again on hers, he asked, “How could I forget that?”
Abashed, Luisa could not bring herself to look at anything but his hand covering hers against the rough plank table, but soon an undeniable force pulled her line of vision to meet his own. They sat, searching each other’s faces for answers to queries she had never before considered, until finally he said, “How so many virtues could be in one cailin, one who is so impossibly beautiful . . . There are no Irish proverbs that speak to such a miracle as that!”
Luisa thought of her hair—such a commonplace brown, and her skin—marred by a spatter of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her eyes were large but of an indeterminate color, neither blue nor green nor brown nor gray, and her nose was far from what one would find gracing the face of a Diamond of the First Water, as it had a bit of a tilt at the end. That he found her beautiful was a miracle indeed!
She was saved from formulating a reply, as Cook bustled into the room. “Who would have thought we would be in such a taking this morning?” she cried. “I have never had the pleasure of waiting upon such a lot of whining, demanding, ungrateful children!” Reaching for a large pot, she groused on as if there were no one there to hear her. “Now, if they had been the master’s London set, well, that would have been different. I would have expected them to sleep late and wish to wake with a roll in their mouths before their eyes had fully opened, but not those as live in this here village, I declare!”
Luisa was relieved that Cook had other things to think of besides Percy’s perfidy, and she was happy to have a reason to jump up from the table to help. Mr. Flynn also lent a hand between his tasks of heating bricks for their journey and hitching the horses to the sleigh. When all was ready, and Cook was carrying up trays of hot chocolate and cold butter and rolls to the guests, Luisa waited, somewhat reluctantly, by the door for Mr. Flynn to fetch her. It stung to know that she was not likely to speak with Mr. Flynn again, but it also thrilled her that, first, she had an entire sleigh ride with him ahead of her. She intended to savor every moment and store them up, like jewels in a case, against the stormy weather ahead.
Finally the door to the outside opened, and Mr. Flynn was there. She was startled but pleased when he lifted her into his arms to carry her through the snow to the waiting sleigh. After placing her carefully in her seat, he drew a warmed rug onto her lap and adjusted the heated brick at her feet. As he climbed in beside her, she smelled again the wonderful scent of his wool cloak and thought of how this would be the last time she would be close enough to him to notice. This was the last time she would speak to him, the last time she would see him.
Turning in her seat so she could fill her gaze with him for the length of the journey, she asked, “What is your home like? Do you look forward to returning?”
Giving the horses their head, he loosened his grip on the reins and turned to face her, as well. “Ireland is the fairest place in all the world, and I would live nowhere else.”
“And your house—is it as large as my gatehouse? If there are stables, surely it must be at least as large. And you live there as your father’s groom?”
“Aye, well, I might have misled ye a bit about that,” he said, his green eyes ever more brilliant against an infinite background of white. “I do groom for my father, but only because he insists that his sons work at something, and I have an accord with the horses. My brother Sean is a genius with the numbers, so he helps with the accounts. My brother Seamus rides the land and helps with the sheep.”
“You have sheep?” Luisa asked, more than a little surprised.
“Oh, aye, a few. Everyone around us, as well. Ireland is littered with sheep,” he said, with a shrug.
“But sheep require the care of many people, as do horses. You must have a large household and a larger house to keep them,” Luisa suggested.
“Yes, I suppose it’s large. Some say it’s the largest in County Cork, but I wouldn’t go so far as to boast that.”
“So,” Luisa said, “you live in a large house with a stables and horses, on land large enough to sustain a few sheep and an income that requires your brot
her’s help to keep track of. Mr. Flynn,” she asked tartly, “who are you?”
“Nobody,” he said, with another shrug. “Leastways, not anyone who is someone here in England. Back home I am known as the Master’s eldest, but it would be uncanny strange if anyone here were to have heard aught of a simple Irish lord.”
Luisa restrained a gasp of dismay. Mr. Flynn was no “mister” at all—he was heir to a lord. Her heart sank, and with it her barely formed hopes that Mr. Flynn would choose to stay in England and be, at the very least, her dear friend. Turning to face the road again, she asked stiffly, “How could your family let you go? They must be anxious to have you back.”
“And myself returned to them, as well,” he said as he slowly reclaimed the reins and gave the horses a flick to speed them on their way.
The rest of the journey was silent, strained and excessively cold. Luisa was glad of it, as the tears froze along her lower lashes before they could slip down her cheeks and betray her. She felt as if it were her heart that had frozen then fallen to the stone floor of the abbey kitchen to break into a thousand jagged little pieces. The pain was far sharper than Percy’s rejection, far deeper than the rejection of the entire village put together.
How could she feel so much for a person she had met barely twelve hours previous? That he cared for her a little, she was sure of, but how was it possible? And so unfair; he was the heir to a title, and she the daughter of a gatekeeper.
The horses stopped on their own after they reached the large, black, wrought-iron gate. There was nothing to be done but move her feet, climb out of the sleigh and begin her new life, one without hopes or dreams to keep her warm, and with spring so long in coming. Someday soon Percy would marry. Her brother would open the gate to his bride, and Luisa the Spinster would watch life go by through the window. And Mr. Flynn—he would be gone, far away, in Ireland. It was an unendurable thought, and she felt sobs clamoring in her chest. Mortified, she gave in to the temptation to flee, but as she leaned forward to rise, she felt a large hand on her arm and Mr. Flynn drew her gently back to her seat.
“Ye don’t have to get out,” he said, as if it were a summer day full of sun and possibilities and, above all, time.
Brushing ice-cold tears from her cheeks, she turned to face him. “I don’t understand.”
“Don’t ye, mo chroi?” he said, his words escaping his lips as softly as the puff of steam rising on the air.
“No, I don’t. Not French or Gaelic or anything at all!” she cried. “You are looking at me as if I should, but it seems I am wrong, unforgivably wrong, about most everything.”
Taking her hand, he laid it against his cheek, trapping it in place, making it utterly impossible to finger the dimple she had been longing to touch all day. “It’s the Gaelic for ‘my heart.’ It’s what a man calls the cailin who has stolen his.”
Luisa stared at him in disbelief, but her own heart told her he was speaking truth. Not daring to trust the wild leap of hope that rose in her chest, she said, “But your family is waiting for you. You must go back.” She pulled her hand from his face and let it fall to her lap. “You are the son of a lord,” she said, her words catching in her throat, “and I am nobody’s daughter.”
Taking her hand again, along with its fellow, he pressed them between his own. “There is time and enough. I will make time! And when I return, you will come home with me as my bride.”
“But you mustn’t! You can’t marry me,” Luisa heard herself say when all the while her heart was shouting, Yes! “What would your family say?”
“They would say what a lovely cailin ye are and welcome to the family.”
Luisa stared at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. “Mr. Flynn, even if that were true, we have only just met. Why, I don’t even know your given name!”
“But I know all of yours, and they are beauties, every one.”
“Whatever can you mean?” Luisa asked, mild irritation at his puzzling reply rising to the surface of a mass of competing emotions.
“My beauty. My grateful one. My kind and forgiving one, humble and patient one. What other names would ye have me call ye?”
Tears, happy ones, began to form in her eyes and roll down her cheeks. Her lips would insist on turning up into a smile. “I have always loved my given name. It’s Luisa.”
“Yes, I remember,” he said, lifting a finger to gently touch a tear cradled in the corner of her mouth. “Mine is Iosua but you would know it as Joshua.”
“Joshua,” Luisa breathed. With a cry of joy, she leaned towards him and laid her head against his chest. More quickly than she thought possible, he had both of his arms around her, and she was warm and safe and exactly where she belonged. “Thank you, Joshua, for saving me—from Percy, from this village, from myself. For that, if nothing else, I could love you all the days of my life.” Pulling her head from her sweet and warm cocoon, she looked up at him so as to read the expression in his eyes. “But what about you? You deserve a true lady, someone who comes with land and money or at least a title.”
In answer, he pulled her close until her face was inches from his own. Then he kissed her with lips stiff and cold, but which were soon warm and pliable and eager as she could wish. “Ye are a perfect lady,” he murmured, brushing his lips against her forehead. “One imbued with the only riches that matter.” He pulled back to search her face and must have approved of what he saw, for he drew her even closer so that she could feel the thundering of his heart against her own, and then kissed her until she thought perhaps she would melt away into nothingness.
Finally, one last time she whispered, “Are you sure? Are you very, very sure that you love me? I have nothing to give you but myself. Oh, and Mother and Willy.”
“I’ll take ye all. I was not born for aught else but to protect ye, to care for ye,” he said, his words coming faster and faster while his voice grew thicker with each. “To love ye as I have loved no man, woman or child on this, God’s green earth.” Taking her face between his hands, he asked, “Can ye leave your home to come to a wild and beautiful new place that will make your heart sing and your husband delirious with joy?”
“Oh, Joshua, how could I not?” With a smile, she shrugged out of his grasp, picked up the reins and called out to the hills of snow, “To Ireland!”
About Heidi Ashworth
Heidi Ashworth is an anglophile who loves to read and write books that take place in England. She also enjoys hanging out with her family, blogging, DIY home improvement projects and spending time in her garden, one composed mostly of roses, including a Double Delight, the variety on the cover of her first book. She wrote her first “novel” when she was a very determined ten-year-old, though her debut novel, Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind, wasn’t written until she was married and raising children. Its success upon publication in December 2008 spurred her to write a sequel, Miss Delacourt Has Her Day, which was published in February 2011 and was a finalist in the Whitney Awards. Both of her books are available in hardcover, paperback and Kindle via Montlake Romance.
Other Works by Heidi Ashworth
Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind
http://www.amazon.com/Miss-Delacourt-Speaks-Mind-ebook/dp/B0093YQGRU/
Miss Delacourt Has Her Day—Whitney Award Finalist
http://www.amazon.com/Miss-Delacourt-Has-Her-ebook/dp/B009424NPS/
Contact Heidi
Website
http://www.heidiashworth.com/
Blog
http://www.heidiashworth.blogspot.com/
Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind Facebook Page
https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Miss-Delacourt-Speaks-Her-Mind/236318058435?bookmark_t=page
Miss Delacourt Has Her Day Facebook Page
https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Miss-Delacourt-Has-Her-Day/158428814213995?bookmark_t=page
Goodreads Author Page
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2052146.Heidi_Ashworth
An Unexpected Proposal
By
Annette Lyon
Chapter One
Logan Canyon Wood Camp, Utah—1880
Caroline tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear and set to filling the bread basket with slices of rye and wheat bread, all the while wishing she could stay in the kitchen the entire evening instead of serving the workers. She hated the evening meal; it was the worst part of the workday at Wood Camp, and had been ever since Butch Larsen showed up to cut and haul trees two weeks ago. Today she’d first hinted at, and then begged Mrs. Hansen, the foreman’s wife, to let her stay in the kitchen to prepare the serving platters and get a start on cleanup, with Mrs. Hansen doing the actual serving.
“Why in the world would you want to spend your evening in here?” Mrs. Hansen said, shooing Caroline into the main room to serve the sweaty, tired men seated on benches around long tables. “It’s hot and stuffy.”
“But—” Caroline cut herself off, unsure how to proceed. She adjusted her hold on the bread basket, which was nearly overfilled. She glanced over her shoulder at the door toward the main room and winced.
“Well, now, get on,” Mrs. Hansen said with another shooing motion, and then wiped her brow with the back of her wrist. When Caroline hesitated a second time, Mrs. Hansen placed one bony hand on her equally bony hip and tilted her head. “Tell me truly, child, what’s the problem?”
Caroline closed her eyes and confessed. “It’s the new Larsen boy. He makes me uncomfortable.” She shuddered at the memory of how he’d encouraged her to lean forward so he could get a proper view of her bosom—even though it was modestly covered, with a high neckline of navy calico with pale pink flowers. She never mentioned the time he—she would swear it on a stack of Bibles—had patted her behind—her behind!
It was one thing to flirt with the men; she’d done that plenty of times. But Butch Larsen took the whole thing too far. She’d come to the point of staying mute in the serving room and avoiding any eyes but her old chum James’s.
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