by Anne Brear
‘What about culling those four ewes, Mr Harrington told you to do?’
Isabelle winced at the mention of his name. ‘Yes, I must arrange for a butcher to come to the farm. I didn’t want to have them slaughtered, as it might not be their fault they didn’t take with the ram. Maybe the ram didn’t do his job?’ She looked out the door. The rain had stopped and the dripping moisture made music of its own. In the distance, blue sky showed between sheets of grey cloud. ‘Don’t take too long in here.’ She called over her shoulder and, head down, ran for the house.
‘Isabelle!’
On hearing her name called, she skidded to a halt and splashed dirty puddle water across her boots and up her stockings. Damn!
Ethan Harrington rode further into the yard and dismounted. ‘How are you?’
Her heart hammered as though a blacksmith lived in her chest. She swallowed and drank in the sight of him. His lack of hat always surprised her, even more so today as the rain had plastered his hair to his scalp. ‘This is hardly the weather to be out riding.’ Now why did I say that? She shook her head.
His gaze pierced her soul. ‘It is not enough to keep me from you.’
Isabelle darted a look at the shed, but Hughie wasn’t yet aware of their visitor. ‘You have no right to say such things.’
‘I speak the truth.’ He stepped closer.
‘We are both married. Had that escaped your notice?’
‘Nothing about you escapes me.’
She held up her hand as if to ward him off. ‘Please don’t.’
‘May I be invited in?’ He indicated towards the house.
‘No.’ Isabelle’s legs threatened to give way. Memories of his kiss, his touch consumed her until she could barely think. ‘Go away, please.’
‘I want to be your friend. Let me look after you.’
She was so tempted. For a moment she wanted to lay her head on his shoulder and let him take her worries from her, but at what cost? It would lead to further problems and she didn’t have the strength to deal with more. ‘What would your wife say about it?’
He took a step closer. ‘My wife has nothing to do with it. We are married in name only. What I do with my time is my business.’ His hand cupped her cheek, the leather glove cold against her skin. ‘I will promise to simply be a friend and nothing more, if that will convince you to agree.’
‘Just a friend?’ Her stomach fluttered. ‘A landlord type friend?’
He nodded. ‘If that is what you wish.’
‘It is all it can be.’ She gripped his hand and jerked it away from her face. ‘Don’t you understand? If the gossips find out about your visits here they will taint me as your mistress. I won’t have Hughie made miserable or my reputation ruined.’
‘I promise you it won’t happen.’
She turned from him. ‘You can’t promise any such thing,’ she scoffed.
‘Isabelle, look at me.’
Shaking her head, she walked into the house and closed the door.
Ethan swore and spun back to his horse. Hughie stood in the shed’s doorway. Startled, Ethan forced a smile to his lips. ‘Good day, Hughie.’
‘And you, sir.’
‘How are you managing?’
Hughie shrugged. ‘We’re getting by. Belle worries a lot. We have no money and not much food.’
‘Did you cull the barren ewes?’
‘Not yet. Belle isn’t so sure.’
‘You are the man around here now.’ Ethan glanced at the house then took a deep breath. He stepped towards Hughie. ‘Shall we go into the shed and talk business?’
***
‘You did what?’ Isabelle stared at Hughie as if he’d lost his mind. ‘How could you go behind my back like that?’
Hughie squirmed in his chair. ‘Mr Harrington said I was the man around here now and wanted to discuss things.’
‘You are not in charge!’ She stamped her foot in exasperation. ‘He had no right to do that. He took advantage of you because he knew I wouldn’t let him do as he pleased.’
Hughie straightened his shoulders. ‘Why can’t I be involved in what happens here? I work as hard as you.’ His defiant look reminded her that he was no longer a boy but quickly becoming a young man.
‘I’m not denying how hard you work, and I will always consult you on my decisions regarding the farm. I’m angry at Harrington.’
‘He wanted to help. What’s so wrong about that?’
Isabelle leaned over the table at him. ‘I don’t need his help. We can manage on our own until Farrell returns.’
Hughie snorted in disgust. ‘He’ll not come back and I hope he doesn’t. I’d much rather have Mr Harrington helping us than Farrell, who was useless to us anyway.’
Water boiled over the pot and sizzled on the hotplate. Isabelle gave her attention to it, but seethed inside. How dare Ethan Harrington. How dare he!
‘I don’t see what you’re so angry about, Belle. Mr Harrington’s butcher is coming at no cost to us. I thought you would be pleased.’
She stirred the chicken stew, the aroma made her stomach growl. She hadn’t eaten all day. Cutting back on food to make it last longer seemed sensible in theory, yet in reality she was always hungry, which in turn made her cranky and irritable.
‘Belle?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it, Hughie.’ She sighed and then faced him. ‘We only have each other to rely on. We can’t afford to look elsewhere for help.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we haven’t anything to give back when they ask for help in return.’
‘Mr Harrington won’t ask for anything, Belle. What could he possibly want from us?’
Isabella had the desire to laugh but hastily squashed it. Ethan Harrington would ask and expect something in return. She had no doubt about that.
Chapter Eight
Isabelle slashed at the mammoth climbing rose at the front of the house. Behind her a small fire smouldered after devouring her last toss of thorny vines. She stood back and surveyed her morning’s work. She glanced at the pitiful few remaining geese, ducks and chickens that flittered about the front yard fighting over the insects and worms she had uncovered in her task of making the entrance to the house more presentable.
She raked more clippings into a pile and the poultry ran for the pickings she revealed. ‘Aren’t you the lucky ones?’ She smiled at them as they squawked and jabbed at each other. ‘You survived the winter. So now you must behave and lay a dozen eggs a day and in return, I’ll let you sit on some of them to hatch fine chicks.’
Weak sunshine crept from behind a cloud and brightened the house’s brick walls, bare now from the thick covering of the climbing rose. Gardening gave her much satisfaction. She had always enjoyed helping her grandfather in his small garden between the rectory and the church. Now, as she continued to rake the rose trimmings into the fire, she took pleasure in her achievement. After trampling down the long grass, narrow garden beds had emerged, lining the curved path from the drive to front door. Daffodils and snowdrops materialized once she had removed the choking weeds from the beds. She pruned the old rose bushes into some semblance of order and dug manure into the soil between clumps of wild purple violets. The former mistress of Meadow Farm must have found some time to take pleasure from gardening. Isabelle knew that in the summer the roses would be a welcome delight after winter’s bleakness.
‘Here she is, Belle.’ Hughie came around from the side of the house leading Mayflower. ‘She’ll benefit from cropping this down to a manageable lawn.’ He let her loose on the grass amidst the poultry.
Isabelle patted the cow’s large rump. ‘If the other cows were as easy to lead as her, I’d like to have more in here to get it down sooner.’
‘Mr Harrington said that the rest of the herd should go to market. They aren’t milkers and are just eating grass that the lambs need.’ He averted his gaze from Isabelle to Mayflower, the mention of their landlord was a sore point between them. ‘Well, it does make sens
e. With the money we can buy more ewes or fix up the sheds, maybe buy-’
‘Yes, I will think about it.’ At the mention of Harrington, Isabelle raked furiously. She clenched her teeth, tired of hearing Hughie praise over Ethan Harrington’s every word. ‘I feel uneasy about selling Farrell’s animals without his consent.’
‘It’s not as if he cares.’
She shrugged. ‘Even so.’
‘Right, well, I’d better get back to chopping the wood.’ After a last look at her from under his lashes, he left.
Isabelle nodded with a sigh. She was losing her sanity over Ethan. In the last two weeks he had arrived nearly every day on some pretext or another. The butcher slaughtered the four ewes at no cost to her and what meat she didn’t want the butcher bought from her, providing welcome funds. Ethan also arranged for the piglets to be sold at market, dropped off a cartload of vegetable seedlings, plus new hoes and spades. Whenever he arrived, he brought a hamper of food and small tokens of friendship like a wooden case filled with needles and thread, newspapers, books from his own library and clothes for Hughie which were once his own but no longer fitted.
At first, she had been mortified by his charity. Her pride tempted her to refuse his gifts, but one look at Hughie’s delighted face quickly dampened her self-righteousness. How could she deny her darling brother all the things she would have liked to buy for him? Things he had earned through hard work. She couldn’t deny that Ethan’s help eased their lot considerably. So, biting back her urge to tell Ethan she would rather swim in the midden than accept his gifts, she let Hughie bask in his attention.
It annoyed her that her body reacted to his presence. She craved his smile like a drowning man needing air. She knew with every look and word that he was simply waiting for her to surrender to their attraction. Every fibre of her being wanted to. She physically ached to touch him, but what would it achieve? Once she started down that road there would be no turning back.
‘Ho there, Missus. We’re looking for Meadow Farm.’
Isabelle looked up at the stranger and the boy that walked through the gates. Each wore the haggard look of beggars. Their clothes hung loose, were torn and dirty. She frowned, glancing between the man and the boy. The man’s lanky frame and the way he strutted towards her, as though he owned the place were vaguely familiar. He had an air of confidence, as though he led a charmed life, when in fact, his appearance showed the opposite. Some instinct made her grip the rake and bring it against her chest in a gesture of protectiveness against the fragile organ that was her heart.
He stopped a few yards away and studied her while slowly lowering his canvas bag to the ground. ‘Looks like I find it then. I would know you anywhere, despite the fact you are now a woman grown.’
Isabelle lifted her chin forcing herself not to show her trembling. A mixture of rage and longing warred within her, frightening in its intensity.
Deep creases fanned from the corner of his eyes. His face was the colour of old leather, but his pale blue eyes were still as striking as she remembered. Her eyes.
‘No welcome, my Belle?’
He had been the first to shorten her name. Tears sprang to her eyes and she blinked them away preferring the anger that quickly replaced her heart’s first leap of joy. ‘You deserve nothing from me. You relinquished that right eight years ago.’
He looked around the yard, his eyes searching. She noticed a tension had entered his body contradicting the lazy smile he wore.
‘Looking for someone?’ She sneered, wanting to brandish the rake over her father’s head.
He snapped his attention back to her and gave her the indolent smile that had made all the females in the household weak at the knees. ‘I called in at the rectory. Some woman told me that your grandfather had died.’
‘What else did she tell you?’
‘She didn’t know what happened to you all, but she said that a girl by the name of Gibson had been married not so long ago to a Len Farrell of Meadow Farm. She had to copy the record in the register. It’s a job she does every so often apparently.’ He shrugged and again searched the yard. ‘I was buying the boy something to eat and got talking to a fellow near the Piece Hall. He knew of Len Farrell and told me where the farm was.’ He looked back at her. ‘So here I am.’
‘Here you are.’ Isabelle echoed. Her anger disappeared, leaving her wrung out like a wet dishcloth.
‘Where are they?’
Her face hardened, resentment mingled with pain. ‘Who? Your family? The wife and children you abandoned?’
‘Belle-’
She gave a derisive snort.
He placed his hands out to her as in offering, but he had nothing to give her now. She wanted nothing from him. Not anymore. Once, a lifetime ago, she had been proud of Aaron Gibson, her tall, strong father. A man who was friends with every one. A man who was loved by all for his easy going charm and quick wit. Her knight. The one who dried her eyes when she fell from climbing a forbidden tree. The one whose arms held her tight when storms raged outside. Then he had gone. He walked away from her, from them all. She woke one day to hear her mother crying softly and Sally whispering that he would come back, he would come back.
She stared at her father and saw him properly for the first time for what he was. A weak man. Someone pathetic, past his prime and now looking for a family that didn’t exist. For a second she felt sorry for him before coldness numbed her heart. He no longer had the power to hurt her. She simply didn’t care.
Isabelle leant the rake against the house wall and, gathering up her skirts, stepped over the uneven grass and weed clumps. She walked around the side of the house and towards the sheds. After a moment’s hesitation, he joined her with the boy silently walking behind.
Concentrating on the boy for the first time, Isabelle noted he must only be about five years old. His legs and arms were as thin as sticks. As if sensing her appraisal the boy looked up. His pale blue eyes locked with hers. Her father’s eyes. Her eyes. Shocked, she stumbled. ‘Who is he?’
Her father ruffled the boy’s black hair. ‘Bertie. My son.’
Sudden anger rose in her chest. ‘Your son?’
‘Yes, and your half-brother.’
She closed her eyes momentarily and then walked on. I can’t deal with this.
The sound of splitting wood came from the first shed. Her step faltered. She didn’t want Hughie to be hurt, but she was powerless to stop him from meeting their father now. Besides, she knew that if she turned their father away without Hughie meeting him first, he would never forgive her. Hughie’s soft heart still worshipped the man that left them for adventures unknown.
‘Hughie.’ Her voice croaked. She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘Hughie, love.’
‘Yes?’ His voice carried out to her from within the shed.
‘Can you come out here for a minute?’
He stepped out and glanced from her to the strangers. He dipped his head. ‘Good day.’
Isabelle took Hughie’s hand. She turned to stand beside him and together they looked at the man and small boy. ‘Hughie, do you remember this man?’
He scratched his cheek. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘This is the man you’ve often wondered about. Aaron Gibson.’
‘Gibson?’
She squeezed his hand. ‘Our father.’
Hughie jerked as if struck. His eyes grew wide.
Isabelle gripped his arm, pulling him closer. ‘It’s all right, dearest.’
Their father stepped forward. ‘You look well, son. All grown up.’
Hughie dragged his eyes away from him to stare at the boy.
Aaron thrust the boy in front of him. ‘This is your brother, Bertie.’
‘Shall we go inside?’ Isabelle waved her hand in the direction of the house, hating the frozen look on Hughie’s face. How could their father do this to them? Returning after eight years as if nothing had happened. He was meant to look after them, that was his role within a family. Yet, bei
ng the selfish man he was, he’d turned his back on them so easily. Walked away from a loving wife and adoring children. Simply walked away.
Aaron cleared his throat. For once his nonchalant expression slipped and his Adam’s apple bobbed. ‘Where are your mother and Sally?’
Isabelle stared at him. Years of buried bitterness rose. Her lip curled back in hostility. ‘Dead. Both dead.’
***
Ethan rode up the beech lined drive, his mind on one issue only. Isabelle. The last two weeks of visiting her, helping her, gave him enormous satisfaction. Additionally, it confirmed his stance on the feelings they both shared. Oh, he knew she tried to hide her emotions, but he wasn’t fooled. She wanted him just as much as he desired her. His gut tightened at the thought of holding her, kissing her, loving her. As love her, he did. He made no apologies for it.
He rounded the corner and Bracken Hall loomed before him. In front of the sweep of steps leading to the double doors, a groom attended to a visitor’s horse as the man dismounted. Only one man wore such an odd hat. His sister sent many sketches of that man and his hat.
Ethan clicked his heels into Copper’s sides to quicken his pace. Closer they got, the wider his smile became. ‘Hamish MacGregor you old dog!’
The man in question spun around and grinned. ‘Ethan! You are a sight for sore eyes.’
Ethan dismounted in one fluid movement before throwing the reins to the groom and grabbing Hamish’s upper arms. ‘This is marvellous. Rachel’s letter told us you had left Australia and returned to Scotland.’
‘Indeed I did. Arrived back four months ago.’
‘Four months ago?’ He pretended to be shocked. ‘And this is the first visit we’ve had? Mama will not forgive you for leaving it so long.’
Hamish laughed. ‘Sorry, old friend, but business before pleasure and all that.’
Ethan leaned back to look at him better. ‘You look well. Despite the hat!’
‘I am. Very.’ Hamish took off his battered, wide-brimmed hat and twirled it on one finger, leaving his red hair askew. ‘Your sister, begged me to leave it behind when I left, but I simply could not. It’s been on my head every day for the last six years.’