Knowing she wasn’t going to change Kendra’s mind, Chelle gave in. “All right. I’d like to know more about your friend Maggie. What did she look like?”
Kendra’s eyes clouded with grief. “She was a bit taller than me, but not as tall as you. Her hair was black, and she had blue eyes. Her mother’s people were Highland Scots, and she took after them. At the mill, Maggie and I used to sit together on breaks and at lunch, until I started keeping company with Davy. Things got cool between Maggie and me then. I thought she was jealous, but now I think she was just a little bit hurt because I hadn’t told her about him. And then, after I found out I was expecting… I never saw any of the girls from work after that. They didn’t want to be tarred with the same brush. I can’t blame them.”
In fairness, Chelle couldn’t blame them either. Not with their livelihoods at stake. “What was she like as a person? Was she shy? Outgoing?”
Kendra’s mouth curved in a sad smile. “Maggie didn’t have a shy bone in her body. She loved to laugh and tease. The boys noticed her, but she was a canny one around them. No one pulled the wool over her eyes. A few thought her proud for a mill hand, but they were the sour sort that disliked most of us younger girls.” Kendra glanced at Chelle over the baby’s head. “It’s a world of its own, the mill, with its own set of rules. You keep to your station and don’t speak to those above you, and you mind your tongue with the rest. The jobs are handed down through families, as often as not. Mam is a spinner, and so was I.”
Chelle thought of the one person she knew who’d stepped into that world of his own accord, and found a way to bend the rules. “How did Drew Markham manage to get into the office, I wonder?”
Kendra shrugged. “Oh, a man can get promoted off the floor if he’s sharp and he’s had some schooling, but there’s not much chance for a woman. Most of us on the floor hadn’t more than three or four years of schooling before we started, though some kept reading and learning. Maggie did. Otherwise, you become as much of a machine as the spinners and looms.”
* * *
That evening at twilight Chelle sat at her window, looking out through a driving rain at the cheerless, sodden gray landscape. Restlessness goaded her. She heard the homelike clatter of dinner preparations downstairs, but something in her rebelled at the thought of joining the family in the warm kitchen.
Unbidden, the image of Martin’s big, open main room popped into her mind. Was he sitting by the fire tonight, playing his fiddle while Jessie got supper and the wind hurled rain against the old stone house? Some yearning, akin to homesickness, came over her at the thought.
Chelle, this won’t do. She gave herself a stern mental shake and turned her thoughts back to Maggie Tate.
A machine. As far as Phillip Westlake was concerned, Maggie had apparently been nothing more. Not a person, not the daughter of people who had worked for him for years, not the lively young girl Kendra remembered. Mr. Westlake hadn’t even respected Maggie enough to come to her funeral.
But his daughter had. Why? Because her father sent her to represent the family, or because she cared? Chelle recalled the troubled look she’d seen on the girl’s face. Perhaps she cared.
Tomorrow was Sunday. Miss Westlake would likely be at the morning church service. If Chelle could manage a moment alone with her, perhaps she could convince her to do something for Maggie’s family. Determined to try, Chelle hurried down to set the table for Aunt Caroline.
* * *
In the morning, Maria Westlake appeared at church alone. Chelle watched her out of the corner of her eye and soon made up her mind she’d been right about Miss Westlake being upset by Maggie Tate’s death. She looked decidedly uneasy, sitting alone in her pew with mill families in the pews on either side of her. Surely there had been serious accidents at the mill before this. Had they bothered her as well?
I wouldn’t trade places with you, Miss Westlake, any more than I would with a mill hand.
When the service ended, Chelle told the family to go on without her and waited in the churchyard. Nearly everyone else had left by the time Miss Westlake came out of the church. She started for home at a quick pace. Chelle ran a few steps to catch up with her. “Miss Westlake, do you have a moment?”
She stopped. Close up, the strain on her face showed all the more plainly. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
In contrast to the broad Yorkshire that Chelle had grown used to hearing around Mallonby, Miss Westlake spoke like the product of a good finishing school. Chelle mustered an ingratiating smile. “No, we haven’t. I’m Rochelle McShannon.”
“The blacksmith’s niece? Of course. I should have known you by your accent. What is it, Miss McShannon?”
The blacksmith’s niece. Chelle had never been put in her place so neatly, but she was doing this for Maggie Tate, not herself. She took a deep breath and plunged in. “I wanted to speak to you about Maggie Tate.”
“Oh? What about her?”
Maria started along the road again, slowly this time. Chelle fell into step beside her. “A friend of mine knew her quite well. She told me Maggie was a hard worker and well-liked at the mill. She kept learning and trying to improve herself, and she stayed out of trouble. My father also told me she was an only child. He grew up with her parents.”
Maria threw her a glance from skeptical green eyes. “I’m sure you’re telling me all this for a reason.”
Chelle nodded. “Yes, I am. Miss Westlake, I’d like to try to raise some money for Maggie’s family, and I thought you might be willing to help me.”
“Father prefers that I don’t get involved with mill business.”
“But it isn’t mill business. If Maggie had been struck by a runaway cart or had some other kind of accident, your father wouldn’t object to you trying to help her family, would he?”
“That would be a completely different situation, Miss McShannon, as I’m sure you’re aware.” Maria squared her shoulders and met Chelle’s gaze. “But I do feel bad for this girl’s family. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll speak to my father about it.”
Chelle found herself warming to Maria, in spite of her condescension. Beneath the girl’s attitude, she sensed compassion. “Thank you, Miss Westlake. That’s all I can ask.”
Chapter Eleven
The water is wide, I cannot cross o’er
And neither have I wings to fly
Build me a boat that can carry two
And both shall row, my love and I…
Martin stopped singing and looked down at Leah. The song, one of Eleanor’s favorites, had done its work. The little one was sound asleep.
“Martin, here’s Jason Tewkes to see you.”
The interruption pushed away the memory of Eleanor’s strong, sweet voice shaping the melody. Martin tucked the quilt around his daughter and went downstairs.
Jason sat at the table, his spare frame as awkward and angular as ever. Martin hadn’t seen him more than twice since Eleanor’s funeral.
“Now then, Jason, aren’t you off to Carston tonight?” The annual harvest dance was happening in the Carston Hall, and Martin knew Jason hadn’t missed one for years. They’d played at the dance together for the previous five.
Jason didn’t look like a man on his way to a good time. Sober-faced, he shifted in his chair. “Aye, but Charles Brantley isn’t. His wife’s ill, and he can’t leave her. Henry Clark and Pierce Jacobs will be there, I’m sure, but they won’t bring their fiddles, and they live too far away to go home for them. I don’t fancy playing the dance alone with just my flute, but there it is unless you’ll come along with me.”
A chill settled in the pit of Martin’s stomach at the thought. Playing at home was one thing, but facing a crowd of merrymakers at a dance… No. “Borrow my fiddle, Jason. You’ll do well enough.”
“I don’t know a whole night’s worth of fiddle tunes, Martin, you know that.”
“Then get Henry or Pierce to play it. I’m out of practice.”
Martin knew Jason had h
eard him play often enough over the years that he wouldn’t believe that for a minute, but he had too much tact to argue the point. He got up with a sigh. “Well, I’ll be off then. I’ll take your fiddle if you don’t mind. One of the other lads can play it.”
Martin rose to walk him to the door. Then.…
Go. Eleanor’s voice, as soft and clear as if she’d spoken in his ear. His vision blurred for a moment with the shock of it. He blinked and brought the room back into focus.
Jason stared at him. “Lad, what’s the matter?”
Martin blinked again. Jessie’s sharp eyes were on him, questioning.
Nothing like this had happened to him before. He must have imagined it, but then why did he still feel Eleanor’s presence in the room?
It didn’t matter why. Sitting home now would be more difficult than going to the dance. “Nothing’s the matter. Hold on a minute, Jason, I’m going with you.”
* * *
“You’ve got a button undone. Hold still. There.” Jean looked over Chelle’s shoulder and grinned at her in the mirror. “I’ll have to tell Brian to keep an eye on you tonight. You’re likely to cause a stir.”
Chelle looked down at her royal-blue, challie dress with its off-the-shoulder ruffled neckline, no lower than Jean’s. “Why do you say that? I’m sure there’ll be dresses less modest than ours there tonight.”
“Aye, there will, but there won’t be figures like yours inside them.” Jean’s brow puckered as she fastened a gold chain around her neck. “I’ve gotten thin since Peter came, but what’s the odds? Brian doesn’t seem to mind.”
Jean wore a sunny yellow gown that set off the sparkle of her eyes and the sheen of her hair. The princess-seamed bodice accented her slender waist and breasts enhanced by motherhood. Chelle didn’t wonder that Brian had no complaints. “Are you ready? I hear him outside.”
Out in the twilit yard, Brian helped them both onto the cart seat and wrapped his arm around his wife. “I don’t know as I want to take you out tonight, Jeannie. I think I’d just as soon keep you home.”
Jean gave him a flirtatious smile. As they started off, Chelle wrapped her mother’s embroidered shawl more tightly around her shoulders to ward off the chill of the fine evening. A plump crescent of a moon hung in the crystal sky ahead of them, surrounded by early stars. They were going to the harvest dance at the Carston Hall, the first dance Chelle had attended in over a year. For the first time since her mother’s death, she remembered that she was nineteen years old and attractive, without the responsibility of a household on her shoulders. A glow of anticipation built inside her.
As they passed the Rainnie lane, Chelle got a glimpse of lamplight from the farmhouse windows. She looked back as they drove past, picturing Leah asleep in the little room upstairs. Smoke curled from both the house’s chimneys. Jessie usually baked on Saturday evenings, and Martin was likely settling down to spend the evening by the hearth.
Chelle ignored the tug at her heart and turned back to the road, now bathed in moonlight. The night seemed made to be enjoyed, and she intended to do just that. For a few hours, she wouldn’t let anything else matter.
They reached the hall to find the yard full of farm carts, wagons, and buggies. Inside, the benches lining the stone walls were already filling up. Lanterns hung from the rafters, adding to the heat already building in the room.
The musicians still hadn’t taken their places on the platform at one end of the hall. The McShannons found space on a bench. Leaning back against the wall, Chelle scanned the room. She didn’t know any of the Carston people.
Three older couples stood chatting near the platform. When they separated, laughing, to return to their seats, Chelle’s heart did a queer little flutter. Though his broad back was turned to her, Martin stood there, fiddle in his hand, deep in conversation with a man about the age of her father. A moment later the two of them stepped onto the platform.
The first sharp, clear notes of the flute caught the crowd’s attention. They fell silent, then burst into cheers when Martin joined his companion in a fast, driving rant. Someone shouted out, “Welcome back, lad!” They settled into a reel and in a blink, two sets of dancers formed. Chelle didn’t know the steps to this particular figure, but they looked simple enough. When a third set formed, Brian led Jean out onto the floor.
As she had at the farm, Chelle lost herself in Martin’s music. Tapping her foot in time, she forgot the dancers until the reel ended. As the sets re-formed, someone tapped her shoulder.
“May I have the pleasure?”
Startled, Chelle looked up at a stocky young man with a shock of blond hair and a pleasant smile.
“Yes, I’d be glad to.”
The music began again. Her partner was a good dancer, and Chelle soon caught on to the steps. The music carried her along until she felt lighter than she had in many months.
Would Martin dance tonight? If he did, would he ask her? Her pulse quickened at the thought. This must be the first time he’d played in public since losing his wife. How was he feeling? A little ashamed of the glow of warmth that came over her, Chelle turned her thoughts back to her partner and the music.
* * *
Martin played the first reel through a storm of conflicting emotions. The welcoming cheers from the crowd touched him. Memories overwhelmed him. It wasn’t until the beginning of the third tune that he dared to look out over the dance floor.
His gaze settled on Chelle as she moved neatly through the figures, flushed and smiling, her bright hair gathered in a soft knot on top of her head, exposing the slim line of her neck. He hadn’t thought about her being here. It would surely make tongues wag, this soon after losing her mother, just as people would talk about him playing. He didn’t give a damn what anyone said about him, but Chelle’s reputation was another matter.
Martin had a speaking acquaintance with her partner, who came from one of the farms on the other side of Carston. Lester Barrow was a decent lad, and Chelle seemed to be enjoying herself with him. When the tune ended, another Carston man took Lester’s place. By intermission time, Chelle had danced with eight or nine different partners and Martin’s nerves were as taut as the strings on his fiddle.
You’re daft, Martin. What’s the odds who she dances with? You’re not in the market. But his jealousy tangled with all the other feelings raised by being here and wouldn’t be rooted out.
He stepped off the platform and joined the line at the refreshment table. Sipping his punch, he caught sight of Drew Markham lounging against the wall across the room, watching someone intently. Martin followed Drew’s gaze to where Chelle stood with her cousin and his wife. His fists clenched, eager to make the man’s teeth rattle.
Jealousy. Protectiveness. Martin had no call to feel either, but they overwhelmed him. He returned to the platform, picked up his fiddle and held it out to Jason. “Play a couple of tunes to start off, will you?”
Jason quirked an eyebrow as he took the fiddle. “Fancy joining a set? Go on, then.”
Martin eased his way through the crowd, his pulse drumming in his ears like it had at eighteen when he asked a girl to dance. The color on Chelle’s face deepened and spread to her throat when she saw him.
Standing beside her, her cousin held out his hand. “Good to see you here, Martin. You haven’t lost your touch.”
“Thanks.” He shook Brian’s hand, then turned to Chelle. “Chelle, Jason’s going to start off the next set. May I have the pleasure?”
Chelle smiled and mimicked his broad Yorkshire. “Aye, sir, I’d be flattered.”
Jason began a jig. Martin took Chelle’s hand. The warmth of her skin spread through him instantly and stayed with him as he guided her through the steps. She wore some kind of citrusy perfume that made him think of tropical, exotic places. Some of her hair had worked loose to float in soft wisps around her face, delicate, and alluring.
She could dance. She had rhythm, and she knew how to relax into the music. Caught up in her nearness, Martin f
elt as if only seconds had passed when the tune ended.
Their eyes met. Chelle averted her gaze right away, but not before he saw her pupils dilate. Jason slid into a waltz. A squeeze of Chelle’s hand brought her back into Martin’s arms.
Holding her, even lightly like this, was heaven and hell combined. No normal man could be impervious to the flush on Chelle’s skin, the creamy shoulders and distracting hint of cleavage revealed by her dress. Martin hadn’t bargained on the strength of the pull between them. It had been a long time.
“I’d say you’ve done a lot of dancing.”
Chelle looked up, her gaze casual and friendly again. She might be young, but she knew how to play the game. “Yes. I’d say you have, too.”
“Aye. Eleanor and I used to go to most of the dances hereabouts.” How many evenings had they spent in this hall? So many that Eleanor’s presence lingered here, pulling at Martin’s heart while his senses focused on the girl in his arms.
“So I’ve heard. I was a little surprised to see you here tonight.”
Somehow, Chelle’s voice helped to calm the turmoil inside him. “I’m surprised to be here.”
Her hand shifted on his shoulder, a slight, unconscious comforting movement. “How does it feel?”
“It’s difficult.” Martin guided Chelle around a younger couple who were too wrapped up in each other to have any notion of where they were on the floor. He caught a look at the young man’s face and hoped to God he didn’t look just as thunderstruck. “Still, I’m glad I’m here.”
Chelle looked up at him. “I’m glad you’re here, too. Your music is so much a part of you, it would be a shame for you to give it up.”
Martin recalled that strange moment at the house. Could that have been Eleanor telling him it was time to move on, to start living again? If so, why did he feel this wrenching sense of disloyalty at the way Chelle affected him? “Perhaps.”
She averted her eyes again. As the waltz went on, Martin got more and more caught up in the feel of Chelle under his hands. People were watching them, but they’d watch him no matter who he danced with. He should care for Chelle’s sake, but he couldn’t. Too many contradictory feelings swamped him, drowning out the voice of common sense.
Where The Heart Is (Choices of the Heart, book 1) Page 11