by Pam Hillman
“Who are they?”
“Horne’s youngsters. And his wife and the other girls are helping Martha in the garden. Just fell in and starting working without being asked.”
Isabella swallowed. “Just how big is the Horne family?”
Connor gave her a sidelong glance. “I think he said there were seven girls in all and the two boys.”
Eleven more people, with a baby on the way. How would she feed them all? But how could she turn them away? She looked over the fields, at the extra hands getting the work done. Maybe the Hornes would be a big help after all. Lord knew she’d worried how they’d manage everything with the few hands they had.
Had the Lord answered a prayer she hadn’t even thought to pray?
“And he just wants a roof over their heads and food to eat?”
“That’s what he said.”
“All right.” She turned to Connor. “But the minute they stop pulling their weight, they have to leave.”
A broad grin split his face. “Ah, I knew you’d see it my way, lass.”
Connor knocked on Mr. Bartholomew’s door, and when the man bade him enter, he swung the door wide. Isabella’s father sat in the same chair he’d been in the first time Connor had visited. He moved forward until he was facing the man.
“Good evening, sir.”
“Connor. I was hoping you’d come. Would you like something to eat?”
“I’ve eaten, thank you.”
“Very well.” He motioned to a spindly-looking chair. “Please. Sit.”
“Thank you, sir.” Connor eased down, hoping the chair could bear his weight.
Mr. Bartholomew chuckled. “Not exactly suited for a man of your size, is it?”
Connor smiled. “No’ exactly.”
“So tell me—how are the repairs coming along?”
“We’ve made great progress.”
“Are you able to salvage anything?”
“Nothing on the far end closest t’ the fields. Everything was destroyed by the fire.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“But there is less damage as we get closer t’ the central part o’ the house.” Connor sat forward, warming to his topic. “I’ve salvaged some o’ the furniture. A carved headboard, some chairs, and an armoire. There are two matching pedestal tea tables made out o’ red oak. Good sturdy pieces. There’s some damage t’ the surfaces o’ both, but the bases and legs are in perfect condition.”
“I remember those tables. I made them for my wife as a wedding present. You say the tops are damaged?”
“Yes, sir. But I believe enough materials could be salvaged from each to make a serviceable sideboard.”
“Would you like to repair them?”
Connor sat up straighter. “You’d let me work on pieces you made for your wife?”
“I said I would.” Mr. Bartholomew eyed him. “If you’re up to the task.”
“I—” Connor stopped, then nodded. “Yes, sir. I can repair them.”
Mr. Bartholomew leaned back and smiled. “Very well, then. I give you leave to work on the furniture. In your spare time, of course.”
“Yes, sir.” Connor schooled his features, unwilling to let the excitement he felt at working with the beautiful wood show. To think that Mr. Bartholomew would entrust such a task to him.
“Is something wrong, Connor? You don’t seem to be very excited about the prospect.”
“It’s no’ that at all, sir.” Connor shook his head. “Mr. Bartholomew, if I may be so bold . . .”
The master inclined his head, a smile of encouragement on his distorted features. “You may.”
“You’re being generous. More generous than I deserve. A cabin of my own. All those tools to use.” Connor dropped his gaze and twisted his hat in his hands. “And now an opportunity to work with wood as fine as those oak tables. Tables you made with your own hands.”
“‘For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required.’ I have faith in you, Connor.”
Connor wanted to assure the man that he’d live up to his expectations, and he fully intended to, but he couldn’t help but remember how he’d let his own family down when they’d needed him most. If he’d done as his father asked, walked away from Charlotte and worked in the mines alongside Quinn, he’d be in Ireland still. “I’ll do my best t’ honor your trust, sir.”
For a long moment, Mr. Bartholomew was silent, until finally Connor glanced up to find the man staring at him, gnarled hands clasped like claws in front of him. “I’m counting on that very thing.”
When he didn’t add anything else, Connor fidgeted. “Will that be all, sir?”
“Actually, Isabella brought something to my attention earlier this evening.” Mr. Bartholomew pinned him with a look, shrewd and piercing. “She mentioned that you and Mr. Mews had retained the services of one Zachariah Horne, along with his wife and a passel of youngsters.”
“Yes, sir.” Isabella hadn’t been happy when she’d found out about the Hornes. Connor wasn’t sure if it was because he’d once again overstepped his authority, or if she was worried about taking on the needs of an additional eleven people, soon to be twelve. He suspected it was a bit of both.
“And what’s your opinion of them after today?”
Connor started. Master Benson had never asked anybody’s opinion, especially not that of an indentured servant. But he was finding that Master Bartholomew walked to the beat of a different drummer than most men of position and power. “The whole family worked hard today. Horne and his two sons helped us clear over half of the damage today. The girls worked nonstop in the fields, and Mrs. Horne helped Martha in the garden and in the kitchen.”
“I believe Isabella said Mrs. Horne is with child?”
“Yes, sir, I believe so.”
“I see.” Mr. Bartholomew nodded. “When Isabella came to me with the news, she was afraid we’d have to turn them away. She’s right in that we haven’t earmarked funds to pay day laborers. But we do have plenty of housing since we let so many go last fall. Like you and Mews, she noticed how willing the family is to pitch in and work. I think they’ll be an asset to Breeze Hill, and we can do a good deed for them as well. Tell Horne that he and his family are welcome to stay—or, wait, better yet, send him to me first thing in the morning, and I’ll tell him myself.”
As Connor took his leave from Mr. Bartholomew, he pondered Isabella’s turnabout. She’d not been happy with the arrival of the Horne family, but she had accepted throughout the day that they were pulling their weight.
It proved that she could consider what was best for Breeze Hill even when she felt he’d wrestled control from her.
Chapter 9
VISITORS SWARMED Breeze Hill.
Not exactly visitors, but travelers passing through. Isabella and Leah were ensconced with their guests on the upper veranda outside Isabella’s sitting room. The view of the barns and outbuildings, the grape arbor, and the fields beyond was more open now that the burned-out shell of the west wing had been cleared. But she’d be glad when the new construction started. She hoped Leah would too.
More than fifty wagons were parked in the grove of trees down the hill away from the main house, close enough to draw water from the well, but not to infringe on the family’s privacy. The Wainwright and the Hartford men were among the travelers, as they had business in Natchez.
Isabella turned to William’s father. “Mr. Wainwright, I hadn’t expected to see you and William again so soon. What a happy occasion.”
“Yes. My factor sent word for me to come to Natchez. A ship has arrived from England and the captain is most anxious to fill his hold and be on his way before hurricane season.”
“You’re still warehousing cotton from last year?”
“It was William’s idea to hold some back. And he was right. We’ve been able to sell at a premium by waiting until now.”
“William has a good head for business.”
“As do you. I heard about your agreemen
t with the Irishman. Very shrewd, my dear.”
A tingle of pleasure shot through Isabella. “Do you truly think so?”
“Of course.” His eyes twinkled. “Once the cotton is harvested, you’ll be able to fulfill your end of the bargain with ease.”
“Thank you, sir. That’s my hope as well.”
Martha stepped outside and caught her attention. “Miss Isabella, Mr. Braxton has arrived and is waiting in the parlor.”
“Oh. What a surprise.”
William smirked, and she arched a brow at him. Well, it was a surprise. Nolan had visited less than a fortnight ago after staying away for months. “Please bring him out to join us.”
Martha showed Nolan out to the veranda, and he greeted Leah, then Isabella. “Good afternoon, ladies.” He inclined his head in greeting to the others. “Gentlemen.”
“Braxton.” William returned the greeting. “What brings you to Breeze Hill? Are you planning on joining our party heading to Natchez?”
“I’m afraid I don’t have any goods to take to market. Maybe next time.” He smiled at Isabella. “I’m simply here to pay my respects to these two lovely ladies.”
William’s mouth flattened into a thin line.
Leah’s fan fluttered, but not before Isabella caught the blush that stole over her cheeks. Isabella was anything but flattered or amused. Three suitors at once—assuming her suspicions were correct—were simply too much for any woman to bear. And especially when two of them circled each other like a couple of banty roosters about to go head-to-head with each other.
Mr. Wainwright moved to the edge of the veranda and looked down toward her father’s rooms. “Is that Matthew there?”
Isabella stood, moved to his side, and spotted her father sitting in a chair outside his rooms. How had he gotten outside? He could barely walk without—
Then she spotted Connor, hovering nearby. She sucked in a breath. “Yes, sir, it is.”
“Good to see him out and about. I know you’re relieved that he’s on the mend.”
“Yes, sir.” Outwardly, Isabella remained calm, but inwardly, her heart raced in a panic. Her father hadn’t left his chambers in months, let alone ventured outside. His strength wasn’t up to it, and he didn’t want others to know just how weak he truly was. She touched Mr. Wainwright’s arm. “Please, if you’ll excuse me for a moment.”
He stepped back. “Of course.”
Isabella headed down the stairs toward the first-floor gallery. As she descended the last few steps, Connor stood at the base of the stairs. His gaze met hers, and he gave a slight bow.
Isabella spoke quietly. “Connor, what’s Papa doing outside? He could catch a chill.”
His forehead furrowed in confusion. “In this weather? I doubt it.”
She shook her head, exasperated. If Connor couldn’t make her father go back inside, she’d see to it herself. Lifting her skirt, she made to pass him. “Foolish men.”
Connor shifted in front of her, his eyes on a level with hers. “Your father saw your guests and would like a word with them. He said it’s a matter o’ utmost importance and concerns them all.”
She searched his face. “What’s wrong?”
He shrugged. “He didn’t confide in me.”
“Very well, then.”
Isabella passed the message along, and the men trooped down the stairs to the veranda where her father waited. All except Samuel. He declined the invitation and instead stayed behind to regale Isabella and Leah with tales of his adventures abroad.
Normally Isabella found Samuel’s jack-a-dandy ways and affected British accent amusing, but today her attention turned toward the men on the veranda below. As she watched, she caught William scowling up at them, but he wasn’t watching her. His gaze was centered squarely on Leah and Samuel. Her heart thudded against her rib cage. William? And Leah?
She looked away, hiding the smile that bloomed on her lips. What a delightful turn of events. While William was a good man, she didn’t relish the thought of marriage to her brother’s boyhood friend. But Leah was a different matter altogether. Leah didn’t think of William almost as a brother. She’d never even met him before coming to Breeze Hill as Jonathan’s bride.
Isabella strolled along the length of the porch. She paused next to a climbing rosebush, admiring the delicate blossoms but covertly watching William from behind the foliage. Sure enough, he was paying little heed to the men’s discussion because his attention was focused solely on Leah.
This changed everything. She’d known—hoped—Leah would receive callers someday and would eventually remarry, but Jonathan’s death was so new, so fresh in their minds, that she hadn’t even thought it could be so soon. And they’d all been so consumed over the birth of the baby that everything else had paled in comparison.
So to know a fine, upstanding man like William Wainwright had his eye on Leah . . . Isabella couldn’t be happier. She turned, content to go back to Leah’s side and think about her secret. But before she took two steps, Mr. Wainwright’s voice rose.
“I’m telling you, Braxton, if we don’t do something, these cutthroats are going to become dangerously brash.”
“I don’t see how we can do more than we already are. Traveling together in large groups seems to be the best deterrent to attack, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir.”
“For now. But what happens when they become stronger, more daring, or more desperate? What happens when they attack one of the plantations or kill or kidnap our women for ransom? Some of these men have no compunction against using such tactics.”
“You can’t be serious. They’d be fools to be so brazen.”
“Bah.” Mr. Wainwright threw his hands up. “You know nothing of the desperation that drives men of this ilk.”
“We should ask the governor for help.”
A murmur of dissent rose up among the men.
“Gentlemen, I can assure you that Spain and Governor Gayoso have the utmost concern for all plantation owners,” Nolan inserted. “But it would be foolish to try to police twenty or thirty miles of a wilderness road. Absolute folly.”
“Well, Spain should never have wrested control from Britain if they weren’t willing to provide protection for the people.”
“I have to agree with you there, Wainwright. And there’s something else.” Isabella’s father spoke up, his raspy voice silencing the others. “O’Shea relayed something disturbing, and I thought you should know.”
As invariably happened when her father got excited, his gravelly voice lowered to almost a whisper. The Wainwrights and Nolan leaned in close, but Isabella heard enough to be alarmed. Riders on their land. Crossing in the dead of night. Using back roads and trails that only locals used.
“All the more reason for us to band together and flush out these highwaymen,” Mr. Wainwright stated. “If I were you, Braxton, I’d keep an eye out. Anyone not staying on the main trail cannot be trusted. Mark my word.”
Nolan nodded. “Point taken, sirs. But I’m afraid you’re overreacting.”
“Overreacting?” Her father’s voice rose to an unhealthy squeak. “As someone who doesn’t have family of your own, possibly you don’t understand or appreciate the worry the rest of us face. My own son lost his life to these cutthroats.”
“You can’t know that, Matthew,” Mr. Wainwright interjected, his tone placating, compassionate.
“I can, and I do. Jonathan took a chance traveling the trace alone, and it got him killed.”
Worry knotting her stomach, Isabella peeked through the foliage. Should she go to her father? He was so easily excited. She was afraid he’d suffer an apoplexy if he became too agitated. Her father sat in his chair, the others standing around him, tense and stiff. Connor stood off to the side, arms folded, listening.
“My apologies, Mr. Bartholomew. I meant no offense.” Nolan bowed slightly from the waist. “And you make an excellent point. Possibly I don’t have the same fierce drive to protect what’s mine, but—” he paused, glanc
ing toward the upper veranda—“I hope to change that someday, with your blessing, sir.”
Isabella caught Connor watching her, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips. Her face heated. Then he averted his gaze and stared straight ahead as if he’d never even spotted her behind the climbing roses.
She eased away from the railing and headed back to where Samuel and Leah sat, not daring to look toward the group of men again.
If there was one thing Nolan could thank his mother for, it was the ability to play whatever part he’d been given. London had never known a finer actress, and her exquisite skill had changed everything one fateful day on the voyage to Natchez.
He leaned against a post, having decided he’d said enough. He’d tried to downplay the threat of highwaymen, but Wainwright and Bartholomew fed off each other until they managed to create a mini hurricane in a teapot.
It was more prudent to either keep silent or to agree with them. But not too agreeable, or he’d be labeled a milksop like young Hartford, whom no one took seriously. No, better to assert an opinion but back off and side with Bartholomew in the end.
“William, what say you of this?” Mr. Wainwright addressed his son. “You’ll be taking a wife someday, raising a family. Aren’t you concerned about these lawless cutthroats roaming the country?”
Nolan shifted his attention to the younger Wainwright, only to find him staring at the second-floor balcony, where Isabella and Leah sat, listening to that puppy Samuel Hartford.
“William?”
The younger Wainwright started, turned, a flush heating his face. “Sorry, Father. I was woolgathering.”
“Indeed.” Wainwright glanced at the women, then chuckled. “Bartholomew, I think our conversation is boring these young bucks. They seem much more interested in your daughter’s company than in ours.”
Bartholomew’s gaze bounced off William, then landed on Nolan. The man didn’t smile, but it was hard to tell when he was amused these days. “I fear you are right. And I also fear I’ve overdone it. I’ll bid you all good day. We’ll talk of this another time. Connor?”