A Mistaken Match

by Whitney Bailey

  “I didn’t realize you’d picked cherries before.”

  “I hadn’t.” She bent her head back over her work. Her slim fingers moved over and over the rapidly growing lace.

  Back at home they rinsed the berries at the well pump and poured them into a clean bucket. They set the cherries on the kitchen table and surveyed their bounty.

  “What shall we do with them?” Ann asked.

  James stroked the stubble on his chin. The cherries were so ripe, they’d spoil by morning. He looked at Ann. Her down-turned mouth and creased brow reflected his own feelings. He’d been so excited for the free fruit, he’d forgotten neither of them had any idea what to do with them.

  “It would be a shame if they spoiled,” Ann added, proving they were thinking the same thing.

  A clap of recollection struck him. James shook his head and laughed. How could he have forgotten?

  “I’ll be right back,” he called over his shoulder, and took the steps upstairs two at a time.

  He returned to the kitchen a few minutes later with a shuffling, unhappy-looking Uncle Mac. The older man never liked leaving his room unless it was his own idea. But when Uncle Mac clapped eyes on the bucket of cherries, the gray haze behind his gaze was whisked away by a joyous light.

  Uncle Mac jabbed a crooked pointer finger at the table in excitement. “Cherries!” he croaked.

  “That’s right,” James said. “Cherries. We thought you could...”

  “Cherry pie. Ch-cherry cobbler. Cherry jam!” The words tumbled forth faster than James had heard in over a year.

  Ann’s eyes grew wide and her mouth dropped open.

  “Uncle Mac used to win the blue ribbon at the county fair for preserves and pies every year.” James explained. “Everyone made fun of him for entering the first few years, but that didn’t stop him, did it, Uncle Mac?”

  The older man grunted in the affirmative.

  “Think you could give Ann and me a hand with these?”

  Uncle Mac shuffled his feet and gazed at the ground.

  Ann stepped forward and placed a slight hand on Uncle Mac’s shoulder.

  “You might not believe it, but I scarcely know how to begin pitting them. Would you show me?”

  James’s chest stirred.

  Ann took Uncle Mac’s arm and guided him to the table. “You must be so proud of your blue ribbons,” she said as she helped Uncle Mac into his chair. A grin broke over the old man’s face. Ann looked up at James and smiled just as wide.

  James’s stomach flipped over. He strode to the cabinets and retrieved two bowls, all the while taking deep, cleansing breaths. He stood in front of the kitchen window and stared into the barnyard.

  I’m grateful she’s so good with Uncle Mac while she’s here—even if it won’t be for long. Because she isn’t staying. She doesn’t want to stay. She can’t stay.

  He turned around after his stomach settled.

  “Checked the post office today,” he announced, far too loudly. “I received a telegram from Mrs. Turner.”

  Ann raised a brow. “Oh? What did it say?”

  Had he imagined it, or was there an odd pitch to her voice?

  “Not much one can say in a telegram without paying a fortune.” He drew the paper from his pocket and unfolded it. Not that he needed to. He already had the short message memorized. “‘Please await further instructions by post.’” An unnerving sense of relief washed over him every time he read it. A letter by ship and rail would take weeks. Ann would be—

  Stop it, James! You should want her gone as soon as possible.

  Ann chewed her lip. “What do you think it means?”

  James snorted. “I think it means the agency is scrambling to contact your intended and to right their mistakes.” He pointed to her hands. “Speaking of your intended. I hope he doesn’t mind you arriving permanently stained with cherry juice.”

  Ann smirked. “My hands have seen far worse.”

  James took the empty chair across from Ann and tried to concentrate on the task before him. Within the hour the larger bowl brimmed with pitted cherries, and a large pile of yellow pits filled the other.

  Uncle Mac gestured to the stove. Without hesitation, Ann stood and lit it.

  She put her hands on her hips. “You’re the cook tonight, Uncle Mac. Show me what to do and I shall do it.”

  James moved to help, but as the wordless directions began, he could only sit back and marvel. Uncle Mac would point and grunt, and Ann would place her hands on items around the room until she had the right one. Then Uncle Mac held up fingers to denote measurements, and Ann followed the rudimentary sign language as though she’d been doing so all her life. Soon a pot of sugar and cherries simmered into jam, and an adequate-looking cobbler bubbled in the oven.

  When the flurry of production subsided, James stood and helped Ann prepare a platter of sandwiches. They ended their simple dinner with hot cherry cobbler and cream. James washed up the dishes and watched in wonder as Uncle Mac walked Ann through canning the cherry jam. By the end of the evening, six zinc-lidded pint jars cooled on the counter.

  James excused himself to do his evening chores, and when he returned he found Ann at the kitchen table, working on her lace. All of the canning pots and utensils were already cleaned and put away, and the kitchen gleamed in the lamplight.

  “You were wonderful with Uncle Mac tonight.” The words spilled out before he could stop them.

  Ann blushed. “I learned so much from him. It’s a pity he stays in his room so often. If only he would give me cooking lessons every day.”

  James ran a hand through his hair. “I’m afraid we might not see this side of Uncle Mac again for a long while. I never know what’s going to trigger his memory. It’s like a flash of lightning. So strong and so fleeting. One day he’ll forget how to lace his shoes, and the next he’ll help me rebuild a broken wagon wheel.” He sighed. “Those flashes are coming more and more seldom.”

  “But you knew the cherries would trigger his memory.”

  He raised a finger for emphasis. “I guessed they would trigger it. Some farmers whittle as a hobby or take up fishing. Uncle Mac canned blue-ribbon-winning preserves.”

  Ann chuckled. “He must have been quite the catch in his day. Handy on the farm and in the kitchen.”

  James had never noticed how genuinely she laughed. Deep and from the belly. No forced mirth like some people he knew. He found himself taking a seat in front of her when he knew he should wash up and ready his hammock on the porch for bed.

  “How’s your lace coming along?”

  She glanced up long enough from her work to flash him a quick smile.

  “Quite well, thank you.”

  The cherry pitting had flecked her porcelain skin with specks of cherry juice, which had darkened to a deep brown. His fingers ached to wipe away a large splotch on her neck. Was her skin as soft as he imagined?

  He shook his head and dragged both hands through his hair.

  “What will you do if we hear from Mrs. Turner before the lace is complete?” he asked her.

  Did he detect a shudder in her shoulders? Ann didn’t look up from her work.

  “I must pray I finish in time—for Priscilla’s sake.”

  James chuckled. “I think you mean Mrs. Williams’s sake.” He could already picture the magnitude of Priscilla’s wrath if she didn’t get exactly what she wanted, when she wanted it. And if Ann was gone, the weight of that wrath would fall on the dressmaker’s shoulders.

  Ann kept her head down, but a smile played on her lips. “For all of our sakes.”

  Chapter Ten

  Ann sat up in her bed with a start. The room was still dark, but she’d meant to wake before five. A quick squint at the wall clock told her it was already a quarter past six.
No matter how hard Ann tried, she was never up before James. Her entire life in service, both at the Athertons and the orphanage, she’d awoken at half past four. Now she desired to rise that early, but her body rebelled. It was as if her soul knew her wages would not be garnished or her position threatened if she rested a little longer.

  Downstairs, the kitchen was dark and cold, but it would soon be too warm a day to start a fire. Ann put on some coffee and prayed it would turn out better than it had every other day. When James entered the kitchen ten minutes later, he stopped in the doorway and drew in a deep breath.

  “It smells good in here,” he said with a smile.

  Ann placed a warm cup of coffee in his hand. His smile dissolved into a grimace at the first sip.

  “Tell me what I’m doing wrong,” she pleaded.

  “Hmm?” He took another sip and sputtered out a cough.

  “The coffee. I know it’s always terrible but I don’t know why. I watch you make it and think I’m doing it exactly the same. Obviously, I’m not.”

  James took yet another sip, and stared into its inky depths. “You know, I think this is growing on me. Uncle Mac sure seems to like it.”

  Ann put her hands on her hips and bit her lip to hold back her temper. “Please don’t patronize me. Tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

  If she was going to learn as much as she needed about cooking in a few short weeks, she needed more than help from Delia on the rare days that she had time and the occasional surprise tutorial from Uncle Mac.

  James’s eyes widened, but his cool demeanor didn’t change. He took a long slurp. “I’m not patronizing you. It’s doesn’t have grounds in it anymore, so it’s already much better than your first attempts. It’s stronger than I’m used to, but some people like strong coffee.”

  Ann turned her back to James and directed her attention to the skillet.

  “Let me do that,” James offered and moved to her side. She wondered if he was going to take her hand and show her again the way he had when she first arrived. Her middle quivered at the thought. Instead, he took the egg from the basket and cracked it over the skillet.

  “I should do it. I need the practice.”

  James shook his head back and forth as the egg sizzled. “I feel bad for asking you to learn to do this when you’ll probably never have to cook another meal in your life after you leave. You should work on Priscilla’s lace. I’ll take care of breakfast.”

  Ann backed away from the stove and watched James work. He whistled as he plated the eggs and added cold squares of leftover cherry cobbler. Uncle Mac’s eyes shone with excitement when she brought him his tray.

  After breakfast Ann washed the dishes, checked on Uncle Mac and hurried outside to join James.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked as she approached, his blade coming to a halt over the weeds in midswing.

  “Nothing. I thought now that your house is clean, you could use my help.”

  “What about Priscilla’s lace?”

  “Needle lace is tedious work. I can only work on it for so many hours before my hands begin to ache. Anyway, I can work on the lace by lamplight. We must make hay while the sun shines.”

  James threw back his head and laughed.

  Ann’s cheeks warmed. “Is that not something farmers say in America?”

  He shook his head and continued to smile. “No, we say it alright. It just sounded funny coming from you.”

  “Well...” She drew her shoulders back and tried to sound confident. She suddenly felt ridiculous. “Would you like to show me what to do?”

  “Are you sure Uncle Mac doesn’t need anything?”

  “He came to the door when I knocked and waved me away when I asked if he needed anything.”

  “Alright.” He placed his hands on his trim hips. “Have you ever weeded a field before?”

  She pursed her lips. “No, but don’t you think I can learn?”

  James smirked. “I suppose so—though I thought you’d learn to cook an egg without crumbling the shell by now.”

  Ann let out a huff. His teasing always quickened her pulse. Sometimes in excitement, occasionally in annoyance. The former was pleasantly unnerving. The latter was infuriating.

  This time was the latter.

  “It can’t be very hard if you can do it,” she threw back.

  Ann knelt down and grasped a weed.

  “Stop!”

  Every muscle in Ann’s body tensed. Her fingers gripped the base of the plant, but she didn’t move an inch. Ann held her breath as James knelt beside her and wrapped his hand around hers. He smelled of sweat and earth, and his hands were hot but dry. He pried back Ann’s fingertips, and guided her hand from the straggly plant she’d almost pulled to a robust green shoot topped with feathery leaves.

  “What you were about to pull is our crop—corn. This—” he squeezed her fingers together around the base of the green leaves “—is a weed.”

  Ann’s heart sank. “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “It’s the same height as the corn.”

  “That’s why we’re weeding. See these leaves?” He ran his fingers over the feathery top. “These leaves are shading out our corn and drawing nutrients from the soil. Our corn is being choked and starved by the invasion. Once the weeds are gone, the corn won’t have to fight anything for water and sun. It can grow healthy and strong.”

  She tried to follow what he said, but his nearness was so distracting, she could scarcely hear her own thoughts. What should have been a methodical lesson grew suffocatingly intimate as James’s patient voice caressed her ear. They both crouched near the ground, their faces inches from one another.

  When he took her hand again to demonstrate the best way to pull a weed, she held her breath. His large hands and calloused fingers were steady and gentle. The brim of his hat obscured his hazel eyes, and so Ann kept her eyes on his mouth, hoping it would help her focus on his words. Instead, she found herself admiring his perfectly formed lips and the line of his masculine jaw.

  “Do you understand?”

  Ann shook away the fog of attraction and nodded.

  Please, Lord, help me guard my fragile heart. I can’t let it break again.

  He continued on, “Think you can tell the difference now?”

  “That’s corn.” She pointed to several plants marching in a drunken row. “And those are weeds.”

  He smiled. “I’ll be going down each row with a hoe to break up the roots. You follow behind me and pull the ones near the corn’s base that I can’t reach without damaging the crop.”

  Ann pointed to some tiny weeds, not more than a few inches tall. “Am I to pull these, too? They certainly aren’t going to shade out the corn.”

  “Get them early. You’d be surprised how fast they can grow. Besides, they’re still using soil and water.”

  Ann eyed the enormous expanse in front of them. “I never imagined there could be so much work involved.”

  James laughed. “You have no idea. This is the third time I’ve cultivated the soil this season, and if we do it right, it may be my last.”

  He dropped his head and dug into the soft soil with the blade of his hoe. Ann crouched behind and plucked the tiny seedlings that were sure to grow as green and tall as their brethren. At first, he stopped every few minutes to check on her progress, and each time she was right there behind him. Soon his checks became less and less frequent, and each time the smile on his face grew wider and wider.

  Two hours later they were within a few yards of the woods at the back of the property, and the house stood a quarter mile away. Ann pushed the wide-brimmed straw hat back from her forehead and looked heavenward. The sun beat down from its highest point in the sky.

  “Are your knees sore? Does your back hurt?” he asked as they came to the end of a row.

/>   “Not at all,” she answered.

  He squinted through the sweat slipping off his brow. “Are you sure? You’ve been kneeling for hours.”

  “I’m fine. This soil is soft compared to the floors I used to scrub.”

  James chuckled and shook his head from side to side. “I know you were a maid, but I always pictured you helping ladies get dressed, even after you cleaned my house so well.”

  “You’re thinking of a lady’s maid. I was a chambermaid. The two are very, very different.”

  He held out his hand and pulled Ann to her feet. “They must be.”

  James held fast to her hands as she gained footing on the uneven ground. She found a small clear spot to stand on a mound of dirt and noted that the elevation raised her height several inches. Ann let go of his hands and immediately teetered forward on her perch. His hands darted out and grasped her by the waist, and Ann’s grasp found his shoulders.

  In an instant she became keenly aware of every part of James McCann. The warmth of his cotton shirt and the firm muscles beneath. The way he smelled like earth and clean sweat. How perspiration on his brow had curled the locks of hair on his forehead. Despite the firm grip he had on her, Ann’s head spun and her legs wobbled. She wrapped an arm around his neck to steady herself. His hazel eyes were so close, she was certain she could count each one of his dark lashes. Had his breath grown faster, or was it her own?

  “Can you forgive me?” he murmured.

  She shook her head, not in response, but to push away the fuzzy feeling that left her dazed. “Forgive you for what?” she finally managed.

  “You once told me you could work as hard as anyone, and I laughed at you.” He stared down at her with half-lidded eyes. She’d never seen such attractive eyes on a man.

  Stop looking at him! Protect your heart.

  She wrenched her arm from his neck and took several steps back, nearly tripping herself in the process. Once steady, she glanced about for some other topic of conversation. The next field over had grown quite near.

  “No one is outside at the Schneiders.”

  James followed her gaze. His soft eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. “No, they’re not.” He removed the dusty hat from his head and beat it fiercely against his leg, sending waves of dirt off the brim. “And I don’t expect they will be anytime soon. It’s a wonder Hal Schneider got his crop in the ground.”