by Pam Hillman
The Irishman stepped forward.
Wainwright bowed. “Good day, Matthew. Godspeed on your recovery.”
“And Godspeed on your trip to Natchez, friend.”
Wainwright slapped his son on the back. “Come, William. It’s time we stopped talking about cutthroats and highwaymen so you and Braxton can pay those fair ladies some compliments before we take our leave for the evening. You don’t want young Hartford to have all the fun.”
Nolan and the Wainwrights traversed the length of the porch and mounted the stairs to the upper balcony. At the top of the stairs, he glanced backward. The master of the house and his Irish servant were gone. It suddenly occurred to Nolan that Bartholomew hadn’t stood in their presence. Interesting.
Possibly he was as weak and sickly as rumors said he was.
Nolan bit back a smile as the other men said their good-byes to Leah and Isabella. His gaze landed on Isabella as young Hartford bowed low and kissed her hand. Did these gentlemen know that she’d spent the night in Harper’s Inn with the indentured servant? Without a doubt, the elder Wainwright would be shocked to his core.
He watched young Wainwright and Hartford through heavy-lidded eyes. As much as Hartford liked to tell scandalous tales about his adventures abroad, Nolan suspected much of it was bluster and wishful thinking. And when it came down to it, Hartford would bow to his mother’s whims. If even the hint of scandal attached itself to Isabella’s name, Mrs. Hartford would whisk her sniveling brat of a son off to greener pastures.
William Wainwright was a mystery, though. Hardworking, bright, his own man. From all accounts, he’d been close to Jonathan Bartholomew. Their fathers were entrenched in the area and had both received land grants for serving in the king’s army. Still, Nolan was willing to bet that if the winds of scandal blew hard enough, Wainwright would keep his distance from the lovely Isabella.
But Nolan didn’t intend to spread rumors. Truth be told, he’d prefer that his future wife not be the subject of rumors or gossip. So he’d keep his little tidbit to himself for now. Should Isabella decide to accept an offer of marriage from another suitor, he could always use the information to gently steer her back to his way of thinking.
Regardless, he’d have to do something soon. As he suspected, every eligible suitor north of Natchez was vying for Isabella Bartholomew’s hand, especially those whose land adjoined the Bartholomew holdings.
It could be argued that Bartholomew hadn’t made much of a success with his holdings, but most of the disasters weren’t of the man’s doing. Nolan smiled, a small, stiff grimace, before lifting his glass and taking a sip of his drink. No, Bartholomew hadn’t run Breeze Hill into the ground alone. He’d had plenty of help.
He scrutinized the U-shaped house, the wing destroyed by the fire. Granted, from the front, none of that could be seen. But the gentlemen farmers paying their respects didn’t care overmuch about the house anyway. Their own homes were of a much grander scale. No, it was the land they wanted. The land so they could send their hordes of slaves to cultivate it, bring the fruits of their labors to harvest, and then sell to the highest bidder in the overseas markets.
They wanted the land, pure and simple. The trappings of decaying buildings and a handful of servants—bond and free—were of no consequence.
Nolan also wanted the land, but for a different reason altogether. Cultivating it was a necessary drudgery that masked bigger things. He’d discovered there were more lucrative ways to line one’s pockets than growing cotton and tobacco and being at the whim of the weather, pestilence, and the market.
But to the world and to these men who stood on the veranda making small talk, he was a prosperous gentleman farmer. And as soon as he took possession of Bartholomew’s land, he’d become even more prosperous than these fools who toiled in the dirt day after day.
Once he achieved his goal, his vast possessions would be attributed to his business acumen and management skills. Unfortunately, he’d never be able to boast about his most lucrative way of keeping his empire afloat. Breeze Hill was just the beginning. But one step at a time. There was no need to rush. His attention settled on Leah Bartholomew. Except in her case.
It had been a shock to discover that Jonathan’s widow was with child.
A child that could wreak havoc with all his plans. Plans that would be ruined if the child came into the world, a boy, heir to Breeze Hill.
What if—?
Nolan gave a minuscule shake of his head, dislodging the thought before it could completely form. No, it was unthinkable. Even he had his limits.
He lifted the glass to his lips, disgusted to see that his hand was shaking.
Chapter 10
TWILIGHT WAS FAST approaching by the time Connor entered Mr. Bartholomew’s chambers. The day had been long and busy, and he’d burned every minute of daylight.
Lamplight flickered over the dark paneled walls, illuminating the bookcases and the drapes already pulled against the night. Mr. Bartholomew’s rosewood chair had been moved to where it faced the windows instead of the fireplace. The spindly chair had been relegated to the corner beside the fireplace, and a sturdy settee sat across from the master’s chair.
Mr. Bartholomew motioned him forward. “Connor. Good to see you, boy.”
Connor moved to stand beside the couch. “Good evening, sir. I see you’ve been rearranging your furniture.”
“Indeed. Isabella thought I’d enjoy the view from the windows better than that cold, dead fireplace.” He chuckled and nodded at the settee. “And I expect my visitors will be much more comfortable as well. Sit. Sit, and tell me how your day went.”
“Thank you, sir.” Connor sat, pleased that the furniture bore his long-legged frame without complaint. “We’re making progress. The boys are almost done clearing the west wing, and Horne and myself have been working at the sawmill. We’ve got several stacks o’ lumber drying. But . . .”
Mr. Bartholomew squinted at him, his lopsided face looking ghostly in the lamplight. “But what?”
“It’s still a slow go.” Connor twisted his hat. “We need more men.”
Mr. Bartholomew sighed. “Not two years hence, Jonathan would have been in the woods harvesting trees, overseeing a crew of ten—sometimes twenty—men. I saw to it that Mews had plenty of workers for the fields, and Martha and Susan ran a tight ship here at the house.
“Now I can barely feed myself, and my poor Isabella is trying to patch things up that nature and the violent will of men have destroyed.” His gaze focused on his gnarled fingers. “I’ve failed her, Connor. I’ve failed both of them and my grandchild. What’s to become of Isabella, Leah, and the babe with Breeze Hill fast on its way to ruin?”
“Don’t be discouraged, sir. You should see the cotton this year. Mews says it’s the best crop he’s ever grown. And even though it’s going to take a while, we’re slowly building up a nice cache of lumber. Breeze Hill will rise again.”
A look of yearning creased his features. “You make me want to believe, Connor.”
Connor sat silent, watching him. The yearning to be strong, to be able to walk more than a few steps and to be in charge of his domain once again was palpable, and Connor knew how the lack of strength could twist up a man to the point he just wanted to curl up and die. He’d watched his own father suffer from a life-threatening accident.
An accident that might not have occurred had Connor been pulling his share instead of living it up as a stable hand at the Young estate.
He shifted uneasily. Mr. Bartholomew had been more than generous with him, giving him the opportunity to prove his worth as a master craftsman. He owed it to the man to bring Breeze Hill back to its glory. And maybe provide some healing to the man who’d been so kind. All he could think of was Mr. Bartholomew’s passion for working with lumber.
“Mr. Bartholomew, I’ve been working on that side table I told you about. But I’ve run into a bit o’ a problem. Would you be willing to take a look?”
“What kind of
problem?”
“There’s not enough oak to refinish the top as I’d hoped, and I’d like your suggestions on how t’ proceed. I can bring the cart around in the morning, if it’s to your liking.”
Mr. Bartholomew’s gaze stayed fixed on the wide expanse of lawn outside his windows, at the faint outline of the well, then the trees and the fields beyond bathed by the fading sun. Finally he nodded. “I think I’d like that.”
Her father was missing.
Where could he have gotten off to? He could barely shuffle across the floor, let alone wander out of the house alone. She’d made sure that someone was in the house at all times to see to his every need.
And now this.
“Martha?” Isabella pushed her panic down and hurried toward the kitchen. “Martha, where are you?”
Martha stepped out, her florid face ruddy from the heat of the kitchen. Concern knit her brows together. “What’s the matter, child?”
“Have you seen Papa? He’s not in his room.”
“I thought you knew.” Martha grinned. “That Connor came by this morning with the wagon and hauled Mr. Bartholomew off down to the mill. Mr. Bartholomew looked like a child on Christmas morning. He was that excited.”
“The sawmill?” Isabella’s heart raced. “Papa’s in no condition to be down at the mill.”
“Don’t you fret none.” Martha turned toward the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “The fresh air will do him good.”
Ignoring her, Isabella headed toward the mill. This was the last straw. Connor O’Shea had hired Mr. Horne and his family without consulting her, and now he’d taken Papa out of the house.
Did he intend to put Papa to work too?
Isabella gritted her teeth. Next thing she knew, he’d be ordering her around, rushing to get the job done faster in order to send for his brothers. If he wanted his brothers brought over from Ireland, this was not the way to go about it.
By the time she strode—rather stomped—the half mile to the mill, she’d worked herself into a frenzy. She saw Connor stripping bark from a freshly cut tree and marched right up to him, her anger fueled all the more by the distance she’d walked.
“Where’s my father?”
“Behind the mill with Lizzy.” He kept working.
“Connor, he’s a sick man. He needs to stay inside.” She plopped her hands on her hips. “What if something happens to him?”
“Nothing’s going t’ happen, mistress.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You didn’t have to endure his screams of agony in the weeks after the fire.”
“No, I reckon you’re right about that, lass. But I didn’t force him to come.”
He was the most insufferable servant they’d ever had at Breeze Hill. She was of a good mind to put him in his place, even though her father would chastise her if she did. He’d never talked down to the indentured servants or the day laborers, saying that men—and women—regardless of their station, should be able to prove their worth with honesty and hard work.
But still, Connor O’Shea tried her patience to the utmost.
“My father’s health is too precarious to take lightly. He could sicken and die from this little . . . jaunt . . . you’ve taken him on.”
Connor stopped working, pushed his hat back, and looked off into the distance, brow furrowed. “He is going to die, sure as rain, if ya don’t let him live a little.”
Isabella’s breath caught in her throat, the shock of his words rendering her speechless.
“You keep coddling him like a child, and he’s going to wither up and die. He needs something to keep him busy, to give him purpose, to make him want t’ live again.”
“I am giving him purpose.” She threw out her arms, then pointed toward the house. “That’s what you’re here for—to rebuild the house, to give him purpose and pride and the will to live.”
He pinned her with a pitying look that made her squirm over her outburst. “It’s not my work that’ll do that, lass. It’ll be his and his alone.”
Tears stung her eyes. “What do you know of it?”
“My da lost all feeling in his legs in a mining accident. There was no work for a cripple to be had. There were four of us boys at the time, and we managed to keep a roof over our heads, but it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t work, so he lost the will t’ live. If there had been a way to give him back his pride, his ability t’ work at something, it might have turned out differently.”
“You were the oldest? And you took on the burden of caring for your family?”
“I was the oldest. But I didn’t do a very good job of caring for them. I—” He picked up the drawknife and swiped it down the log, shaving off a long layer of bark. “If anything, I made things worse.”
Her anger dissipated like steam rising from a kettle. He felt the same responsibility for his brothers as she did for her father. Almost as if they were the parents instead of the children. She sighed and shrugged. “I’m afraid that any little upset will cause him to take a turn for the worse. He’s come so far.”
“Give him a chance. That’s all I’m asking.” He jerked his head toward the dogtrot between the cabins. “He’s fine. Go see for yourself.”
Isabella swiped at her cheeks, turned, and walked toward the mill. She stopped at the edge of the trees and stared. Her father sat in a chair in the shade of the dogtrot. Lizzy helped him hold a board as he sanded the imperfections from the wood.
Her father’s tender flesh was covered with heavy leather gloves, the roofed passage kept the sun at bay, and he looked none the worse for wear. He leaned down and blew away the dust from the board. The fine wood particles danced away on the breeze. Lizzy grinned at him, said something that Isabella didn’t quite catch, and her father laughed.
How long had it been since she’d heard that laugh, full of life and joy?
And purpose.
Fresh tears pricked her eyes.
Too long.
Connor came and stood beside her, arms crossed over his chest. They watched her father and Lizzy, not saying anything.
“He’s smiling. Laughing.” She wrapped her arms around her waist, pressing against the worry that knotted her stomach. “But he’s still so weak; the smallest injury could—”
“Just let him be happy. Let him prove that he’s still man o’ the house.” He jostled her shoulder. “And quit coddlin’ him so much. He’s a man, not a puppy.”
She giggled, swatted at her eyes with the tips of her fingers, tilted her head, and looked up at Connor. He winked, and her insides turned to mush.
Chapter 11
ISABELLA WALKED along the gallery outside Leah’s rooms and knocked.
“Leah?”
No answer.
When she didn’t find her sister-in-law inside her sitting room, bedroom, or even in the smaller room turned nursery, she returned to the gallery and scanned the courtyard. Empty, and nothing stirred in the grape arbor but half a dozen brown birds flitting from vine to vine, their chirping filling the evening with cheerful noise.
She headed back toward her rooms, the crisp white lawn baby gown she’d embroidered dangling from one hand. She mounted the stairs, then entered the hallway that led to her sitting room. She fingered the tiny garment, smiling. She’d just finished it and couldn’t wait to show Leah.
But tomorrow would be soon enough, she supposed.
She folded the gown and left it on the side table before opening the wide French doors to take advantage of what little breeze June offered. Hanging moss dripped from the cedars her mother had planted years before. The scent of azalea blossoms and honeysuckle wafted on the evening breeze, and she stepped outside onto the front porch and breathed in deeply.
A flash of a dark skirt among the oaks that led toward the road and the creek caught her attention.
Leah?
Leah hadn’t taken a stroll in weeks, and especially not since the scare with the baby. Isabella whirled and hurried inside, down the stairs, and out the front door. H
er sister-in-law didn’t know that Connor had seen evidence of a band of riders in the woods. If the rumors of the things some of these horrible men did were true, they would have no mercy on Leah or any other woman.
She saw Leah turn off the main road onto the path that meandered along the edge of the creek. She hurried to catch up with her. It wasn’t hard, as Leah strolled aimlessly along, stopping to pick a pink azalea blossom before moving on.
“Leah.”
Her sister-in-law glanced back, then paused, waiting for Isabella to catch up. As she neared, she realized how foolish she’d sound if she insisted Leah return to the house. Maybe she shouldn’t tell her about the riders. It was probably nothing and would only serve to remind her of Jonathan’s death at the hands of such men. Instead, they’d walk together, then return to the house.
Out of breath, she linked arms with her sister-in-law. “Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all.” Leah’s tender smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, puffy and red. “I would be glad for the company.”
Isabella stopped, turned toward Leah, and searched her pale, splotchy face. “You’ve been crying. What is it, dearest?”
Fresh tears welled up in Leah’s eyes, and she sniffed. “I’m sorry—” Her voice broke, and the tears spilled over.
Alarmed, Isabella drew her into her arms. “Are you in pain? Is it the babe? Maybe we should get you back to the house. I’ll fetch Martha—”
“No. It’s nothing like that.” She sucked in a deep, fortifying breath. “It’s just that Jonathan and I wed one year ago today.”
Isabella’s heart plummeted to her stomach, where it lodged like a stone.
“Oh, Leah, I’m so sorry.” She took her sister-in-law’s hands in hers, searching her gaze. “Why didn’t you say something? I could have . . .”
She trailed off when Leah’s attempt to smile dissolved into nothingness and the grieving widow shook her head. “There’s nothing you could do. I’ve spent the day reminiscing, remembering the short time we had together.”