by Penny Jordan
By the time Flora returned to the farmhouse some twenty minutes later, Connie was a little calmer. She couldn’t take the words back she reasoned, as she carried a tray of tea through to Luke’s mother, who was sitting in her favourite spot in the front garden. And she had plenty to do today without worrying about how she was going to face him and what she was going to say.
When the harvest was over it was tradition for Luke to give a supper for everyone on the farm, and this was happening tomorrow. One of the barns had been swept out, the cobwebs brushed down from the rafters, and two rows of trestle tables set down the middle of the building. She had already cooked three huge joints of roast beef, pork and lamb, but she and Flora had all the baking to see to, which would take the rest of the day and the next morning. The beer was standing by, along with plenty of homemade blackberry wine, but there was lemonade to make for the children. She needed to concentrate on the job in hand.
Luke’s mother had long since retired to bed and Flora had been despatched home with a cold supper for herself and the lads to eat in the cottage by the time Connie heard him enter the house by the front door. The deep twilight made the fragrant evening a mass of mauve and charcoal shadows, and there was an unusual hush on the farm which the end of a harvest day always brought. Connie had the kitchen windows wide open, to dispel the heat from the range a little, but a good proportion of the baking for the next day had been done, and for this she was thankful.
She had a steak and ham meat roll steaming on the range for Luke’s evening meal, and she had set out the decanter of fine brandy by his favourite chair in the sitting room. The bowl in his dressing room off the master bedroom was already full with warm water for his ablutions before he changed his clothes. Instead of going straight upstairs to wash, however, as was his normal custom when coming in from the fields, she heard his footsteps in the hall. Her stomach churning, she turned and faced the door.
‘Hello, Connie.’ His voice was quiet and even as he surveyed her from the doorway. She had not yet lit the oil lamps about the house and his face was in shadow. She could not determine his expression in the darkness.
‘Sir, about what I said earlier,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn. I was just saying what I believe—’
She fell silent as he raised his hand, his voice still flat when he said, ‘It’s a beautiful evening and I think I’d prefer to eat outside at my mother’s table—if that’s not too much trouble. Where are your brothers? They left the fields with the other children a short time ago. Are they not hungry?’
‘Flora and the lads are having a cold supper at the cottage tonight, sir. I knew they would be tired, and it means they can go straight to bed,’ Connie said quietly, wondering if she should broach the matter of their earlier conversation again. He was obviously still annoyed with her, although he wasn’t showing it.
He nodded. ‘And you?’ he asked softly. ‘Are you tired?’
‘Me?’ She stared at him in surprise. ‘I’m all right.’
‘You work all day every day and not a word of complaint.’ As she still continued to stare, not knowing what to say, he added abruptly, ‘Have you eaten your evening meal yet?’
She blinked. ‘Not yet. There were things to do…’ She waved her hand vaguely towards the range, where his meat roll simmered. She didn’t know what to make of him tonight.
‘Then would you care to join me outside? It seems foolish for you to eat in here while I eat alone.’
Suddenly becoming aware her mouth had fallen open, Connie shut it with a little snap. On the occasions when his mother was too tired to stay up for the evening meal and retired to her room, he mostly ate on a tray before the sitting room fire, but otherwise in the dining room. From one or two things his mother had said in the past Connie had gathered the pair of them had eaten informally in the kitchen before she had taken over as housekeeper, but since she had begun work this had not happened. She understood this. The proprieties must be observed, and she was merely an employee like any other. What she didn’t understand was why he should suggest this change now—especially after her words earlier that day.
If she did as he suggested and someone saw them, what would they think? That she was more than his housekeeper? That she was what Alice Todd had been angling to be for some time? Yes, they’d probably assume the worst. Folk were like that. And her reputation mattered to her. It would be sensible to make some excuse now—that she had work to do before she ate, or must return to the cottage for the night. That was what her father would have expected of her in these circumstances.
She looked at him where he was leaning against the open door, the white of his shirt standing out in the dim half-light. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘It would be nice to eat in the fresh air after being in the kitchen all day.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll go and change. Shall we say five minutes?’
Once he had disappeared, Connie stood staring at the place where he had stood. Whatever had possessed her? This was madness, she told herself silently as her heart hammered against her ribs. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to make some excuse, so why hadn’t she?
Because she wanted this one brief interlude with him. The answer was there. It had been there ever since the first time she had laid eyes on him. Something like this would never happen again, and she didn’t fool herself that his invitation meant anything to him beyond male logic. If she’d had Flora and the lads with her as usual, or his mother had been up, the evening would have been as normal. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t normal. And the thought of being able to sit with him, just the two of them, to be able to share a meal and be in his presence was too heady to refuse. She might regret it—she almost certainly would regret it if anyone caught sight of them—but she would regret it much more if she didn’t take the once chance fate had presented her with to have an hour of companionship with the man she loved.
The last thought brought forth an involuntary gasp of denial even as she acknowledged it was the truth. She loved him. She loved Luke Hudson, who was as far away from her as the man in the moon. That was why every little single thing he did or said affected her so deeply—why his brooding silences and the odd smile had her emotions see-sawing like one of the swing boats at the Michaelmas Fair.
She sank down on one of the hardbacked chairs, her cheeks flaming. He must never know. She must never let him guess. She couldn’t bear it if he thought she was like Alice Todd. He had been so good to them all. He’d saved them—there was no other word for it—and she’d die if he thought she was trying to take advantage of her position in the house and her closeness to his mother.
She stood up, beginning to pace the kitchen before she brought herself up short. Shutting her eyes tightly, she told herself to calm down. He didn’t know. Everything was just the same as it had been ten minutes ago. He looked on her as his housekeeper, that was all. Loving his wife as he had, as he still did, it would never occur to him in a thousand years to look at her in that way, or that she would care for him romantically. And that was the way it had to remain. She had to appear natural tonight. In spite of being the owner of this big farm and having lots of friends and acquaintances, he was a lonely man. She knew that. She had sensed it all along. And if he could just unbend enough to talk to her sometimes, if she could be some kind of comfort to him, that would be enough for her.
It would have to be. The thought brought a grim smile to her lips. Because there was no way on earth she was ever going to be anything else to him and she knew that.
By the time Luke came downstairs, Connie had set the small wooden table Jacob had made with two places and had taken the meat roll off the hob. Slicing a generous portion for Luke and a smaller one for herself, she then added the roasted vegetables which had been gently cooking in the oven for some time.
She gazed at her plate with some disquiet. How she was going to be able to eat she didn’t know. Her stomach was tied up in knots and her heart seemed determined to jump out
of her throat.
‘Can I carry anything through?’
As he spoke from the doorway, Connie jumped violently, spinning round and then saying quickly, ‘No, no, it’s fine. I’ll be out shortly. I’m just finishing off in here.’
He nodded. He was dressed in fresh clothes, but probably because of the humidity was not wearing a jacket over his full-sleeved shirt and waistcoat. She had lit the oil lamp while he had been upstairs, and in its flickering light his thick dark hair and the shadow of stubble on his chin showed black against the whiteness of his shirt. Warm, curling quivers flickered in the core of her, heating her blood, but as she turned back to the food she heard him leave the kitchen, and for a moment her legs felt trembly. Oh, she was daft, she was. Plain daft.
She stared at the plates as she took several deep breaths to steady her nerves, then smoothed her dress and tidied a wisp of hair behind her ear before she reached for them. She was going to eat a meal with him, that was all. An hour, maybe less, to last a lifetime….
The twilight had all but gone as she joined Luke outside. A late blackbird was singing a piercingly clear lone song, the succession of low flute-like notes all the sweeter for the rest of the birds having gone to sleep. The night was warm and the moon had risen above the farm, the barns and outbuildings clearly outlined like ink silhouettes against a slaty-blue star-speckled sky. Not a breath of wind stirred the still air, and Connie almost felt she should whisper as she said quietly, ‘It’s a beautiful evening after such a hot day.’
‘Beautiful.’ He took the plate she proffered, gesturing to the flagon of wine he must have brought out with him as he said, ‘Can I pour you a glass? It will go well with the meal.’
She was going to say she would have a glass of water from the jug she had brought out with the cutlery earlier, but, as this was a magical step out of reality, instead she said, ‘Thank you, sir. That would be nice.’
They ate in silence for some minutes, and she was glad the moonlight kept her face in shadow. The blackberry wine was rich and dark; she felt it create a warmth inside as she swallowed, and it left a pleasant sweetness on the tongue. She had never tasted strong drink before. All she’d had previously was a glass or two of ginger wine when she and her parents had attended a neighbour’s wake four years ago. That had been weak, watered-down stuff, though, and nothing like this. This was delicious.
‘You are an excellent cook. This is as good as anything my mother used to make.’ He refilled his glass as he spoke, his voice smoky soft. ‘Better, in fact, but don’t tell her that.’
‘I’m grateful to her for teaching me so well.’ She didn’t add that before she had come to the farm her cooking expertise had been driven by the need to make a penny stretch to a shilling. Broths and stews had been the order of the day, likely as not made with scrag-ends and spotted vegetables sold off cheap at the end of business. Even before her parents had died it had often been impossible for any of them to have a hearty meal. She didn’t like to dwell on this, however, or want to give the impression she was giving a hard luck story whenever she spoke about her past life. There had been an excess of love within her family if nothing else, and for that she would always be thankful. No amount of money could buy that.
‘She could teach you because you were so willing to learn.’
‘How could anyone not be with your mother’s big kitchen and all the food provided?’ She still found it hard to believe that they could eat at every meal until they were full.
‘You’d be surprised.’
There was a different note in his voice now, a jarring note, and her eyes opened wide for a moment. She could see little of his expression as he sat across the table from her, however, just his eyes glittering now and then when the moonlight allowed it. ‘I love cooking,’ she said after a moment or two, when the silence had stretched and become uncomfortable, at least to her. ‘Although perhaps not always for the amount I’ve been preparing food for today. It’s almost all ready by the way, sir. The harvest thanksgiving meal.’
‘Connie—’ He stopped abruptly. Then, before she could speak, he continued, ‘When we are alone like this, when it is just the two of us, I would prefer you do not stand on formality. My name is Luke. I would like to hear you say it now and then.’
The world stopped spinning. For a moment the night was shining, like a star. Then reality crowded in. He was being kind. He was always kind beneath the gruff exterior he portrayed sometimes. But, however kind he was, it wouldn’t be right. Quietly now, her head slightly bent, she said, ‘Thank you, but I’d be too worried I might forget myself when we’re not alone if I did that, sir, and speak out of turn.’
‘Would that matter?’
He had bent forward, close enough for her to see his face in a ray of moonlight and it was unsmiling. She hesitated for a second before murmuring, ‘I think so. Folk…folk might misconstrue your kindness to me.’
‘I don’t see why.’ His voice was deep in his throat. ‘You said yourself you are different to the rest of them, and so is your position here. My—my mother thinks very highly of you.’
She didn’t know how to answer. She only knew she couldn’t do what he asked—not loving him as she did. Simply saying his name shouldn’t make a difference, but it would. To her. It would make how she felt unbearable somehow. She couldn’t explain her feelings even to herself, but she knew it to be true.
The moments ticked by as he waited for her to speak, but for the life of her she couldn’t. After what must have been a full minute, he moved irritably into the shadows again, his voice curt as he said, ‘No matter. Forget I spoke of it. I had no wish to embarrass you. If you wish things to continue as they are, so be it.’
The night was spoilt, the magic was gone, and as the tears pricked at the backs of her eyes she was grateful for the darkness. Somehow she managed to pick at enough of the food to make a pretence of eating it, and as soon as his plate was empty she stood to her feet, saying, ‘I’ll bring out your pudding, sir. But I’d better get back home to Flora and the lads, if that’s all right. They can play her up sometimes if I’m not there.’
‘Of course. I should not have kept you.’
She reached for his plate as he went to hand it to her, and in the brief confusion their hands touched. A tingle as sharp and sudden as icy water caused her to draw back. But it wasn’t cold she was feeling, but a singing through her veins like warm honey. Stammering an apology, she retrieved both plates and fled to the sanctuary of the kitchen as though the devil himself was hot on her heels.
And really, she reflected shakily, fetching the apple dumplings out of the oven and covering a large portion with thick cream, she felt as though the devil had been on her heels this evening. Why else would she be wondering how she could stay in paradise feeling like this?
CHAPTER SEVEN
CONTRARY to what Connie had expected when she woke up on the morning of the harvest supper, after just a few hours of troubled sleep, that day and the ones following it went quite smoothly on the whole. The intense awkwardness she felt around Luke began to fade after a little while, although she continued to be careful they were never alone if she could help it.
It helped that he had reverted to being his usual cool and withdrawn self. At least most of the time it helped. In the daylight hours, when she was thinking matter-of-factly. But when she was in bed at night, Flora snoring gently beside her and the rest of the world fast asleep, she found herself wishing he had shown some reaction after their eventful meal together. Disappointment, even annoyance, anything to show he cared just a little. But that was the thing. He didn’t. And he probably didn’t consider the evening had been eventful at all.
When these thoughts came she berated herself for her continuing inconsistency and muddled thinking. If he had shown some sign of disappointment or irritation and repeated his request, where would that have led her? Into a worse mess in her head, most likely. At least this way it was easy to continue in her role of housekeeper and nurse to his mother
, which provided a roof over their heads. She couldn’t ask for more. And Luke was a fair and generous employer. She knew from the other workers on the farm that some farmers paid their employees monthly, thereby cheating them out of a month’s wages in the course of the year, but Luke paid his people every week—and handsomely too. Even the children who had specific jobs to do once they were home from school and at weekends received payment—ranging from sixpence to a florin in some cases—and her present eight shillings a week meant she had been able to buy Flora and the lads new boots and coats for the winter already. They lived rent-free, and logs were provided for fuel—oh, yes, she couldn’t ask for more.
She did, though. In the dark of the night. And then every morning she would recant her feverish prayers of the night before and resolutely count her blessings. Till the next time.
At the end of September she and Flora and her brothers accompanied the rest of the workers on the farm to the annual Michaelmas Fair on Sunderland’s town moor. Shortly after arriving there they joined forces with some labourers and their wives and families from a neighbouring farm some miles past Hawthorn Farm. Connie knew the folk vaguely, she caught sight of them every Sunday morning when everyone attended the parish church on the outskirts of Bishopwearmouth, but as she always had to get back to the farm quickly in case Luke’s mother needed anything she never dallied after the service to talk to anyone. A smile and brief nod was all she’d indulged in before.