The Promise of Breeze Hill

by Pam Hillman

  “Miss Isabella, you’re back! Did you get me something?” Lizzy jumped up from the stool and rushed toward Isabella, a grin on her face and her arms stretched out for a hug, sticky syrup and all.

  “That I did. But you’ll have to wait until Toby gets here.” Isabella enfolded the motherless child in her arms. She turned to Martha. “We’ve got company, Martha. Are there any tea cakes left?”

  “Yes, Miss Isabella. I do believe so. Who’s here?”

  “Mr. Braxton.”

  Isabella took three teacups from the cupboard, but Martha shooed her away. “You go on back to the porch. I’ll bring a tray on out directly.”

  “I don’t mind. You’ve got so much to do already.” They’d let so many of the servants go after losing their crops last fall. Only a handful of faithful had stayed on.

  “It don’t look right for you to do it yourself, miss.”

  “I’ll do it.” Lizzy jumped up.

  Martha shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Lizzy.”

  “Please?” Lizzy turned toward Isabella, her gaze pleading. “I’ll be really careful.”

  “Oh, what’s the harm? But if you’re going to serve tea, you must look presentable.” Isabella dampened a kitchen towel and rubbed the syrup off Lizzy’s face. Then she untied the leather strings on Lizzy’s untidy braids and finger-combed her hair before braiding it again. “There.”

  Martha made a clicking sound with her tongue but went about preparing the tray. “A mobcap would do a lot of good.”

  Isabella smiled down at Lizzy. “Oh, that’s an excellent idea. Do you have one, Martha? And maybe an apron that’s not too big?”

  “There should be something that would fit her.” She nodded toward a corner cabinet. “There. Second drawer on your left.”

  Soon Isabella had Lizzy outfitted in a pristine white apron with a mobcap covering her hair. Lizzy grinned at herself, holding the apron out. Then she frowned. “I don’t have any shoes.”

  “Oh, that’s nothing to worry about. It’s hot enough that Mr. Braxton won’t think a thing about it.”

  Martha plopped the tray on the table. “Shoo, young lady. Go on back to your young man, and I’ll send Lizzy out directly.”

  Isabella frowned. “He’s not my young man.”

  “Not yet.” Martha accompanied her words with a smile before turning to Lizzy. “Now, child, you be extra careful. No running. And put the tray right on that little table. Then stand back and ask—Lizzy, look at me—and ask Miss Isabella if that will be all. Do you understand?”

  Lizzy nodded, the mobcap bouncing. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “After that—”

  Isabella left Martha to her endless instructions and hurried back to the front porch. Leah’s laughter pealed out long before she reached them. At least Nolan made Leah laugh, something she’d done little of during the last few months.

  “Martha’s fixing tea.”

  “Wonderful.” Leah fanned herself vigorously. “Nolan’s been telling me about the ball he attended at the Dunbar estate this past winter. One of the gentlemen got a little tipsy and asked a potted palm to dance.”

  “Sounds like he enjoyed himself immensely.”

  “He was quite offended that the lady rebuffed him.” Nolan chuckled.

  “I’m sure. Ah, here’s Lizzy with our tea.”

  Lizzy looked scared but excited to be given such an important task. Isabella caught her gaze, reassuring her with a nod that she was doing just fine. A tentative smile blossomed on the girl’s face; then she bit her lip, carrying the heavy tray across the porch toward the table.

  Seconds before she set it down, she tripped, and Isabella jerked forward. Cookies and the teapot started sliding forward, toward Nolan. Isabella grabbed the tray and salvaged the teacups, but not before the silver teapot tipped over the edge of the tray and plummeted to the porch with a crash.

  Leah screamed and Nolan jerked to his feet as hot tea splashed onto his riding boots and his fawn-colored breeches. He took a step toward Lizzy, riding crop raised. “Why, you clumsy child. Look what you’ve done.”

  “I’m so-so-sorry, sir.” Lizzy stepped back, a look of terror stamped on her freckled face.

  Isabella stepped between Nolan and Lizzy, took the tray, and set it on the table. She gently clasped Lizzy by the shoulders, giving her a reassuring smile. “It was an accident, Lizzy. No harm done. Now run on back to the kitchen and ask Martha to brew us another pot of tea. All right?”

  “Yes—yes, ma’am.”

  Isabella took a deep breath, then turned to face her guest. “I’m sorry, Nolan.”

  But instead of the rage she’d seen on his face moments before, the calm, complacent countenance she’d come to expect from him met her gaze.

  “No need to apologize, Isabella. You were right. The girl meant no harm. I was just caught off guard.” He exhaled a breath. “If anything, I’m the one who should apologize to you and the poor child. I’m afraid I might have scared her out of her wits with my crazed reaction to something so inconsequential.”

  Leah pressed a hand to her bodice. “You weren’t burned, were you, Mr. Braxton?”

  “No, no, I’m fine. Thank you.”

  But Nolan had no chance to apologize to Lizzy, as the girl didn’t return. Instead, Martha brought tea, serving it with a careful, somber air as if nothing had happened.

  “Ladies, thank you for the tea, but I’d best be going.”

  “So soon?” Leah pouted.

  “I don’t want to outstay my welcome.” Hat in hand, Nolan addressed Leah. “Mrs. Bartholomew, do you mind if Isabella accompanies me for a short walk before I take my leave?”

  “Of course not.” Leah’s lips twitched, and she fanned herself vigorously, her amused gaze darting to Isabella. Isabella wanted to pinch her. “Take all the time you need.”

  Casting mock daggers at her sister-in-law behind his back, Isabella joined Nolan, and they strolled across the lawn underneath moss-covered trees. Nolan clasped his hands behind his back, the perfect gentleman. Finally he addressed her. “How’s your father?”

  “Better, but he’s a long way from being well.” They walked around the perimeter of the house toward the grape arbor. Nolan stood back and let Isabella precede him beneath the cooling canopy.

  “I’ll have to say hello before I leave.”

  “Please do. He gets so few visitors.”

  Nolan didn’t seem the least bit put off by her father’s scars, unlike so many of their friends and neighbors. Even her father’s closest friends rarely stopped by to visit. Of course many of the plantation owners and their families had gone north to escape the intense summer heat, but a few remained, especially those who couldn’t afford the luxury of a summer home in Virginia or Kentucky.

  Through the latticework and twisting grapevines, she could see Connor, Toby, and Jim working on the house. Nolan followed her gaze and motioned toward the workers. “I see you’ve found someone to repair the house.”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s his name? If he’s a master craftsman, it’s likely I’ve heard of him.”

  “His name is Connor O’Shea. I don’t think he’s a master craftsman, but he was indentured to John W. Benson.”

  “An indentured servant? And Irish on top of that?” An amused smile flitted across Nolan’s face.

  Isabella pursed her lips. What did Nolan find so funny about either? She continued walking. “He’s indentured to repair the damage to Breeze Hill in return for passage for his brothers from Ireland. It seemed like a fair trade.”

  “I hope your father knows what he’s doing. The Irish are a shiftless lot, you know. You’ll be lucky to get an honest day’s work out of the man.”

  Isabella glanced at Connor, busy ripping charred boards off the worst of the damage. Connor had proven he could be depended on—to keep her safe if nothing more. “Thank you for your concern. He seems to be working out just fine.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m sure
the indentured servant will do a splendid job.” He paused beneath the shade of an oak unscathed by the fire, took her by the shoulders, and turned her to face him. A smile curled his lips upward. “But I didn’t come here to talk about your indentured servant. Isabella, I’ve stayed away all these months to give you time to grieve, but now that your mourning period is almost over, may I come calling again?”

  “Nolan . . .” She looked away, not ready to have this conversation.

  “You’re a beautiful woman, and it’s only a matter of time before you’ll have so many gentlemen callers you won’t know which direction to turn.” He tipped her chin up with his forefinger, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Forgive me for rushing you, but I had to say something. I can’t risk losing you to someone else.”

  Isabella searched his features. Many considered him a good catch and a man whom she might have wed only a few short months ago, but he lived for the parties and the gay lifestyle of his cronies. His own plantation flourished, inherited from his father, who’d emigrated from England and died before his wife and son could arrive. It was rumored that Braxton holdings had tripled in the years since Nolan had come of age and taken over ownership after his mother also passed away.

  Rumors of mistreatment of his slaves, unsavory business practices, and illegal activity had surfaced over the years, but she suspected the rumor mill to be rampant with jealousy over his success. If pressed, Nolan would tell her the truth was much less gory.

  “You’re forgiven, Nolan, but I need more time. I’ve got all I can do to take care of Papa and run the plantation.”

  “Marry me, and I’ll take care of everything.”

  It would be so easy to say yes. A man as successful as Nolan would take care of everything. But Papa wouldn’t move from Breeze Hill, and she couldn’t leave him. Not yet. Maybe in time . . .

  “I’m sorry, Nolan. It’s too soon. Papa needs me here, and so does Leah. When the babe comes—”

  “The babe?” His brow crinkled. “What babe?”

  “You didn’t know?” Isabella smiled, blinking back tears. “Leah is carrying Jonathan’s child. Breeze Hill will have an heir after all. Isn’t it a miracle?”

  Nolan looked like he’d seen a ghost, and in some ways, she supposed he had. No one had known about the baby, not even Jonathan. She couldn’t imagine Leah’s pain and despair over losing her husband so soon after they’d wed. But their grief had turned to joy when they’d realized Leah was with child.

  Nolan let go of her shoulders and glanced toward the house.

  “Yes, a miracle indeed.”

  Chapter 6

  CONNOR HELD the level in his hands, heart pounding.

  A spirit level.

  He’d heard of such but had never seen one. Carefully he wrapped the precious bubble level in a layer of cloth and placed it in the chest at his feet.

  Pivoting, he eyed the myriad assortment of tools that made his own meager collection seem paltry indeed. Lathes, saws, planes, hammers, a brass square, hand drills, a caliper.

  Master Benson’s tools had been sold at auction. He’d hated to see them go, but there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t afford to purchase any of them.

  When Mr. Bartholomew had mentioned that he’d built Breeze Hill with his own hands, he’d meant it. Connor had never seen so many fine tools. And Mr. Bartholomew had entrusted him with them all.

  He pried himself away from the shiny tools and explored the dogtrot log cabin. Two rooms, roughly the same size, with an open, roofed passage connecting them, sat in a grove of oak trees that offered plenty of shade and a cooling breeze. The floors could do with a good scrubbing, and the roof needed repairing.

  He set to work, organizing the toolroom, making a note to build a table and a couple of chairs for the room he’d chosen for his lodgings.

  He’d repay Mr. Bartholomew tenfold for his generosity. When his brothers arrived, he’d teach them the proper way to fell a tree and how to use the pit saw. They’d learn how to draw a plumb, how to form a foundation, how to turn a lathe and build furniture. His brothers would be master craftsmen of the finest order. The future for the O’Shea brothers was as bright as the afternoon sun that burst on the clearing.

  Connor spent the rest of the day organizing and oiling the tools, straightening the cabins, marveling at his good fortune. He found a box of shingles and put them to the side, intent on fixing the roof first thing.

  Early the next morning, he reached for the ladder, the box of wooden shingles in one hand and a hammer tucked in his waistband. A young girl, red braids flying, came around the corner and barreled right into him, knocking the box out of his hand and scattering shingles all over the ground.

  “Whoa, there.” He reached out and halted the child’s headlong dash.

  “Oops. Sorry, mister.” Green eyes stared up at him. “You gonna beat me?”

  Connor frowned at her. “Now why would I do that?”

  She shrugged, digging in the dirt with one toe. “Well, yesterday Mr. Braxton up at the house wanted to beat me when I spilled tea on his boots.”

  Connor frowned. “Who’s Mr. Braxton?”

  “He owns Braxton Hall.” She pointed eastward, away from the trace. “That way. I don’t like him, but he’s sweet on Miss Isabella.”

  “He is, is he?”

  “Yes, sir. Miss Isabella stopped him from hitting me. If she hadn’t been there, I imagine he would’ve kilt me.”

  Lips twitching, Connor hunkered down and started picking up shingles. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing Miss Isabella was there. You want to help me pick up these shingles?”

  “Yes, sir.” As they worked, she squinted up at Connor, green eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Toby says you’re from Ireland. That true?”

  “’Tis true.”

  “Really? Our ma was from Ireland. She died when I was borned.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” Connor tossed the last of the shingles into the box. “So you’re Toby’s little sister? You got a name?”

  “Lizzy. What’s yours?”

  “Connor.”

  Lizzy reached for one of his tools. “What’s this?”

  “It’s a plane. You use it to make boards smooth.”

  “Oh. Can I try it?”

  “Maybe.”

  Since she seemed intent on staying awhile, he handed her the box of shingles. “Here. Think you can carry this?”

  “Yes, sir.” She lugged the box around to the front of the cabin, watching as he climbed the ladder. “You got any brothers or sisters?”

  “I’ve got four brothers in Ireland.”

  “Four?” Her eyebrows rose. “All I’ve got is Toby. Don’t know how I’d manage four.”

  Connor laughed. The youngster couldn’t be more than eight or nine years old, but she sounded like an old maid. “Hand me that box.”

  She reached as high as she could, and he grabbed the box from her and scooted on top of the cabin. Soon he was replacing rotten shingles, the sound of the hammer ringing out.

  “Miss Isabella had a brother. He got kilt, though.”

  “I heard about that.” He wanted to ask questions but didn’t want to get information from the talkative youngster.

  “Robbers kilt him.”

  “You don’t say?” Connor pried off a shingle and tossed it to the ground.

  “Yep. And they threw his body in the swamp. And the wild animals had already gotten to him before Miss Isabella found him. Could have been alligators, but Toby says there ain’t no gators around here.”

  Isabella had found her brother? Poor lass. Bad enough to lose her brother like that, but to be the one to find him . . .

  “Toby said his legs were—”

  “Lizzy.” Connor stopped working and held up a hand. He needed to put a stop to the child’s morbid fascination with Jonathan Bartholomew’s death. “I think I’ve heard enough.”

  “Sorry. I wouldn’t have taken you for being squeamish.”

  “I’m not, but I just spotted Mi
ss Isabella coming this way. You wouldn’t want her to hear you talking so disrespectfully about her brother, now would you?”

  Lizzy’s face paled, her freckles popping out like a million stars on a moonless night. “No, sir.”

  “All right, then.” He nodded at a hoe leaning against the cabin. “The yard needs weeding. Think you can do that?”

  “Yes, sir.” She grabbed the hoe and went to work.

  Isabella neared the sawmill and stopped dead in her tracks. The mill had been transformed in the few short hours since Connor’s arrival.

  The lumber that her father and brother had left to season had been restacked at the edge of the clearing to allow more air to get to it. Little Lizzy Mews was hard at work clearing weeds from the yard, and Connor was on the roof replacing shingles.

  As she crossed the clearing, he lifted the box of shingles to his shoulder and descended the ladder, turning as she drew near. “Good morning, mistress.”

  “Connor.” She inclined her head, skirted the saw pit, and entered the dogtrot. A cooling breeze blew between the two cabins. Connor’s tools lined the wall of one of the cabins while her father’s collection of saws and axes gleamed against the other. Each piece had been oiled and sharpened until they shone like freshly minted coins.

  Clutching a leather-bound portfolio to her bosom, she nodded toward Lizzy, hoeing weeds as if her life depended on it. “Looks like you’ve enlisted some help.”

  “She’s a little rounder, that one.”

  “She is, isn’t she? She’s nothing like Toby. He’s quiet, easygoing, takes after his father. Lizzy takes after her mother, Irish temper and all.”

  “What makes you think the Irish have a temper?” Connor wiped his brow with the neckerchief knotted at his throat. His loose-fitting shirt, damp from hard work, clung to his broad shoulders.

  “Don’t they?”

  “No. Some might be a little more easily riled than others, but I’m sure it has nothing to do with being Irish.”

  “I see. So you don’t have much of a temper?”

  “Not really.” He shrugged.

  “And I suppose you’ve never touched the Blarney stone, either, have you?”