Where The Heart Is (Choices of the Heart, book 1)

by Jennie Marsland

  “Damn it, you should have known better!” Martin’s vision blurred with tears. Cursing, he swept up the broken fragments, blew out the lamp and went to bed.

  Chapter Three

  The chill winds died down, as Chelle’s father said they would. She welcomed the change. Back in Georgia, the seasons slid into each other seamlessly. The languid heat of summer cooled to autumn; the air took on a slight bite, and that was winter. Then winter warmed gently into spring again. Here, the distinctions were sharper.

  The dales began to bloom, enticing Chelle out for long walks. She still ached with grief for her mother, but when she sat alone in the fragrant stillness of some hollow in the grass, listening to the hum of life around her, the ache lost its bitterness. She’d done enough grieving over the past year while Maman was ill. Now she was healing. It shamed her, but Chelle couldn’t deny it.

  Her father was healing, too. There wasn’t always enough work for him at the forge, so he’d cast his net a little further and found work with one or two of the local landholders who owned racing Thoroughbreds.

  He was away the morning Chelle washed her hair and went out to sit on the kitchen step with Leah while it dried. With the baby settled comfortably on her lap, Chelle closed her eyes and turned her face up to the warm sun.

  The jangle of trace chains brought her back to earth. Martin Rainnie led two Clydesdale mares into the yard, his collie trotting beside him. He stiffened slightly as he noticed his daughter in Chelle’s arms, then walked by her without a word and tied his horses to the hitching post. Jack and Brian came out of the stable to greet him.

  “Now then, Martin.”

  “Mornin’, Jack, Brian. These two need doin’ again.”

  In spite of his gruffness and his broad Yorkshire, there was something pleasing in Mr. Rainnie’s voice. Deep, but not too deep, its tone varied in a way that made Chelle think perhaps he really was musical. Jack gave one of the mares a friendly slap on the neck, loosed her from the hitching post and backed her into the middle of the yard.

  “Aye. You first then, Tessa.”

  Brian stoked the forge and blew the fire to white heat with the bellows while Jack pulled the shoes from Tessa’s plate-sized hooves. Mr. Rainnie held the mare’s halter and kept his back to Chelle. She couldn’t help thinking that he resembled his horses. Massive but in proportion, without the quickness and agility of a man with Rory’s lighter build, but graceful in his own way. No doubt a lot of women would find Mr. Rainnie attractive.

  The dog seemed to remember Chelle. Tail wagging, he took a couple of steps toward her, then trotted up when she held out her hand.

  “Hello, Gyp. You trust me when I’m not near your sheep, do you?” The dog sniffed her fingers, then settled down on the cobbles at her feet. Mr. Rainnie made a restless movement, but he didn’t call Gyp back.

  Brian broke the silence. “Have you started shearing yet, Martin?”

  “Not yet. Next week, likely, if I can get help. That mightn’t be easy this year. I ran into John Watson, Westlake’s agent, this morning at the store, and he told me Westlake’s dropping his price for wool. Market’s all upset because of the mess overseas, he says. It’s hard to pay shearers when the fleece is worth a pittance.”

  Brian took a red-hot shoe and pressed it to the mare’s hoof. The reek of burning horn filled the air as Jack trimmed the hoof, using the blackened imprint as a guide.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if Westlake is in some kind of a scrape with his business concerns in London, a scrape that needs cash to get out of.”

  Mr. Rainnie shrugged. “Perhaps. I’m thinking that he’s gettin’ on, and his daughter would no doubt rather be in London. His wife’s spent all her time there for years. He hasn’t any sons so he may be gettin’ ready to sell the mill here. Well, I won’t starve with the farm to feed me, whether he buys my fleeces or not.”

  From things she’d heard, Chelle gathered that most of Mallonby shared her uncle’s opinion of Phillip Westlake, the owner of the woolen mill, a self-made man who was too conscious of the fact and cared little for those below him. The men talked sheep and crops while they shod Tessa and the other mare, Neely. When she thought Leah had been in the sun long enough, Chelle took her inside. Not once had Mr. Rainnie glanced her way, if he could help it, but she felt his gaze on her back as she went in.

  Perhaps he wasn’t quite as indifferent to Leah as he seemed. Or had he been watching her? She shook off the feeling of those green eyes on her, took Leah to Jean and started for the village to run an errand for her aunt.

  A waft of fragrance welcomed her when she stepped into the Binghams’ shop, a blend of mint, spices, soap and tobacco that reminded her of the mercantile at home. Candy jars lined the front window to entice passersby, while a row of bags and barrels along the back wall held the usual staples. Behind the counter, Mrs. Bingham looked up from her newspaper.

  “Now then, Miss McShannon, what can I do for you?” Mallonby people hadn’t quite decided how to speak to Chelle yet. They weren’t sure where she fit in their social order, but most of them chose to be polite.

  “Aunt Caroline needs some sugar. Five pounds, please.”

  As Chelle paid for her purchase, a girl of about her age walked in, followed by a young man. Both were strangers to Chelle. The man might be considered handsome if you liked dark hair and eyes and an arrogant swagger. The girl was obviously pregnant. Mrs. Bingham leaned on the counter, pursed her lips and glared at her. “Yes?”

  “Mam wants a dozen eggs, please, Mrs. Bingham.”

  When the girl handed over her money, Chelle noticed that she wore no wedding ring. She took her eggs, glanced sideways at the young man and hurried out, forgetting her change. With a smirk on his face, he reached to pick it up. Chelle covered it with her hand. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll return it to her.”

  His gaze travelled slowly up and down her body before he replied. Chelle’s fingers itched to slap him. Then he touched his cap and stepped back. “As you wish, miss.”

  He put as much insolence as he could into the words. Chelle threw him a scornful look, picked up the coins and her sugar and walked out. She overtook the girl a short way down the street and tapped her shoulder.

  She turned around, cheeks flushed, an angry sparkle in her gray-blue eyes. Had she expected to see that young man from the store? Chelle smiled and held out the money. “You forgot your change.”

  The flush on the girl’s cheeks deepened with embarrassment. With her vivid coloring, fine features and head of rebellious golden-brown curls, she had a kind of natural, windblown prettiness that reminded Chelle of the local countryside.

  “Oh… thank you.” She slipped the coins in her skirt pocket and looked Chelle over with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. “I don’t know you.”

  “Rochelle McShannon, Jack’s niece. I’ve only been here three weeks, so I haven’t met everyone in Mallonby yet.”

  “I’m Kendra Fulton. I must be going. Thank you again.”

  Kendra hurried off down the street.

  Chelle headed home and found Jean in the kitchen, stirring a pot of bubbling strawberries. “Put the sugar in the pantry, Chelle, and thanks. I used the last of what we had in this jam.”

  Chelle put on an apron and joined Jean at the stove. “That looks almost done.”

  “It is, and just in time. The babies will be waking up any minute. Did you hear any news at Bingham’s?”

  While they bottled the jam, Chelle told Jean about Kendra Fulton and the rude young man in the store. Jean rolled her eyes. “That sounds like Drew Markham. Drew is a clerk in the mill office. He thinks that makes him a catch, but the truth is no decent girl in Mallonby wants aught to do with him, in spite of his father’s farm.”

  Chelle dropped a sealer lid on the counter in surprise. “If his father has a farm, what is Drew doing in the mill?”

  “You’d have to know the family.” Jean spoke without looking up as she filled jars. “Drew is Caleb Markham’s son by his se
cond wife. He has an older son, Richard, by his first. She died when Richard was seven. From what I’ve heard, Caleb didn’t get on well with Drew’s mother—she’s been gone about eight years now—and he’s never gotten on well with Drew, either. Nor has Richard. So, once Drew finished school, he got himself hired on at the mill. He started out on the floor, showed himself clever and willing to work, and caught the foreman’s eye. A year or so ago, he got promoted to the office. He lives on his own in one of the mill houses now. He’s clever and ambitious, but he’s a regular cad.”

  Chelle’s skin crawled at the memory of how Drew had looked at her. “He isn’t the father of Kendra’s child, is he?”

  “No. Drew was still on the mill floor when Kendra started there, and he took a bit of a fancy to her, I think, though he did naught about it then. Then, after she was fired, he started “courting” her, if that’s what you call it when a man pesters a girl and she tells him to go hang. Not that he had any notion of marriage, I’ll warrant. He wouldn’t saddle himself with someone else’s child.”

  So Kendra had been a mill hand. Of course, she would have been let go as soon as her pregnancy became known. Chelle’s sympathy for the girl deepened. “I can’t imagine that he would. And I suppose the baby’s father is nowhere to be seen.”

  “Not exactly. David Phelps is the baby’s father. He and Kendra were both let go when word got out that she was pregnant. David went to his uncle in York to work in his warehouse, and he asked Kendra to marry him and go with him, so we’ve heard, but she wouldn’t. I don’t know why. So folk are doubly hard on her, and Drew takes advantage of it.”

  A lonely, difficult path, chosen of Kendra’s own accord. Had she discovered that she and David didn’t love each other enough, just as Chelle had discovered with Rory? If so, Chelle couldn’t find it in her heart to judge. “She has courage. I’ll give her that.”

  “Aye. It’s made things hard for her, losing Kendra’s wages, but so far they’ve managed. Her father died years ago. Kendra does washing and mending for a few families that aren’t as narrow-minded as most. Her mother works at the mill, too.” Jean paused in the middle of wiping drips of jam from the table. “I can see what you’re thinking, Chelle. You’re sorry for Kendra, and so am I, but she made her own choice.”

  “Yes, and I respect her for it. I intend to be her friend if she’ll let me.”

  Jean shrugged. “She could use a friend, that’s for sure and certain, but be prepared to be tarred with the same brush if you befriend her.”

  Chelle tilted her chin. “I suppose you’re right, but that’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

  Chapter Four

  Martin glanced out the kitchen window and nearly dropped the plate he was drying. A buggy was pulling into the twilit yard, with Hugh and Margaret Paxton, parents of his dead wife, on the seat, sitting as rigid and unbowed as they’d been at Eleanor’s funeral.

  Martin had only seen them once or twice since then. They’d visited rarely enough while their daughter was alive. He’d never really felt acquainted with the Paxtons, but he knew them well enough to surmise that this was more than a social call. With a tense knot forming in his stomach, he answered the door. “Hugh. Margaret. Come in.”

  Eleanor’s father nodded and stepped inside, with his wife behind him like a drab gray shadow. Hugh Paxton looked like the church elder he was, tall and spare, with a thin-lipped mouth and small, pale blue eyes that didn’t warm when he smiled. Eleanor had inherited her generous curves from her mother, but Margaret’s generosity ended with her figure. She and Hugh were well-matched. Martin could never fathom how they’d produced a daughter like Eleanor, with her easy laughter and love of music and dancing.

  “Now then, Martin.” Hugh cleared his throat. “We’re glad to find you in. We’d an errand to run at the Mallonby store and we decided to stop here on our way home. We’ve meant to call for some time.”

  “You’ve something particular on your mind, then, I’ll warrant.” Martin gestured toward the sofa facing the hearth. “Come and sit down.”

  Margaret’s gaze darted around the room as she perched on the sofa next to Hugh. Martin kept the place clean after a fashion, but not as clean as Eleanor had. Her mother made it plain that she noticed, without saying a word.

  Hugh cleared his throat again. “You’re right, Martin, we do have something in particular to discuss. Leah’s nine months old now, so you’ll be lookin’ for a place for her soon. We’ve been talkin’ it over, and we’ve decided we’re willing to take her ourselves rather than see her go to strangers.”

  Now there’s a twist. As far as Martin knew, Leah’s grandparents had never visited her at the McShannons’, and they certainly hadn’t broached the subject of raising her before.

  When he and Eleanor were courting, her parents had taken little interest in getting to know him. His comfortable farm and respectable reputation were enough to satisfy them. They’d shown little emotion at their only child’s wedding, and no more at her funeral.

  “I can’t pretend I’m not surprised, Hugh. You’ve never mentioned this before, but Leah is your granddaughter. I thank you for your offer, and I’ll consider it. Have you been to see her, then?”

  Margaret spoke, her thin, reedy voice so different from Eleanor’s rich contralto. “Nay. We saw no reason to impose on the McShannons before Leah was ready to be weaned. If you let them know at the forge that we’ll be calling, we can begin getting to know the child.”

  Thinking past his surprise, Martin guessed that the Paxtons had gotten a whiff of gossip. Someone had criticized them for allowing their granddaughter to go to strangers, and they wouldn’t stand for it. His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms, as his temper, always at a flashpoint these days, threatened to explode.

  Mind your tongue, Martin. It would be a cold day in hell before he’d send Leah to the Paxtons to be raised in the same rigid, cheerless way they’d raised Eleanor, but they could make trouble for him if they chose. He’d be wise to mollify them.

  “I’ll tell Caroline the next time I see her that we’ve spoken. You can visit Leah, and we’ll see how you get on before I make a decision.”

  Apparently satisfied, Hugh and Margaret rose together. Hugh cleared his throat one more time. “Aye. We’ll see how it goes. We’ll call at the forge the next time we’re in Mallonby.”

  After watching them drive away, Martin lit the lamp. He burnt his finger with the match and clouded the chimney with smoke before he got the wick properly set. He muttered a few choice words, dumped the chimney in the wash basin and scrubbed it clean.

  You might be a poor excuse for a father, but no child of yours will grow up in their house while you’re still drawing breath. But time was passing. He couldn’t put off making a decision about Leah’s future much longer.

  * * *

  “Oh, drat!” Chelle rolled her eyes at the wrapped pound of butter on the pantry shelf. Aunt Caroline had intended to take that to Mr. Rainnie today, but she’d been called out to a birth and might not be home till late.

  As part of the arrangements for keeping Leah, Mr. Rainnie supplied the McShannons with milk and cream. Aunt Caroline converted some of the cream to butter, most of which went to the Binghams’ store, but she always kept some back for Mr. Rainnie. He insisted on paying for it, which put Caroline’s nose a little out of joint, but she forgave him because he also said she made the best butter in the district.

  The men were in the middle of a full day’s work and Jean had gone to visit her mother for the afternoon, with little Peter. Leah had just woken from her nap. Chelle could deliver the butter, but she’d have to take the baby with her.

  So, she would. It couldn’t be a better day for a walk, and it was cool enough to keep the butter from melting on the way. She wasn’t keen to see Mr. Rainnie again, but he’d likely be out in the fields haying. Aunt Caroline had mentioned once that she just stepped in and left the butter on the kitchen table if he wasn’t in.

  Chelle tied
a shawl into a sling for Leah, settled her in it and set off, carrying the butter by the string that bound the brown paper wrapping. The walk took longer than she expected because she hadn’t realized that the lane to the house wound a good half mile back from the track to Mr. Rainnie’s pasture. When she came to the lane’s last bend, Chelle stopped to adjust the sling and take the place in from a distance.

  The lines of the house, softened by the branches of an ash tree at either end, blended into the landscape from which its stone had come. Rough grass grew up to the walls of the buildings, except for one spot by the house where the remains of a perennial bed offered a few splashes of color. As she got closer, Chelle made out one bright-blue delphinium lifting its head above a riot of wild daisies and phlox. The garden clearly hadn’t been given any attention this season.

  Hens scratched busily in the dirt by the open byre door. Chelle stuck her head inside and saw only a ginger tabby cat skulking across the aisle. Through the open door at the other end, she saw Mr. Rainnie’s Clydesdales grazing in a paddock. So he wasn’t haying.

  Chelle crossed to the house, knocked on the door and got no answer. She opened it a crack. “Mr. Rainnie?” She heard heavy steps on stairs and swung the door open.

  He stood at the bottom of the staircase that must lead to the bedrooms, filling the opening with his broad shoulders. The surprise on his freckled face swiftly changed to annoyance, then pure anger when he saw that Chelle had brought his daughter with her. His sea-colored eyes fired sparks at her. “I told your aunt and uncle—”

  Chelle stood her ground, refusing to let him intimidate her. “Aunt Caroline got called away this morning and couldn’t bring your butter. I decided I’d bring it since it’s such a fine afternoon, but I couldn’t leave Leah home with no one to mind her. Here it is.”

  She held out the package of butter. Just as Mr. Rainnie reached for it, the string broke. The wrapping fell away as the soft butter landed with a dull splat at Chelle’s feet. Without thinking, she moved one foot forward, just enough that it skidded in the butter. Chelle felt herself falling and instinctively pushed Leah into Mr. Rainnie’s arms. He stood as if he’d been turned to stone, holding his daughter, while Chelle scrambled up from the floor.