The Promise of Breeze Hill

by Pam Hillman

  “Very well. But first, show the Hartfords to the grape arbor. It’s cooler there.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Isabella joined her guests under the arbor, the slight morning breeze gently rustling the leaves overhead. She’d not seen the Hartfords at all in the months since her brother’s death.

  And to tell the truth, she’d been a bit hurt by their silence, but she didn’t let it show as she greeted them. “Mrs. Hartford. Samuel. It’s so good to see you both.”

  “Miss Bartholomew.” Samuel Hartford removed his hat and bowed, his moist hand grasping hers. A stray lock of wispy brown hair fell across his brow. “My condolences on your loss.”

  Isabella wanted to tell him that her brother had been gone almost six months and that his platitude was too little, too late. But she held her tongue. “Thank you.”

  Some had come to pay their respects, but not the Hartfords. Isabella hadn’t even thought of it at the time, her grief had been so great. But later, in the dead of night, when sleep eluded her, she’d suddenly realized that she hadn’t seen Samuel, his mother, or his father when her brother had died or when her father had almost lost his life in the fire that gutted one-third of their home.

  Not even a letter of condolence had winged its way to them.

  “Miss Bartholomew.” Samuel’s mother stepped forward and embraced Isabella. “Forgive us for not calling on you sooner, my dear, but Samuel and I have recently returned from an extended trip abroad. I was horrified to learn of what had happened to dear Jonathan and to your father.”

  Isabella blinked. “You’ve been away?”

  “Yes, dear. I sent a long letter of condolence as soon as I heard. I must say that I was a bit—” Mrs. Hartford hesitated—“surprised when I didn’t receive a reply. Did you not receive it?”

  “No, ma’am.” Isabella regretted thinking ill of the Hartfords. She’d just assumed—

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, dear.” Concern etched Mrs. Hartford’s face. “You poor thing. You probably thought the worst of me.”

  “No need to apologize.” Isabella’s face heated.

  “How is your father?”

  “Somewhat better.” She motioned to a few chairs. “Please, won’t you be seated?”

  Samuel seated his mother, then hurried to Isabella’s side.

  “Allow me.” He offered her his arm and escorted her the short distance to one of the rockers. Beaming, he seated himself next to her. “Miss Isabella, might I say that you look quite fetching this morning.”

  Isabella opened her mouth, then closed it, not sure how to respond. Martha had performed the fastest toilet known to woman and then stuffed her into her best day dress. There’d been no time to lace a corset, but Isabella had little need for the finery. The last few months had stripped her of any excess poundage she might have carried.

  Fetching would be the last word she’d use to describe herself after spending the morning toiling over a pot of boiling laundry. She chose tact over truth. “Thank you, Mr. Hartford.”

  “Please, Miss Bartholomew, you must call him Samuel. After all, we’re some of your nearest neighbors.” Mrs. Hartford beamed at the two of them, fanned herself, then rocked back and forth.

  She gaped at the portly woman. Mrs. Hartford loved to stand on ceremony and had always insisted that they be so very proper in their interactions with each other. Suddenly it dawned on her why the woman had relaxed the formalities. Mrs. Hartford had her sights set on Isabella as a bride for her son. With the mourning period almost over, it was to be expected, but not from Mrs. Hartford.

  Samuel was quite foppish and hung on his mother’s skirt, doing her bidding. Isabella had never even considered that he might come calling, at least not for that purpose. But as she sat across from Mrs. Hartford and Samuel, with his impeccable clothes, pale skin, and pompous mannerisms, both beaming at her as if they’d just discovered the crown jewels, she knew why they were here.

  Martha’s arrival with tea gave her something to do to occupy her hands and her mind.

  William Wainwright had spoken to her father yesterday. Had he broached the subject of marriage? Surely not. She couldn’t fathom marriage to her brother’s closest friend. William seemed more like a brother than a future husband.

  No, he was probably just making plans for another trip to Natchez. The Wainwrights headed up a party of travelers several times a year to Natchez, relying on the safety of numbers to thwart attacks from the outlaws who prowled along the trace. The plantation owners often converged at Mount Locust seven miles down the road and traveled together to Natchez to do business. In the fall, when the harvest came in, the trips would increase, sometimes as often as every fortnight. She prayed that Breeze Hill’s crops would yield sufficient to make the trip several times this year.

  But she couldn’t ignore the coincidence of three eligible bachelors calling in such a short time. There would likely be more. Not that there were dozens upon dozens of young men who would seek her hand, but there were enough who would see the Bartholomews’ misfortune and loss of a male heir as their gain—if one of them could win her hand in marriage.

  Isabella bit her lip. As word got out about the babe, maybe the deluge of suitors would shift from her to Leah. Or possibly diminish altogether.

  “Will there be anything else, miss?” Martha stood straight and tall, her black dress neatly pressed, her apron starched and white. Only Isabella knew that the moment she returned to the kitchen, she’d whip off her good apron and put on her old stained one and get back to work cleaning and cooking.

  “No thank you, Martha. But if you don’t mind, could you check on Leah?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Oh, your poor sister-in-law. So young to be a widow. That poor, poor girl. How is she?”

  “As well as can be expected.” Isabella offered her guests tea. Samuel smiled his thanks.

  “I don’t believe I’ve met the dear girl. She and your brother married while we were away.”

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s correct.”

  “Quite suddenly, if I recall.”

  Mrs. Hartford’s tone invited Isabella to share details of Jonathan and Leah’s courtship and marriage. Isabella shrugged. “Not so suddenly, really. Jonathan courted Leah a month longer than Papa courted Mama.”

  A funny little smile lifted the corners of Mrs. Hartford’s mouth, and she looked as though she couldn’t figure out whether Isabella had made a jest or if she was serious. “Yes, of course.” She took a sip of her tea. “And how is the plantation doing now that your father is indisposed?”

  “Mama, I’m sure Miss Bartholomew doesn’t want to talk business.” Samuel leaned back in his chair, looking bored with the conversation.

  “I’m sorry, Samuel. I meant no harm.” Mrs. Hartford patted Isabella’s hand. “Forgive me, Isabella. Samuel thinks I’m an old busybody.”

  Isabella smiled. Mrs. Hartford could be quite nosy on occasion. She reached for the tray. “Would you like a tea cake, ma’am? Martha’s are exceptionally good.”

  “Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Hartford took a sip of tea and nibbled on her cookie. “Ah, that is delicious. It’s so disgustingly hot, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I told Mr. Hartford that as soon I can pack my things, I plan to go north to visit my sister for the rest of the summer.”

  “Mama, you just got back from Europe. Don’t you think you should stay home for a while?”

  “Heavens, no, Samuel. No one stays in Natchez during these unbearable months.” Her mouth rounded in a moue of discontent. “Well, almost no one. The heat is just unbearable.”

  Isabella breathed a sigh of relief when she spotted Leah coming across the lawn toward the arbor, her pregnancy more obvious than when she was seated.

  “Leah.” Isabella stood and linked her arm through her sister-in-law’s. “I’d like to introduce you to some of our friends. This is Mrs. Caroline Hartford and her son, Samuel. Their plantation is a bit north of us on the west s
ide of the trace. Samuel and Jonathan were of the same age.”

  “Pleased to meet you, madam. Sir.” Leah extended her hand, and Samuel bowed over it.

  Mrs. Hartford’s eyes riveted on Leah’s thickening waist. “Oh, my. I didn’t know there was a babe on the way. Did Jonathan know?”

  “No, ma’am.” Leah lowered her gaze, and Isabella kept her arm wrapped securely around her sister-in-law’s waist. It didn’t take much for Leah to become distraught, and Mrs. Hartford wasn’t known for her tact.

  “Oh.” Mrs. Hartford fanned herself, looking from one to the other. “What—what a happy surprise this has turned out to be. Your father must be beside himself with joy.”

  Isabella tugged Leah closer. “Yes, ma’am. We all are.”

  Chapter 8

  CONNOR AND THE BOYS made headway clearing the charred boards in preparation to rebuild.

  The closer they got to the main house, the more reusable lumber they found. He’d even spotted a few pieces of furniture that had been shoved into a storage room after the fire and could possibly be salvaged. Toby carried anything useful outside and piled it on a cart to haul to the woodshed behind the house.

  Nothing would go to waste.

  Toby shuffled back inside and grabbed another stack of boards, his hands black from soot. “The cart’s getting full. You want me to take this load to the woodshed?”

  “No, go the long way around and take it to your da’s cabin. Miss Isabella and Miss Leah have company today. No need to disturb them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Connor went back to work, trying to tune out the muted conversation coming from the grape arbor, but he couldn’t ignore the soft lilt of Isabella’s voice and the occasional sound of her laughter.

  Memories of colliding with her in the hallway jarred his brain like an oak slamming against the earth after being severed from its moorings with a crosscut saw. Even several layers of cotton, muslin, and lace hadn’t disguised the soft contours of her slender form. The shock of seeing her, holding her, would stay with him for weeks.

  He’d pushed her away, intent on putting distance between them, but she’d sucked in her breath, dark-brown eyes widening, startled, capturing his for the space of a heartbeat. Her full mouth had parted and then she’d jerked free, but not before he’d felt the desire to swoop in and taste those beguiling lips for himself.

  Male laughter rippled across the lawn, bringing his thoughts to a screeching halt.

  Get hold o’ yourself, O’Shea.

  You’re the hired help, the indentured servant, no’ the gentleman caller who has a fortune, status, and a plantation home t’ offer.

  Just like before.

  The reminder needed to be branded into his head so that he wouldn’t forget it.

  Ever.

  He forced a crowbar beneath a board and pried. He’d been a young, foolish lad the last time he let a woman of the upper class get under his skin. Older and wiser by several years, he shouldn’t even look at Isabella Bartholomew, let alone allow his thoughts to dwell on her.

  If he didn’t stay away from her, her father would give him his walking papers, provided the man didn’t kill him outright. And then where would his brothers be?

  Right where he’d left them eight years ago, even after he’d promised his father he’d take care of them. How could he take care of them after being shipped half a world away?

  He hadn’t received a letter from Quinn in over three years.

  Three years of silence. It felt like a lifetime.

  Toby returned with the cart and bounded up the steps. “My da’s looking for you.”

  “Do you know what he wants?”

  The youngster shrugged, a hank of hair falling over his forehead. “Don’ know. He just asked where you were.”

  “Thanks, lad.”

  Connor stepped outside and saw Mews headed his way, a middle-aged man wearing worn breeches and a tattered overcoat at his side. Mews jerked his thumb toward the other man, who could have been his own brother they were so much alike in height and build. “This here’s Zachariah Horne. Says he’s a carpenter by trade, a preacher by calling. I thought you might be able to use some help repairing the house.”

  “Mr. Horne.” Connor nodded at the stranger, then turned to Mews. “I don’t have the authority to hire anybody. You’ll have to talk to Mr. Bartholomew about that.”

  “I’ll work for a roof over my head and food for my family.” Horne twisted his battered hat in his hands.

  “Family?”

  “Yes, sir.” He motioned with his hat toward where Toby worked. “Two strapping boys as big as that one. They know how to work, they do. And I’ve swung a hammer a few times.” Horne’s frayed shirt collar was buttoned, his wispy hair combed and parted. His clothes might be shabby but they were clean, and he’d made an effort to look presentable. “The wife’s in the family way, and we need a place to stay until after the babe’s born. Anything will do. Anything at all.”

  Mews spoke up. “She’s a Natchez squaw. Not many of ’em left.”

  “If that’s a problem, we’ll be on our way.” Horne held his gaze. The family probably wasn’t welcome on most of the plantations. Being Irish, Connor knew something about being ostracized. If Mews wasn’t concerned with the wife’s ancestry, Connor figured Mr. Bartholomew wouldn’t be. And the man said he’d work for a place to stay and food to eat.

  “We could use some help at the sawmill.” Connor glanced at Mews.

  “That we could.” Mews hitched up his breeches. “And we ain’t had no preaching since last summer. I don’t mind hearing a good sermon now and again.”

  “Very well. I could use some help here.” Connor motioned toward the charred wing. “Tonight we’ll see how Mr. Bartholomew feels about keeping them on for a while.”

  “I told the wife that the Lord would provide.” Mr. Horne smiled, his grin splitting his face from ear to ear. “The wife and girls can work, too.”

  “Girls?” Connor frowned. “You have girls, too?”

  “Seven. My oldest can watch the babies, but the others are old enough to help out with hoeing, washing, mending—whatever’s needed. My girls are hard workers. You’ll see.”

  Seven girls? Connor cleared his throat. “I’ll leave the girls up to you, Mews. But no promises, Mr. Horne. If Mr. Bartholomew says he can’t use you, you’ll have to pack up and leave come morning.”

  “Yes, sir.” Horne nodded, his head jerking like a gobbler’s on his thin neck. “Yes, sir. I understand. You won’t regret this.”

  Connor turned away, afraid he already did.

  Isabella tried to concentrate on seeing to the needs of her guests, but the noise from the west wing was distracting. How in the world did three men, two of them hardly more than boys, make that much noise? But she couldn’t very well tell them to stop work because they had visitors.

  Through the thick grapevine canopy, she saw Connor speaking with a man she’d never seen before. The man picked up a crowbar and started tearing away charred boards. She frowned. Who was that man and what was he doing? Breeze Hill couldn’t afford—

  “Sounds like the repairs are coming along nicely.” Samuel noticed her distraction. “Did your father hire someone who’s qualified?”

  “I did.”

  “You did?” Samuel glanced at her, a surprised look on his face. “I find it hard to believe that a woman of your . . . gentle sensibilities . . . would stoop to hiring a carpenter.”

  Why did Samuel think she couldn’t make decisions regarding Breeze Hill? Men thought women’s brains were as soft and spongy as cotton. But no matter. She couldn’t be concerned with what he thought. Right now she was more concerned with the stranger and where he’d come from. She shrugged. “It had to be done.”

  Half an hour later, she waved the Hartfords off and headed toward the construction area. The man was still helping with the house and she spotted two gangly youngsters about Toby’s age working alongside him. She frowned. Who were these people? T
hey didn’t have any money to pay another soul. She approached Connor.

  “May I have a word with you?”

  “O’ course.” He wiped his brow with a handkerchief.

  “In private.”

  She walked toward the grape arbor, turned, and faced Connor. “Who are those men?”

  “Zachariah Horne. He showed up this morning looking for work. Mews and I thought he might come in handy.”

  “It’s not your job to hire people.” Isabella didn’t want to tell him that she didn’t have the cash to pay the man. “How do you know the man knows anything at all about carpentry?”

  “He’s done well so far, and I’ll know how hard a worker he is before the day is out.” Connor leaned against a post, his moss-green eyes boring into hers. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting his face into shadows. “He has a family. Several children, from what he said.”

  More mouths to feed? What would they do with them? They could barely feed themselves. She straightened her back, crossed her arms, and stared him down. “You’ll have to tell them to leave.”

  “Give them a chance to prove themselves. There’s a lot of work to be done around here and few hands to do it.” Connor held up his hands and started ticking off all the reasons they needed help. “The house. The fields. Gardening. Cooking and cleaning. Felling trees and sawing lumber. Rebuilding the west wing.”

  It grated that he was right. Isabella sighed. “I can’t pay him. Not until after harvest.”

  “All he wants is a roof over his head and food to eat. His wife’s in the family way. I told Mews I’d see what he could do today, then approach Mr. Bartholomew with it tonight.”

  Another child? She turned, watched the man and his sons, who seemed to work without complaint. “And how’s he doing?”

  “He hasn’t let up all afternoon. The boys are quick learners. And look.” He led her to the other side of the arbor and pointed toward the cotton field. Workers spread out over the field. She counted three, no, four girls she didn’t recognize. They were hoeing along with Mews and the handful of workers they’d retained after last fall’s fire. Mostly elderly men and women who had nowhere else to go.