The Promise of Breeze Hill

by Pam Hillman

  He chuckled, shaking his head at her teasing. “Not that you’d ever know it.”

  A smudge of grease tracked down one lean cheek, and Isabella had a sudden urge to move closer and wipe the grime off. Either that or bolt before she made a fool of herself. She cleared her throat and held out the portfolio. “Here are the drawings Papa mentioned.”

  He took the packet and spread her drawings on a hastily constructed table, made of a few rough boards placed atop sawhorses. She waited nervously as he glanced through her sketches. Then, reaching for the originals that her father had given him, he compared the two. Tapping hers, he frowned at her. “These are new designs.”

  “I know. I thought since we—you—had to rebuild anyway, that maybe we could turn the entire wing into a private suite of rooms.” Feeling self-conscious, Isabella blundered on. “The drawings aren’t perfect and not to scale, but perhaps—”

  “This is sufficient.” He flipped through the drawings again, stopping at one. “For your sister-in-law, yes?”

  She peeked over his shoulder. He’d selected her favorite. She’d completely redesigned the space, allowing for a master suite and sitting room, a private dining room, a nursery, and a separate bedroom for a nurse. “Yes. The layout of the old rooms wasn’t suited to a young married couple with children.” She coughed slightly against the thickening in her throat. “And—and perhaps a different design might not bring back as many memories for Leah.”

  Connor nodded, shuffling the papers. He pointed to a second-floor plan. “And these?”

  “I thought they could be used for guests or for more children should Leah remarry and remain at Breeze Hill.” She hesitated. “I know the original was one story, but adding a second story shouldn’t be too difficult, should it?”

  “It’s going to take a lot more lumber.”

  “And more time.”

  “Yes, but you’ve got plenty of resources.” He motioned to the saw pit and the forest of trees surrounding them. “You could hire more men, maybe even fulfill some of those contracts your brother negotiated in Natchez.”

  “All in good time. After the house is repaired and the crops are in.”

  “Well, even if you don’t start the mill up full-time, there’s not enough lumber here to do the job at hand. Especially not if you add a second story. I’ll need to scout out more trees to cut and saw into lumber.”

  “Will you be able to rebuild with just Toby and Jim?”

  Contrary to what Nolan had said about the Irish, it seemed that Connor O’Shea wasn’t afraid of a bit of hard work. Just like the rumors of abuse that circulated about the Braxton plantation, maybe rumors of Irish laziness had been blown out of proportion. So far Connor had proven he was far from lazy.

  “The work would go faster with more men, but our biggest problem right now is lumber ready for construction. We need more lumber seasoning, and I can’t be both places at once.”

  And they’d circled back to the need of more workers. Isabella fingered the drawings, trying to think of a way to speed up the process. There were a handful of day laborers working the fields, but Mews couldn’t spare them to work in the sawmill. They desperately needed the income from the harvest this year. But after they sold the cotton, she’d have the funds to hire the men he needed, and the day laborers would need jobs.

  “I’ll have the extra men for you come fall.”

  “I see.” His brow furrowed, and it was obvious he was disappointed with the delay.

  “It can’t be helped. I simply can’t spare the men right now. The crops come first.” Surely he understood that. She reached for the drawings, scooping them up. Pain lanced her palm, and she dropped the drawings, jerking her hand away from the rough table.

  “What? What is it?” Connor closed the distance between them.

  Isabella turned her palm up, wincing at the sight of blood welling up around a splinter. She stilled when Connor cupped her hand in his large work-hardened ones, his fingers warm against hers. He reached for the splinter. Isabella cringed. “No, don’t touch it.”

  His moss-green gaze lifted and met hers. “It’s got to come out, lass.”

  “I know.” Isabella stifled a moan.

  “This will make it easier.” He reached for a jar of salve, dipped his fingers into the yellow substance, and rubbed it on the tender flesh of her palm. The tip of his finger glided across her skin as smooth as butter melting over steamed corn on the cob.

  Breathless with the tenderness of his warm touch, Isabella resisted the urge to jerk away. “What—what does that do?”

  Sharp pain stabbed her palm, and she yanked her hand out of his grasp, folding her fingers into her aching palm. Connor flicked the offending splinter away.

  “You did that deliberately.” She blinked back the sting of tears.

  “Did what?”

  “Distracted me so that you could take it out.”

  “Perhaps.” He swept off his hat, held it to his chest, and bowed. “Forgive me, mistress.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “What?” His lips twitched. He knew exactly what to do to make her forget all about the pain in her palm, and it wasn’t just applying a soothing salve, either.

  “You know. Bow.”

  He cocked an eyebrow and held out his hand, palm up. “Let me see.”

  “No.”

  His gaze softened. “I promise not to hurt you this time, lass. I just need to see if I got it all.”

  Slowly she extended her hand, still curled into a fist. He eased her fingers open and smoothed them flat against his palm.

  “See, it’s barely bleeding. A bit more salve, and you’ll be good as new.”

  He dipped a cloth in a bucket of water and wiped the blood away, then smeared on more salve. His touch did funny things to her insides. She pulled against his grip, but he held fast.

  “I’m sorry I hurt you, lass.” Lifting her gaze, she stared into his eyes, their green depths pulling her in, mesmerizing her. “It was never my intention.”

  He lifted her hand to his lips and placed a kiss to her palm. Then he bowed low and stepped back.

  A wave of heat washed across her face. Was he mocking her? She whirled and marched away, her heart pounding at his audacity. Why must he tease her so with his bowing and scraping?

  He knew how much it infuriated her.

  And that’s exactly why he did it.

  Just to needle her.

  She didn’t slack up until the house came into view. And that’s when she spotted William Wainwright’s horse tied out front. She lifted the hem of her skirts and hurried forward.

  Just as she reached the front porch, William stepped outside, hat in hand. He glanced up, caught her eye, and nodded a greeting. “Isabella.”

  “Good day, William. How was the trip from Natchez?”

  “Uneventful. Just the way I prefer it.”

  “And the boys? They made it back all right? I told them to come home with your party.”

  “Yes. They arrived without incident.” He motioned toward the main road. “I can’t stay long. I decided to ride on out with the boys and make sure you made it home safely. Jim said you were worried about Leah and the babe. I just spoke with her.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the front door. “She seems fine.”

  “It was a false alarm.” Isabella bit her lip. “Did you see Papa?”

  “Yes.” His gaze narrowed. “Isabella, your father seemed to think that you came home with our party.”

  “You didn’t—” she rubbed the tender spot on her hand—“tell him any different, did you? I don’t want him to worry.”

  “I didn’t tell him, but he’s bound to find out.” William squinted at her. “What were you thinking? Taking off like that, and with a stranger. A servant, no less.”

  “I didn’t take off with him. He followed me.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing he did.”

  Isabella plopped both hands on her hips. “You can’t have it both ways, William. One minute you
’re upset because a servant escorted me home. The next you’re saying it’s a good thing he did.”

  William shook his head and took up the reins of his horse. “There’s no reasoning with you, Isabella Bartholomew. You’re just as pigheaded as ever.”

  Isabella smiled and called after him as he rode away. “It was good to see you, too, William. Fare thee well.”

  Chapter 7

  ISABELLA WOKE EARLY, more plans for the new wing swirling in her head.

  In her earlier drawings, she’d placed the nursery next to the stairs that led to the second floor, where Connor could build storage beneath them, but what if they had guests? Leah wouldn’t want strangers traipsing through the baby’s room.

  No, that would never do.

  Wishing she’d made a copy of the sketches to keep for herself, she tried to remember exactly how she’d planned out the rooms. Groaning, knowing sleep would elude her, she tossed back the covers, donned her wrap and slippers, and grabbed a piece of charcoal from the hearth.

  Thoughts spinning, she bounded down the stairs to the first-floor gallery. The sun peeked over the horizon, bathing the new day with light. The smell of woodsmoke and bacon hung in the stillness and her stomach rumbled. She had just enough time for a quick sketch before breakfast.

  She searched the pile of rubble and found a whitewashed board that would do nicely. She’d transfer the drawing to paper later, after she was sure her new idea would work. Walking through the courtyard, she eyed the burned-out wing, trying to visualize the rebuilt space. Maybe the nursery would be better at the opposite end of the wing, away from the stairs and the noise.

  Then Leah’s bedroom would need to be next . . .

  Sketching as she went, she walked past the brick fireplace that had halted the fire long enough for the men to douse the structure with water. Without the fireplace, the whole house might have burned. She paused, her attention on the gutted space in front of her.

  She’d grown up in this very room, right next to Jonathan’s. After she’d grown old enough that the two rooms over the main house had held romantic appeal, she’d moved upstairs.

  The rooms were gone, but the memories lingered. She could almost hear the shrieks of laughter as her brother chased her through the rooms, or when they giggled and refused to go to sleep on Christmas Eve even when their father threatened them with dire consequences.

  Then just last year Jonathan had brought his bride home, turning both rooms into a bridal suite. Now he was gone, and no amount of wishing was going to bring him back. But there was the babe. A bittersweet feeling of love and affection for the little one who would carry on her brother’s name blossomed inside Isabella. She just hoped that the new rooms were completed before the babe came, but if not, they’d manage.

  She stared at the new sketches, pleased with the changes. She couldn’t wait to show Connor. Her fingers were black with soot from the charcoal, so she headed back toward her rooms. The household would be stirring soon and breakfast would be served.

  Stepping around the large fireplace that stood like a sentinel between the destruction and the rest of the house, she ran headlong into Connor. She squeaked in alarm. He reached out and grabbed her, holding her upright.

  Just as suddenly as he’d grabbed her, he let her go, his gaze raking her from head to toe. He pivoted and left her staring at his back. “Mistress Isabella, what are you doing here?”

  He sounded strangled.

  “I was—” Isabella clasped her neckline and backed away. “I couldn’t sleep, and . . . I didn’t think anyone would be here this early. What are you doing here?”

  He shrugged, the movement pulling at the fabric stretched across his shoulders. “Trying to beat the heat o’ the day.”

  “Of course.”

  He’d forsaken his hat and his dark hair glistened with moisture as if he’d attempted to smooth it down with water from the pump. But the effort had been wasted. His hair could no more be tamed than the purple wisteria that grew rampant throughout the wooded hills and valleys surrounding Breeze Hill.

  She swallowed, clutching the charcoal-smeared board to her bodice. “Good day to you, Connor.”

  And with that, she fled to the safety of her rooms.

  The swish of muslin, then the light sound of slippers on the stairs let Connor know that Isabella was gone.

  He braced both hands against the wall. Hanging his head, he closed his eyes and expelled a lungful of trapped air.

  She didn’t have to be present for him to see her—the white muslin wrapper cinched tight around her narrow waist, dark hair tumbling down her back past her waist. Her pink lips puffy and her eyes still heavy-lidded from sleep were seared into his brain.

  He focused on a knothole inches from his face, willing his pounding heart to slow. She’d been fully clothed, for sure, but much to his shame—and disgrace—he knew what a lady’s dressing gown looked like.

  Lord, give me strength.

  He reached for a crowbar, jammed it between two boards, and pried, using the force to work off his frustration. Isabella Bartholomew hadn’t come here to tempt him. She hadn’t even known he was anywhere on the premises.

  But tempt him she did.

  He pulled a board off the wall, the early morning encounter with Isabella and the charred remains reminding him of the first time he’d seen Charlotte Young, the daughter of an English aristocrat with vast holdings in Ireland.

  Charlotte rode a Thoroughbred mare, its shining coat as black as the board he held in his hands. Her hair streaming behind her, she’d raced the animal across the moor, laughing with exhilaration. She’d seen him watching from a distance and rode her horse right up to him.

  And so it began.

  She’d gotten him a job in the stables, and he’d been more than willing. Work was hard to come by for a poor Irish lad. He would have slopped hogs for a few pennies if it would mean food on the table for his brothers and his crippled father.

  It never occurred to him that Charlotte would look twice at him or that she would use him for her own pleasure.

  He tossed the board out the window, watching as it landed on the pile, slid sideways, and tumbled to the ground, broken, charred, not worth anything but to be burned to a crisp over the household fires this winter.

  Much like he’d been when Charlotte had finished with him.

  “Isabella, what’s got you in such a dither this morning?”

  Leah chided Isabella from her comfortable spot in the shade where she darned socks, checked for loose buttons, and made simple repairs to the family’s clothing. Isabella shoved her own clothes in a basket out of sight, hoping to do her wash without too much fanfare. She’d be hard-pressed to explain why her petticoats were covered in mud.

  “I’m not in a dither. I just wanted to get the washing done before it gets too hot.”

  “Well, you could have fooled me. You’ve been working like a fiend all morning. You’ve practically worn poor Susan out.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Miss Leah. I can keep up with you young girls any day.” Susan chuckled, and using a sturdy oak stick, she lifted one of Papa’s shirts out of the hot water. Turning, she dunked the shirt in cold water and swished it around.

  While Susan’s back was turned, Isabella plunged her mud-spattered petticoat into the pot. She swirled the petticoat in the boiling water, glad to see the mud dissipating. She knew exactly what had her in such a dither, as Leah put it.

  Her face flamed as she remembered the embarrassing predicament from earlier in the day. She’d been so focused on the plans for the new wing that she hadn’t even thought about how shameless it was to be seen in her nightgown and dressing gown.

  But goodness’ sake! She’d been covered from head to toe. There was nothing indecent about her dressing gown, yet somehow knowing Connor had seen her in her nightclothes made her squirm. It was bad enough that she’d have to face him again, but Susan, Martha, and especially Leah would be scandalized if they knew.

  Leaving the
petticoat to boil a bit longer, she reached for a black mourning fichu and draped it over the clothesline.

  They’d made great headway in the mound of clothes when Martha hurried from the house, skirts raised. “Miss Isabella, Miss Leah, you have company.”

  Isabella poked her head out from between the clotheslines. “Company? Again? Who is it?”

  “The Hartfords, ma’am.”

  “The Hartfords? Mrs. Hartford?” Isabella lifted a brow. “Without sending a calling card in advance?”

  “The very one.”

  Stunned, Isabella could only stand there. Mrs. Hartford had never shown up on their doorstep unannounced. Martha shooed Isabella toward the house. “Come on, Miss Isabella, I’ll help you freshen up.”

  “But the laundry—”

  “Pshaw on the laundry.” Susan waved her away. “It’s almost done. I’ll finish while you and Miss Leah entertain your callers.”

  “Very well.” She reached to untie the apron. “Just help Leah, Martha. I can manage on my own.”

  “Miss Isabella, come quickly!”

  Isabella whirled around at the panic in Susan’s voice. She stood with her arm around Leah’s waist, holding her upright. All color had leached from her sister-in-law’s face. She hurried toward them just as Susan lowered her to a chair.

  “Leah! Are you all right? Is it the babe?”

  “I’m fine. Just a little weak, that’s all.”

  “Stood up too quickly.” Susan fanned her with her apron. “She popped up at the first mention of company, then turned white as a sheet. If I hadn’t been right beside her, she would’ve fainted dead away.”

  Isabella hovered over Leah. “I’ll send them away, tell them we’re indisposed.”

  “No. I’m fine, really. I just need a few minutes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. I’ll join you shortly.”

  “What you should do, young lady, is take to your bed for the rest of the day.” Martha helped her up, her arm securely around Leah’s thickening waist. “Go on, Miss Isabella. I’ll help Susan get Miss Leah to the house; then I’ll come help you change.”