by Pam Hillman
The words Job flung in his wife’s face pricked her conscience. Hands shaking, she stared at the prayer book. Job had been righteous, but even he had been contrite over questioning God’s sovereignty. She was nothing, nothing but a speck compared to Job and even less compared to God Almighty.
That she’d dare to shake her fist at Him, to question His judgment, His decision over who prospered and whose crops failed, over who lived or died.
She trembled at the realization that God had been merciful to her even as she wallowed in her grief. Even as she’d lashed out at Him, blaming Him for everything that ever happened in her life, when she should have run toward Him, just as Job did.
“Curse God, and die.”
“No,” she whispered, heart pounding. “No. Please forgive me.”
Shame filled her. She hadn’t said the words out loud, but her actions had told her father to curse God, Leah to curse God. They were the ones who suffered the most, not her.
In my grief over Jonathan, I wanted to lash out, to blame someone. I pushed You away when I should have drawn closer to You than ever before. God, I’m sorry.
As her tears overflowed, she collapsed on the settee and asked God to forgive her foolishness, asked Him to give her the peace Leah had found, the peace that Mr. and Mrs. Horne enjoyed.
And when she’d cried until she had no more tears and the weight of her past mistakes lifted, she turned her attention to petitioning God for William’s life.
Prepared to accept God’s will, no matter the outcome.
Sometime later, she jerked awake to soft candlelight and the feel of a blanket draped over her, the prayer book still clutched against her.
Connor slumped in a chair across from her, legs splayed, head lolling against the back of the chair. Somewhere in the house, a clock struck three. Isabella sighed, watching Connor sleep. His chest rose and fell with the gentle rhythm of slumber. She smiled when a soft snore escaped his lips.
He stirred, and she closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep. All was quiet for so long that she risked peeking at him, only to find him watching her, his gaze heavy-lidded from sleep.
She said the first thing that popped into her mind. “You snore.”
One side of his mouth lifted. “So I’ve been told. But I don’t believe it. I’ve never heard me snore.”
Isabella laughed softly, then glanced toward the hallway that led to the bedroom where William lay, the doctor fighting to keep him alive. Her stomach clenched with worry. “How does William fare?”
“Holding his own for now.”
“This is my fault.” She caught Connor’s gaze. “If William hadn’t gone to Brice’s Tavern on my behalf, none of this would have happened.”
Connor shook his head, looking as weary as she felt. “It’s no’ your fault, lass. If anything, it’s mine.”
“Your fault? There’s no need to blame yourself.”
“There is when that knife was meant for me.”
Chapter 20
THE DOCTOR TOOK his leave just as the sun rose over the horizon. Connor let him out, then spotted Isabella seated at a secretary in the parlor, papers strewn all over the desktop.
She looked up, saw him standing there. “How’s William?”
“The doctor says he’ll be fine. No vitals were injured.”
“The Lord has blessed indeed.”
“Yes, he has.” Connor chuckled. “The doctor suggested he stay abed for another week, but Master William vetoed that idea right away.”
“I’m afraid this will delay our return trip. I’m sorry, Connor. You didn’t want to come in the first place, and now this.”
“Ah, lass, it can’t be helped. I’m just thankful it wasn’t worse.”
“Amen to that.” She spoke softly, studying the prayer book on the edge of the desk. A tiny smile played over her lips.
Connor lifted an eyebrow. Something was different about Isabella this morning. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but she seemed more relaxed, softer.
The hall clock struck six. Connor snapped his fingers. “In all the uproar, I forgot to tell you that a Mr. Wicker will be here at ten to look at the lumber.”
“Wicker?” Isabella scrunched her forehead. “The name’s not familiar.”
“He’s overseeing the construction of several homes here in Natchez. He said he would stop by this morning to look at the lumber. Should I send word for him to wait another day?”
“No. I see no reason not to meet with him.”
Connor stood, waiting. For what, he didn’t know. He’d never been one to just sit or stand and do nothing. But what could he do? His work was back at Breeze Hill. And the longer it took to complete that work, the more time it would take to bring his brothers over.
He spotted Isabella’s papers, the fresh quill and ink. He could cipher in his head and could sketch and figure measurements to the nth degree, but he could barely read and write, not enough to compose a letter to Quinn. He cleared his throat, wishing for the skill with pen and paper to let his brothers know his whereabouts and that he was working toward bringing them to America. Maybe he could impose on Isabella—
“Was there something else?” She smiled, looking at him with a quizzical expression.
He motioned toward the inkwell. “Would you mind writing a letter to my brother back home in Ireland?”
“I would be honored. His name is Quinn, correct?”
“Yes. Quinn.”
She pulled out a fresh piece of paper, dipped the quill, and waited with it poised above the paper. “What would you like to say?”
Connor paced, trying to think what to tell Quinn to keep the letter to one page. “Tell him that I’m indentured to Breeze Hill as a master carpenter and that your father will send for him as soon as he can.”
“Shouldn’t I tell him how you fare?”
Connor glanced at her. “I thought that’s what I just said.”
She laughed. “No, you didn’t. You told him what you do but not how you are.”
He waved a hand at the paper. “Well, just add that part in wherever you want to.”
“As you wish.”
Isabella’s pen scratched along the paper, her penmanship delicate and flowing. Connor studied her handwriting. He could barely make out the words hidden in the flowery whirls. Fancy flourishes should be reserved for scrollwork on wooden balustrades, not when putting words to paper.
Isabella glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. “What do you find amusing, pray tell?”
Connor shook his head. “Your penmanship. Lovely, ’tis.”
Her gaze narrowed in assessment, and he could see the wheels turning as she tried to determine if he was sincerely complimenting her penmanship or if he was mocking her. Apparently politeness won out, and she turned back to the letter.
“Thank you.” She dipped the quill once again and continued writing, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.
Connor lost interest in the letter and focused on Isabella, on the curve of her neck, the translucent vein jumping at the base of her throat right next to her delicate collarbone. He wanted to press his lips to the spot and feel her pulse. Then move to the perfect shell of her ear, trail along her cheekbone, letting her lashes tease his lips, and finally claim her mouth with his own once again. What harm would there be in that? He sucked in a breath and closed his eyes.
Plenty.
“What do you think?”
His eyes popped open. Her long, slender fingers held the letter so that he could see.
“It’s a beautiful letter. No’ sure Quinn can actually read it, though, with all those fancy swirls.”
“I’m sorry. It didn’t occur to me that he’d have trouble reading it.” She started to set it aside. “I’ll do it again, and I’ll make it easier to read.”
“No.” Connor captured her wrist, holding the beautiful letter in place. “If he can’t make out the words, Mrs. MacDonald can. She’s a former schoolteacher.”
“If you’re sure?” He
r brow furrowed, her concern over the letter endearing.
“I’m sure, lass. ’Tis a mighty fine letter.”
“Mrs. Butler will see that it’s sent posthaste.” She held out the quill. “Would you like to sign it?”
Taking the quill from her, Connor leaned over the desk, his left hand resting on her chair, his arm brushing her back. Dipping the quill in the inkwell, he scrawled his name at the bottom of the page.
She glanced up, but just as quickly she lowered her gaze, though she didn’t move away. He tilted his head, his lips mere inches from hers. She leaned toward him, or maybe he leaned toward her. He wasn’t sure, but—
A door slammed, and Connor jerked away, focusing on the letter between them.
His scrawl and her perfect penmanship jumped out at him from the page.
Opposite as night and day, just like their very different lives.
A day later, Mrs. Butler quietly closed the door to William’s room, seated herself, and took up her knitting.
“How is he?” Isabella asked, her own fingers busily tatting a doily.
“Sleeping like an angel, poor boy.”
Isabella laughed. “I’d never call William an angel, Mrs. Butler.”
A soft look crossed the housekeeper’s face. “Ah, but, dear child, you didn’t know him as a babe. Sweetest child this side of the pond.”
Isabella resisted the urge to let loose with a very unladylike snort. William had been the furthest thing from sweet all those years he and Jonathan had tormented her as children. “You’ve been with the Wainwrights a long time, then?”
“Goin’ on thirty years. Was nanny to William and his sisters.” She cast a sly glance at Isabella. “’Bout time he married and raised up another generation of little ones here at Wainwright House and out at Wainwright Hall.”
Isabella lowered her gaze, feigning a sudden interest in the tatting in her lap. She wouldn’t hurt the woman’s feelings for the world, but marrying William was . . . really, it was just about as far-fetched as her and Connor reciting vows. More so, even.
Heavens, she couldn’t imagine kissing William. The very idea made her squirm. But Connor—
Her face flamed as she thought of the almost kiss from the day before. No, she couldn’t see herself marrying William. In some ways, he was as much a brother as Jonathan had been. Even when he’d visited the plantation the last few weeks and on the trip to Natchez, she never felt as if he wanted to court her, but that he was watching out for her like a big brother should.
If anything, she’d become convinced that he had his eye on Leah. She’d planned to broach the subject with him while in Natchez, but his injury had prevented that. She could think of nothing better than for Leah to find happiness again with someone as steady and dependable as William.
“You don’t know how much I’ve enjoyed this little visit, disregarding the trouble dear William got into.” Mrs. Butler looked up from her knitting, her wrinkled face crinkling in a smile. “It’s quite lonesome here in the summer with Mrs. Wainwright and the girls out in the country.”
Thankful that the housekeeper had moved on to a different subject, Isabella asked, “You’re not interested in spending the summer at Wainwright Hall?”
“Goodness, no, Miss Bartholomew.” Her eyes twinkled. “In spite of confessing to a few lonely days, I enjoy my quiet time here alone. The hustle and bustle of balls and soirees in the fall and winter will come soon enough, mark my words.”
Isabella tossed a teasing glance at the kindly housekeeper. “I can’t impose upon you to call me by my given name, Mrs. Butler?”
“Oh no. It would be unseemly, miss.” Mrs. Butler gave Isabella’s hand a gentle pat. “But it wouldn’t be improper for me to address you as Miss Isabella—with your permission, of course.”
“Permission granted.” Isabella inclined her head, smiling at the improper propriety the two of them managed to maintain.
Mrs. Butler knitted and rocked, her humming soothing as she worked. Isabella dropped a stitch, sighed, then started picking out the mistake. “Mrs. Butler, if you’ve been with the Wainwrights all these years, you must have known my mother.”
“Ah, your mother. Such a sweet young thing. And very beautiful.” Mrs. Butler studied her, then nodded with satisfaction. “You have the look of her. Your eyes, especially.”
“That’s what my father says.”
“She loved your father—and you and your brother—very much.”
“Then why did she leave?”
“I can’t answer that, child. But I don’t believe she went willingly.” Mrs. Butler’s needles clicked in the room, the only other sound the ticking of the clock on the mantel. “Your mother left everything. Her clothes. Her jewelry. Everything. No young woman I know would do that.”
“I didn’t know she’d stayed here.”
“Oh yes. She’d been here quite some time waiting for the ship to set sail. She had a terrible row with her father the night before he was to leave. I didn’t hear all of it, but he wanted her to file papers for a divorce from your father, and she refused. The next morning, he apologized and begged her to accompany him to the docks to see him off. She relented and went with him. She never returned.”
Isabella pressed a hand to her middle, trying to quell the churning inside. Her father had been right. “He forced her to return to Spain?”
“I’ve always believed so. As I said, her life was with your father, you, and your brother, God rest his soul. A few days after the ship departed, your father stormed into Natchez, furious. But there was nothing he could do, short of finding a ship to take him to Spain. Which wasn’t an easy task.”
“Because there was a storm brewing?”
“Yes. Many storms were brewing, not just the one off the coast of New Orleans. France had ceded the district to England with the Treaty of Paris in 1763, but some were already speculating on how long England could hold on to power. And they were right to worry. Spain took control in 1779, but—that’s neither here nor there. All that happened much later, maybe five or six years after your mother left. When word came that the ship carrying your mother had sunk off the coast of Cuba, your father lost all hope of ever being reunited with her.”
Isabella wanted to ask if Mrs. Butler believed the ship had been lost, but was afraid of the answer.
Wasn’t it enough that Papa believed an act of God and not her own will had prevented her mother from returning to them?
Connor was fit to be tied.
He’d brushed the horses in Wainwright’s stables until their coats glistened. He’d toted water for Mrs. Butler to do her washing. Mews and Toby mucked the stables thrice daily, all of them determined not to be a burden while lodging with the Wainwrights.
They’d struck a deal with Mr. Wicker to supply lumber in the coming months. And now Connor needed to get back to Breeze Hill to keep up his end of the bargain. There was a lot of work to do if he was going to make good on the promises he and Isabella had made to Wicker, as well as produce enough lumber to rebuild Breeze Hill.
The doctor wanted William to wait one more day before he headed back home. Connor knew it was wise to wait. But that didn’t keep him from being restless.
He hoisted a bag of shingles and headed toward the carriage house. He’d spotted a few broken squares, so he might as well fix the roof while he waited. The hot sun bore down on him as he crawled over the roof.
He’d been tempted to take one of the horses and head back alone, but every time he got the itch to take off, Isabella’s face swam before him. Mr. Bartholomew had put her in his safekeeping, and Connor couldn’t leave her behind. What if something happened to her and he wasn’t there to protect her?
He wouldn’t be able to face himself or her father.
So he stayed.
One more day wouldn’t hurt.
Unless he went crazy with waiting.
He ripped a rotten shingle off the roof and pulled a fresh-cut one out of the bag. His shirt clung to him like a second skin a
s the sun climbed higher in the sky. Laughter pealed across the courtyard. Toby and Jack, the Wainwrights’ stable hand, led a pair of horses toward the carriage house.
“Morning, boys.” Connor used his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his face. “Where are you off to?”
“Mrs. Butler and Miss Isabella need to go to the market.” Toby’s voice vibrated with excitement. He didn’t get much chance to see the sights of Natchez living out at Breeze Hill.
“You lads stay close to the ladies. No running off, you hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
In no time flat, the boys had the carriage waiting by the front door. Connor had a bird’s-eye view of the street in front of the house, and he paused in his work to watch Mrs. Butler and Isabella as they walked toward the carriage. Isabella hadn’t come prepared to stay for days at a time, but her plain brown dress made her look as beautiful as if she wore a satin ball gown trimmed in lace straight from Paris. She didn’t need fancy clothes to turn a man’s head. Her smile and flashing dark eyes did the job just fine on their own.
As she ducked into the carriage, Connor grabbed a nail and pounded on the shingle with such force the thin wood snapped clean in two.
A borrowed parasol shaded Isabella’s face, and a cooling breeze relieved a bit of the stifling heat as Mr. Wainwright’s carriage rolled along at a nice clip.
They passed a new house on Jefferson Street, turned down Wall Street, and saw the foundations of two more houses being laid. Natchez was definitely in the throes of a construction boom.
Excitement welled up when Isabella spotted at least four more homes under construction as they traversed the streets heading toward the shopping district. She couldn’t wait to tell her father how ripe Natchez was for building materials. No wonder Mr. Wicker had gladly accepted their price.
She chewed her lip. Had they undersold the competition?
No matter. Her father had given her strict instructions on the lowest price he would take, and Mr. Wicker had offered far more than that. A fair price and a good relationship with the contractors in Natchez were worth more than turning a quick profit.