The Gentle Wind's Caress

by Anne Brear

  Isabelle nodded. ‘You’re a good boy.’

  ‘So, we’re off to market tomorrow?’ Hughie asked, wiping his hand across his mouth.

  She stood and opened the oven door to check on the golden currant buns cooking. ‘Yes, if Farrell brings the cart back in time.’

  ‘I checked his hidey hole today.’

  Isabelle spun to face him, her eyes wide. ‘You shouldn’t have. You know how he reacts.’ She paused, her voice dropping to a whisper, ‘Tell me there wasn’t anything in there.’

  ‘It was empty.’ Hughie stretched and yawned. ‘But you can’t tell me he’s stopped.’

  Her heartbeat drummed in her chest. ‘He promised he would.’

  Hughie snorted, suddenly looking much older than his fourteen years. ‘Then where does his beer money come from?’

  Chapter Six

  The cries of stallholders carried on the wind and filled the marketplace. Early morning crowds, all eager for a good buy, picked their way past the numerous stalls. Housewives and grandmothers fiddled with sale items, bargaining for the right price, while servants inspected fruit, fish and cheese to make certain their master’s money bought only the best.

  Isabelle viewed the stream of people from behind her stall. Smiling, she nodded to those who stared at the newcomer. Her tarts, pies and cakes lay on a clean sheet covering the trestle table. Farrell, having driven her to the market, had then disappeared, but promised to pick her up at one o’clock.

  Her neighbouring stallholder, a grey haired elderly man selling garden tools and other ironmonger equipment, stepped nearer. ‘I’ve not seen yer before?’

  She smiled in reply. ‘No. This is my first time here. I’m Isabelle Gib-Farrell.’

  ‘Farrell?’ He took his pipe out of his mouth. ‘The only Farrell’s I know are from Meadow Farm or out along Sowerby way.’

  ‘I live at Meadow Farm.’

  ‘Yer married Len Farrell?’ His incredulous look made her uncomfortable.

  ‘Yes.’ She noticed that behind the old man, more stallholders in the row were suddenly very interested in her. Her skin prickled from their scrutiny.

  The old man replaced his pipe and shook his head, mumbling. ‘More fool you then, lass.’

  A customer to her stall saved Isabelle from worrying at the old man’s comment. Besides, he couldn’t tell her anything that she didn’t already know or suspect about her husband. She hurriedly assisted the woman whose three children fondled her delicious pies and tarts. Each child received a slap from their mother for their rudeness before the woman bought an apple pie.

  For the next hour, Isabelle remained busy as a slow but constant line of purchasers filed by. Her skirt pocket jingled with coins, and buoyant with her success, Isabelle smiled widely at anyone who looked her way. Yes, she was new and drew interest but she didn’t care. For the first time in her life she had earned money and the success of it made her light-headed.

  As the midday rush dwindled to a trickle, Isabelle placed the last remaining lemon curd tart in her smallest basket. She stacked two other baskets into the biggest one and then folded the sheet. She glanced up as a large woman with straggly black hair and a hairy chin stoped in front. ‘I’m sorry, I only have a tart left, but I’ll be back next week-’

  ‘No, yer wont!’ The woman sneered, bending forward over the table just inches from Isabelle’s face. She smelt of stale sweat and ale.

  Isabelle stepped back. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Didn’t yer ‘ear me?’ The woman spat to the side. ‘Yer ain’t coming back to this market!’

  Alarmed, Isabelle looked at the gathering crowd, who having heard raised voices thought they might find some free entertainment.

  The enormous woman placed hands, as large as frying pans on her wide hips and stared at Isabelle as though she was filth in the gutter. ‘Yer’ve tekken me trade away. I’ve sold next ter nowt terday!’ She stabbed a fat finger at Isabelle. ‘I sell the pies and tarts around ‘ere see, and old Mrs Brierly at top end sells her bread. Tis an arrangement we’ve had fer nigh on ten years.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware-’

  ‘Well, I’m telling yer now aren’t I?’ The woman crossed her wobbly arms under her huge pendulous breasts. She was a giant and Isabelle, standing at five foot five, felt like a dwarf.

  A few jeers filtered through from the back. Isabelle straightened, trying not to be intimidated. ‘I am certain there are more than enough people buying to allow my stall here too.’

  As quick as a flash, the woman grabbed a fistful of Isabelle’s hair and pulled her across the trestle. Isabelle screamed. The crowd roared. The woman’s grip tightened. ‘Listen ter me, yer scraggly poacher’s woman! I’ll not be told what ter do by the likes of you!’

  Anger and pain mixed to give Isabelle the rage of a charging bull. She scrambled over the table and grabbed the woman’s hand that held her hair as the people at the front spread the word to those at the back that a fight was on.

  ‘Let go of me you filthy cow.’ Isabelle tried prising the fat fingers from her hair, but the woman jerked her head. Fit to kill, Isabelle swung her fist and landed one on the woman’s chin.

  In an instant she was free. She sagged back against the table holding her head. Her eyes watered with the throbbing of her scalp.

  ‘What is going on here!’ The authoritative voice silenced the commotion. The gathering parted and Ethan Harrington rode straight up to the stall even though his horse was in fear of trampling people and goods together.

  Isabelle looked away, embarrassed. He, of all people to see her fighting in public! Her shame grew.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  Isabelle thought he was asking her and jerked around, but he stared at the large hoyden. She closed her eyes momentarily in relief.

  ‘Marge Wilmot.’

  Harrington pointed his riding crop at her. ‘Make any more trouble like that again, and I’ll have you arrested for disturbing the peace.’ His hard, unforgiving stare swept the crowd. ‘Be gone, all of you!’

  Mutters and foot scuffling signalled their departure though Isabelle didn’t watch. She turned away and slipped behind the stall to collect her baskets.

  ‘Mrs Farrell?’

  At his sympathetic tone, emotion sealed her throat. Never had she been involved in such a spectacle. Her mother and Sally would have been so ashamed. Her grip tightened on the basket’s handle. Slowly, she raised her gaze. His toffee-coloured eyes held tenderness before he quickly masked it.

  Harrington dismounted, lifted his horse’s reins over its head and held them. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘N…no.’ Actually her head felt on fire, but she wouldn’t have told him that even if she were put to torture. His expression softened and she instinctively knew that he saw through her lie.

  ‘Where is your husband?’

  ‘He is to collect me at one o’clock.’ Suddenly she didn’t want Farrell to be anywhere near her or Harrington.

  Harrington took out his fob watch and opened it. ‘He’s late.’

  ‘He’ll be along any minute.’ Her cheeks grew hot under his sharp gaze. Her heart thumped against her ribs. ‘Th...Thank you for your help.’

  ‘You are welcome.’ He tucked the watch back into his waistcoat pocket and glanced around at the emptying market. ‘What was the argument about?’

  ‘She was unhappy about my selling pies. She does the same and today the people shunned her stall and instead wanted to sample my wares.’ The moment the words were out of her mouth, Isabelle blushed violently. Lord, she sounded like a whore on a street corner. ‘I meant…not my wares as in…you see…what I mean was-’

  His laughter echoed throughout the emptying stalls and the last few people in the market spun to stare at them. ‘I do know what you mean.’

  She dropped her gaze and bit her lip. He must think me the oddest fool.

  He grew serious again. ‘It might not be wise to come here again. Mrs Wilmot will enlist her cronies to support her heckling next time.’


  Swift fury at the injustice of it made her voice sharp. ‘She cannot keep me from running a stall. I need to earn money. The market is big enough for the both of us. She just doesn’t like the competition! My baking is undoubtedly superior.’

  His eyes widened at her speech and the words she used.

  Unashamed of her mother’s teachings, Isabelle raised her chin. She might now live on a farm, but she was educated and above the class of that Wilmot woman.

  Harrington’s mouth lifted slightly as though he fought a grin. ‘I suspect you are correct. Nevertheless, she will make it difficult for you.’

  Isabelle tossed her head. ‘Let her try.’

  Something she couldn’t name flared in his brandy eyes, lighting them with gold. The atmosphere surrounding them seemed to suck the air out of her lungs. She stared at him boldly, ignoring the way heat circled her belly. Her gaze dropped to his lips, and she had an unexpected urge to touch them with her fingertips.

  Clatter from behind her shattered their fascination with each other. Regretfully, she turned and stared as her husband halted the cart at the end of the stall row. Isabelle swallowed and glanced back to Harrington. ‘Thank you for your help.’

  He peered at Farrell seated upon the cart and once more became rigid. He bowed to her, stiff and formal. ‘Until we meet again, Isabelle Gibson Farrell.’

  Wordlessly, she turned from him and towards her husband. The baskets’ wicker handles seemed embedded in her hands so tight did she clutch them. She walked the length of the row on unsteady legs, certain that Ethan Harrington watched her every step.

  ‘What did he want?’ Farrell asked the second she was in speaking range.

  ‘Nothing at all.’ Isabelle placed the baskets in the back of the cart and then hoisted herself up onto the seat, knowing Farrell wouldn’t get down to help.

  ‘I don’t want yer talking to him.’ He whipped up the horse.

  ‘I can hardly ignore him can I? He is our landlord after all.’ She ached to look back to see if he still watched. She didn’t understand what had happened between them, but she knew something certainly did. The thought frightened and warmed her.

  ***

  Isabelle sauntered across the snow-covered fields behind the farm. In her pocket she had a handful of grain to throw out for the geese and ducks that dogged her every footstep, even the sheep liked to follow her. The sun was high, though its heat wasn’t enough to melt the thick layer of January snow or banish the cold.

  She left the animals behind, climbed over the stile and crossed Draper’s Lane to enter the frigid winter woodland of Hawden Hole. This area, flowing down the escarpment to Hebden Water had become a favourite place for Isabelle to escape from her endless chores and disgruntled home life. She had thought she could cope living this way, but with each passing day she became aware of how wrong she’d been.

  The sad thing was, she knew she would be happy living on a farm if only she had the respect of a good man. She wouldn’t mind the hard work if she only received a warm smile of gratitude, but living with Farrell meant living with a stranger. It wasn’t as if she wanted his love, his attention, she didn’t, and that’s what made the situation even more unbearable, because she was trapped. Trapped in a loveless life. There would be no children for her, and once Hughie married and moved away, she’d have no one to care for or to love her. The years ahead stretched out into an abyss of lonely blackness.

  A gentle breeze whistled through the bare trees, lifting the fine hair at her brow that peeped out from under her hood. Strolling, she trailed a stick on the frozen water of a tiny stream. Where rocks poked out ice had broken away and the water trickled through. The sound of the tinkling water soothed her nerves fraught with tension. She had escaped the house after calming both Hughie and Farrell. Their arguments were becoming more frequent as the winter made them spend days cooped up inside. They argued about chores and played her off one against the other until she was ready to scream.

  Farrell refused to do more than a small amount of work and was determined to treat Hughie like a slave. She understood Hughie’s resentment and felt it, but he went out of his way to annoy Farrell and she found that Hughie was quick to shirk work too if he could. Between the pair of them, Isabelle didn’t know which was worse, and sometimes being stuck in the middle tested her sanity.

  The sound of crunching snow shattered the quiet. Her head jerked up. Ethan Harrington rode out from behind a tree on the opposite side of the stream with his tan dog running beside. He reined in his horse, and it snorted steam into the cold air. The dog stopped at once to look at his master for instructions.

  Isabelle stared at Harrington. He wore a long, dark grey riding coat lined with sable. His shiny black leather knee-length boots matched his black kid-leather gloves. He wore no hat and the breeze played with his chestnut brown hair.

  Again she had the urge to touch him. She dropped her stick and tucked her hands inside her cloak’s pockets. Silence stretched.

  ‘How are you?’ His voice sounded loud within the frozen woodland.

  ‘Well, thank you.’

  ‘I hear you are still causing a stir within the market community.’

  She raised her chin. The problems she experienced at the market each week wore on her spirit. She wished she could stop going, but despite the torment from Marge Wilmot, people still bought her pies and she needed the money from it. ‘The trouble is not my doing.’

  ‘I know that.’

  Isabelle looked away into the trees. A lone bird flew from a branch. She wondered how this man’s presence could unnerve and please her at the same time. Blood pounded in her ears. Every ounce of her body tingled with awareness.

  Leather creaked as he dismounted. His dog walked beside him as Harrington stepped to the edge of the stream. Across the water they gazed at each other, reaffirming the details of each other they’d memorised before. She knew this and accepted it.

  ‘When do you go to market again?’

  Her heart somersaulted at the question. ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Where does he leave you?’

  ‘At the south end of the market.’

  ‘What time? I’ll meet you.’

  She swallowed, every bit of her wanted whatever it was he offered, yet some voice inside her head told her to walk away. The image of her grandfather shaking hands with his parishioners on the steps of his church came to mind. He had made her feel so proud. Would he be proud of her wicked thoughts now?

  ‘Isabelle...’ His whisper carried to lie gently on her skin.

  Her shallow breathing hurt her chest. She shook her head as though to clear it. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Will you meet me?’ His eyes did not plead, did not beg.

  She turned away. Her steps quickened. She gathered up her skirts and ran.

  ***

  ‘Where is he!’ Isabelle stomped around the kitchen. For the umpteenth time, she went to the window and looked out. Despite the falling snow, she still wanted to go to the market. Her thoughts shied away from the fact Harrington might be there. She needed to go to earn money that’s all she could think about. Her empty purse spurred her on. On the table, her baskets brimmed with pies and tarts. Farrell had left last night without telling her his plans, and here it was past eight o’clock the next morning, and he hadn’t returned.

  ‘He’ll be here soon.’ Hughie sat by the fire darning a sock. ‘The snow has likely held him up.’

  ‘What keeps him out night after night?’ She stamped her foot in frustration. ‘He drinks more than a sailor does on his first day back at port!’

  Hughie grinned.

  The sound of scratching made Isabelle frown. The snowstorm grew in intensity. She could no longer see the outbuildings. The scratching sounded again. ‘What is that?’

  Hughie shrugged. ‘The trees on the window upstairs?’

  Isabelle stepped away from the window, nibbling her fingertips. There would be no market day today. She went to walk into the scullery when a thu
mp hit the back door. She opened it and cried out as Farrell landed at her feet.

  Hughie dashed to her side and together they stared at her husband’s bloody form.

  ‘Heaven’s above!’ Isabelle bent to touch him. He stirred and moaned. ‘Help me bring him inside, Hughie.’

  They grabbed him under the arms and dragged him down the step and onto the kitchen floor. His coat was missing and his wet woollen vest cloaked him like another skin.

  Farrell opened and closed his eyes. ‘Isabelle…’

  ‘What happened to you?’ She took a dishcloth from the table and knelt to wipe the blood oozing from a cut in his forehead. She gestured to Hughie. ‘Get me some blankets off the bed and a pillow too. He’s too heavy to lift, so I’ll have to make a bed in here for him.’

  As Hughie ran to do as she bid, Isabelle quickly made him a cup of sweet tea and held his head up to pour a little into his mouth. Next, she rubbed Farrell’s cold hands between her own. Hughie ran into the room with the items she asked for, and Isabelle placed the pillow under Farrell’s head. ‘Heat a warming pan, Hughie.’

  Farrell’s eyes fluttered, he moaned between blue lips.

  Isabelle ran into the scullery and found an old pair of gloves. She returned and tugged them onto his icy hands. ‘Lord, what have you done to yourself?’

  He murmured and opened his eyes. She tucked the blanket around him more securely. ‘Lie still.’

  ‘No…’

  She put the cup to his lips again. ‘Drink this now. You need to get warm.’

  He slowly eased himself up onto one elbow. ‘Got to hide.’ He wheezed and then coughed. His split lip began to bleed freely again.

  ‘Hide?’ She frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘They’ll find me here!’ He tried to get up, but she pushed him back down.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Had to run…’

  Hughie knelt down beside them. ‘Has he lost his mind?’

  ‘Heaven knows, silly man. It’d be hardly surprising if he has, being out in this weather all night.’ She made Farrell drink again. ‘Take his boots off, Hughie.’