Sleep didn’t come easy that night. The house remained quiet but Ann’s thoughts did not. Each time her eyes closed, she saw herself on the streets. Sometimes in England. Other times, America. No matter the location, the image sent her pulse racing.
When sleep finally overcame her, fear haunted her dreams. Night fell and a destitute Ann lived in a filthy alley overrun by rats. She found a quiet corner and curled into a ball in a desperate attempt at sleep. As she closed her eyes in exhaustion, a ghastly howl pierced the quiet of the night. A moment before she’d been alone. Now a screaming baby in a bundle of rags wailed into Ann’s chest. Its face reddened with each cry, and from its open cave of a mouth spilled forth the most horrible sound she’d ever heard.
Ann awoke with a start and shuddered. The room remained dark and she threw back the sheets now soaked with sweat. It had been over two years since she’d heard that cry. Two years of trying to forget. Now it echoed in her ears as if she’d last heard it yesterday. Ann hugged her knees to her chest and rocked back and forth.
Please, Lord, she prayed. May I never have that horrid dream again.
* * *
James couldn’t get comfortable. He’d slept on the back porch countless nights before, but tonight the hammock sagged more than usual, his pillow lumped beneath his head and the still air drew every mosquito within a mile to his breath. He stretched a tattered quilt over his face but only succeeded in trapping several whining insects beneath it.
Why did she have to be beautiful? Certainly plain girls were everywhere, if the population of New Haven was any indication. Did the British consider Ann homely? James chuckled at the ridiculous thought. An island nation populated entirely by women as exquisitely attractive as Ann Cromwell would be a sight to see.
Hours passed and sleep never came. Soon it would be light and the chance for rest would be gone. A mournful moo echoed through the barn beside him. James flipped from the hammock onto his feet and stretched his arms until they touched the bead board of the porch ceiling. No sense waiting another hour to milk the cow. It might help keep his mind occupied on anything other than the woman asleep upstairs.
When dawn peeked her head over the horizon, James had completed all of his prebreakfast chores, mucked out the horse stall and reorganized his hand tools. He would have repainted the whole house if it meant avoiding Ann for a few more minutes. His stomach grumbled loudly and he sighed in defeat. He would have to go inside eventually.
Lord, please let her hair be up, he prayed as he entered. James didn’t think he could stand the temptation of seeing her blond hair cascading over her shoulders again as it had the night before. When she’d entered the kitchen, it had taken everything he had not to tear up the letter to Mrs. Turner right then and there. But that wouldn’t have been fair to any of them. This wasn’t where she belonged.
Something felt different when he entered the house. The soles of his boots left gray ghosts of dust on the floor as he walked. Odd. They’d never done that before.
Ann stood at the stove. He was thankful to note that her hair was pinned up. He grunted a hello, poured a cup of coffee and sat down.
“Would you like some breakfast?” she asked.
He nodded into his cup.
“Will your uncle be joining us?”
“Uncle Mac takes most meals in his room. If he doesn’t come down shortly, you can take some up to him.”
Ann cracked two eggs into the skillet from the basketful he’d collected early that morning and left in the kitchen long before Ann awoke. They sent up a sizzle and added a homey scent to the new and pleasant odor in the room. When had he smelled it before? Something was definitely different. The white of the baseboards gleamed whiter. The red-checked curtain over the window hung crisp and vibrant. And the floor had been scrubbed! He realized that his boots always left prints, only now he could see them as they contrasted against the gleaming wood.
She set breakfast before him. Two eggs and a thick slice of leftover bread she must have found in the pantry. His stomach rumbled and he shoveled in several bites. Raw egg white mingled with burned yolk. A large shard of eggshell crunched between his teeth. James stifled a gag and sipped his coffee. Coffee grounds mixed with the mess of egg in his mouth and he swallowed hard. His stomach churned. Thank You, Lord. He needed a reminder of why he’d requested a plain bride.
“You said you used to be a maid?”
“That’s right.”
“You’ve never been a cook.”
“No, the house always had its own cook. I worked only as a maid.”
James sighed. “Come here.”
She stepped closer.
“Did you use lard?” She shook her head no. “Had you ever cracked an egg before?” Her cheeks colored and she shook her blond head again. “Why did you scramble them?”
“The yolks broke.”
He sighed again and pushed away from the table. Ann stood stock-still until he grasped her by the elbow, and guided her to the stove. James retrieved an egg from the basket on the sideboard and cradled it in his palm.
“Think of this egg as money. If you hadn’t gone and ruined those—” he cocked his head toward the table “—I could have sold them for almost two cents apiece. You wouldn’t throw two cents out into the field would you?”
As the words came out, he was vaguely aware he was speaking to her as though she were a child. She cocked a brow and crossed her arms. “No, I would not throw two cents out into the field,” she replied coolly.
“What you do is this. Make sure the skillet is nice and hot and drop in some lard. Roll it around until it sizzles. If it smokes, move it off the fire.” He could make eggs in his sleep. Once the lard had melted into a shimmering puddle, he deftly cracked the egg with one hand. It hit the pan with a hiss and bubbled along its edges.
“I don’t like my eggs scrambled. I like them over easy. It takes some practice and a soft touch.” He took her hand and placed it on the handle of the spatula and covered her hand with his own. Together they turned over the egg. It sizzled again.
“The yolk didn’t break,” she half whispered.
James chuckled. “Not if you do it right. Fetch that plate,” he directed.
She retrieved his dish from the table and scraped the offending eggs into the slop bucket. He took the plate and held it near the skillet.
“Can you do this yourself? You still need to be gentle.”
“I think so.” She slid the spatula under the egg and James held his breath as it crossed the short distance from skillet to plate. They smiled at each other as it came to rest.
“Perfect,” he breathed. James raised the plate to his nose and inhaled. “Now, do the next one by yourself.”
Ann yelped and jumped back from the stove. She’d grasped the blisteringly hot handle of the cast-iron skillet.
James’s heart jumped to this throat and he snatched up her hand. The flesh on her thumb and first three fingers pulsed red and angry. Several white blisters appeared before his eyes. He plunged her hand into a pitcher of water on the kitchen table. “You must always cover the handle of the skillet with a towel,” he gently scolded. He withdrew her hand and blew a cool stream of air on it. “Does it still hurt?” he murmured between breaths.
She bit her lip. “Yes,” she gasped.
Without a word he slipped an arm around her waist and led her out the back door. The water pump stood a few yards away. He pumped the handle with one hand and plunged her fingers beneath the icy stream that bubbled forth with the other. Every few moments he removed her hand from the water, examined it and blew a new stream of air across the wet skin to ease the pain.
Each time he drew a breath he also took in the scent of her. Lavender soap and rose petals. Focus! He had to focus on her hand. If he broke the blisters, she risked infection. A curl of her golden hair escaped its pin
s and brushed his cheek. She turned her face to him and smiled weakly. He shivered.
The shudder of movement cleared his head. He’d let her entrance him again. “We need to get some salve on this,” he said gruffly.
“Do you have butter?”
“Butter’s no good. I have something better.” He grasped her uninjured hand and drew her back into the house. He left her in the kitchen and returned with a tiny silver tin and strips of clean cloth. She wrinkled her nose as he slathered the foul-smelling paste on the burn, but he smiled at the sulfuric, acrid scent. It always reminded him of Mother.
“This smells awful.” She drew up her mouth and pinched her nose.
He mimicked her grimace and laughed.
“What’s so funny?” She tried to jerk her injured hand away but he held on tighter.
“Just trust old Doctor McCann.” He slowly wound the strips of cloth around her slim fingers as he scrutinized the calluses dotting her palm. He still couldn’t imagine a beauty like her assigned to more than the lightest of household tasks. Maybe she was simply thin-skinned?
She picked up the tin of salve with her free hand and eyed the contents. “What’s in this?” she asked warily.
“Beeswax, honey and a few local herbs, among other things.”
“What kind of herbs?”
“Guess.”
Before he could stop her, she placed the tin under her nose and took a deep breath. Her eyes watered and her rosy cheeks turned beet red. She coughed daintily into the sleeve of her free arm but the cough turned into a choke. Soon tears streamed down her cheeks as she barked in ladylike fits. James laughed.
“What is so funny?” she demanded as she wiped at her streaming cheeks.
“I’m sorry, Ann. I didn’t mean to laugh. You just looked so adorable.”
His stomach turned to ice and his heart raced. He dropped her hand.
“I looked so what?” Her deep blue eyes narrowed.
Had she really not heard? “I have a lot of work to do outside,” he mumbled. He had to get away from her. “I’ll take my breakfast with me.”
James snatched up his plate and stepped onto the back porch. The cool morning air washed over him like a sobering bucket of cold water.
The emotional ups and downs that came just from being around Ann were making him dizzy—and angry. He’d had such a simple plan: marry for practicality to a plain, decent woman who’d never leave him so twisted up inside. And then Ann walked into his life and ruined everything, from his peace of mind to his sleep to his breakfast. He stomped back into the kitchen.
“This.” He pointed to the slop bucket with the ruined eggs. “This is why I didn’t want a pretty bride.”
Ann’s cheeks flushed crimson and she clenched her hands into fists. “You think an ugly girl will make you a better breakfast?”
“I need to eat, Ann. Uncle Mac needs to eat. The animals need to eat. The crops need to be planted and harvested. And you can’t even cook an egg.”
“I’m sorry I’m a disappointment to you, Mr. McCann, but why are you berating me? If I’m another man’s intended, you won’t be bothered with me much longer.”
James’s cheeks burned. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. Forgive me.”
He escaped out the back door before he could say something else he regretted. Ann was right. It didn’t matter that, despite the disastrous breakfast, in a single morning she’d impressed him with much more than her beauty. She’d risen early to clean the entire kitchen by dawn, made an attempt at breakfast and stood stoically through the dressing of a burn that would likely make a grown man cry. None of that mattered. The agency intended her for another, and he had to keep reminding himself of that. Forget for an instant and he risked falling in love.
Chapter Four
James had been gone half an hour, and Uncle Mac still hadn’t appeared. Did James still expect her to bring the older man his breakfast? She fried a second batch of eggs that, despite James’s lesson, looked only slightly better than her first. She fished out a large piece of eggshell with the tines of a fork and broke both yolks in the transfer to the plate. Ann exhaled loudly as the yellow liquid ran over the burned edges of white.
She scrounged a dented metal tray from the pantry, and arranged the tray with the plate of eggs, the coffeepot and a cup and saucer. After surveying the meager meal, she added the last of the bread heel she’d found under an oilcloth. On impulse, Ann poured a cup of coffee for herself and sipped. Wretched! She spit the bitter mess back into the cup and replaced the coffee with a mug of milk. Her ill-suited suitor was right. She was hopeless in the kitchen.
Upstairs, she hesitated at the bedroom door next to hers. Ann had years of experience serving, but her employers expected her to remain unseen. She cleaned rooms after the family vacated them, and if called to a room where her employers were present, she entered and exited as quickly as her legs and duties allowed. But that kind of detachment wouldn’t do here.
“Mr. McCann? This is Ann Cromwell. I have your breakfast.” Her knuckles softly rapped the paneled door. Was he even a McCann? Oh dear, she may have offended the man. Feet shuffled on the other side, but they didn’t move toward the door. Had his nephew even shared with him news of Ann’s arrival?
“Mr... Sir? Your nephew sent for me through the Transatlantic Agency. I’m to...to stay with both of you for a time.” How had the burden of explanation fallen on her shoulders?
Ann waited several long minutes, knocking louder and louder at regular intervals, but still no one approached the door. The sounds from the other side assured her Uncle Mac remained both alive and mobile. She set the tray on the floor.
“I’ve left you a tray of breakfast, sir. I hope you enjoy it.” Unlikely.
Back in the kitchen, she cleaned up the few dishes from breakfast and surveyed the room. It had been dusk when they arrived the night before, and the house had appeared neat and well-ordered. In the morning light she’d discovered the truth. Everything had been tidied recently, but by someone who knew every trick of creating the illusion of clean. Tabletops were spotless, but the spaces beneath were a tangle of cobwebs. Windows had been washed but their sills were trimmed with dust. Had James even noticed how she’d scrubbed the floors, wiped down the baseboards and chased spiders from every corner? And all before she’d prepared breakfast.
Ruined breakfast, she chided herself.
She never expected to become a proficient cook overnight, but her first attempts in the kitchen were sobering. To earn her keep here, and cook for herself when she left, she’d need to learn. Perhaps James would give her a few more lessons.
Ann tried to shake the thought from her head, but it wouldn’t budge. The whole thing had been a dreadful mess, and yet the memory stirred her heart. The thought of James standing beside her, his strong hand gently guiding her through each step of frying an egg sent goose bumps down her arms. When she’d carelessly burned her fingers, those same strong hands turned impossibly gentle as he tended her wounds. For a brief moment she’d forgotten she wasn’t meant for James and had thanked God for her good fortune at being matched with someone so unlike the man who’d caused her so much pain in the past.
Just as quickly the memory soured. She didn’t blame James for his outburst. He knew as well as she did they weren’t meant for one another. It did neither of them any good to pretend. But did he have to remind her of her shortcomings? She knew them as well as anyone.
Ann’s stomach knotted as it so often did when she grew nervous or upset. She chided herself. James McCann occupied far too many of her thoughts already, despite being no more than a begrudging temporary landlord and she his unwelcome houseguest. She needed a distraction. Polishing and scrubbing were good for that, but she’d already depleted the meager supply of soap and polish she’d found in the cabinet. Her needle lace had always been
a comfort to her, so she fetched some from her room and set to work.
The simple piece—a square of linen on which she built up needle-lace scallops and flower petals one stitch at a time—didn’t require enough attention to prevent her mind from drifting back to her situation. Despite James’s beliefs, she knew no one waited for her. She would soon be alone in a strange country. Basic necessities to buy. Room and board to pay. The very thought of each expense made Ann’s stomach go cold.
Embroidery proved a very poor distraction. Her hands trembled over the stitching as she contemplated her future, and after she ruined the third petal with her carelessness, she tucked the lace away in her apron pocket.
The creak of floorboards snapped her attention to the back porch. The wooden screen door swung open and James entered in his stocking feet. He’d walked through the kitchen with his dusty shoes on this morning. Did this mean he’d taken note of the markedly cleaner floor?
“Is lunch ready?”
Ann’s throat constricted. A glance at the clock proved the day approached noon. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you wanted me to prepare something.”
“That’s alright. I don’t think I could stomach another meal like breakfast.”
Heat rose up the back of Ann’s neck, and her fingers itched to snatch a plate from the table and launch it at his head. James smiled and teasingly winked. The angry heat receded a little.
“I’ve cooked my own meals for years. I think I can manage a little longer in exchange for a house this clean,” he added.
A Mistaken Match Page 4