by Kit Morgan
“Why, those awful, men! Bartering the way they were last night. You’d think they owned every last person in the county the way they were talking.”
“What were they talking about?” she asked.
Mrs. Wallace turned to her, one hand on her hip. “I’ll tell you. They were arranging fights between some of Squire Ferguson’s workers. Any men they thought strong enough to last in the ring.”
Mary blanched. “Ye mean against the Bruiser?”
“No, not him,” she said and waved a dishrag at her. “Each other.” She turned back to the dry sink. “Barbarians. Just wait until I get my hands on that man!”
Mary reached for a small platter of fresh cooked eggs. “The squire, ye mean?”
“Who else?” She glanced at the platter. “Take those in. The old windbag is seated and waiting.”
Mary gasped.
“Oh, I’ll call him that if I want to,” Mrs. Wallace said and threw the dishrag on the worktable. “That blustering, stubborn, sorry excuse for …”
Mary gasped again, picked up the platter and hurried from the kitchen, Mrs. Wallace’s voice followed her until she went through the swinging door that led to the dining room.
“There you are, Mary,” Squire Ferguson said pleasantly. He eyed the platter of eggs and smiled. “Mmm, my favorite.” He looked at the swinging door. The faint sound of Mrs. Wallace’s tirade could be heard coming from the other side. “Er … is something wrong?”
Mary glanced over her shoulder and back. “No, Squire Ferguson.”
He craned his neck and cocked his head as if listening. “Are you sure?”
She swallowed hard. “Yes, Squire.”
He served himself some eggs then studied the table. “No potatoes? No toast or sausages? What’s that woman trying to do, starve me?”
Mary backed toward the door. “I’ll see what’s keeping them, Squire.”
“You do that,” he said none too gently. “Or I’ll see to it myself.” He attacked his eggs as she hurried back to the kitchen.
Mary burst through the door. “He wants his toast and potatoes!”
Mrs. Wallace smiled. “I’ll just bet he does.” She turned to the stove. “Along with his sausages.” She turned a few in the pan. “Best see to the pantry, Mary. Make a list of what we’re low on.”
“But … shouldn’t I …”
“The pantry, Mary, now.”
Mary groaned and went to the pantry down the hall. There was paper and a pencil on a low shelf near the door. She picked them up and began to peruse the shelves when she heard Squire Ferguson storm into the kitchen.
“Mrs. Wallace! Where’s the rest of my breakfast?”
Mary cringed at the words and moved to close the pantry door. That is, until she heard Mrs. Wallace. “You! How dare you!”
“Dare what?”
“Last night, and you know well what! If the lad doesn’t want to fight, then you can’t force him.”
Silence. Mary peeked around the doorjamb but couldn’t see the squire. Only Mrs. Wallace.
“My dear woman,” he said. “Business is business, and as I told you before, I can’t back out now.”
“So you involve your tenants and workers instead? Pah!”
Mary’s eyes went wide. How could she talk to him like that and get away with it?
A heavy sigh followed along with, “Mrs. Wallace … Maggie …”
“Don’t you Maggie me!”
Another heavy sigh. “Mrs. Wallace then. Listen to reason …”
“I’ll not listen at all. In fact, I’ve a mind to burn the rest of your breakfast!”
Mary heard a sharp intake of breath. “You wouldn’t dare!”
“Oh yes I would!”
“Why, you … you … are you trying to get fired?”
“Fine! Fire me then!”
“Nonsense. Now give me the rest of my breakfast …”
“Get it yourself!”
Mary gasped and quickly covered her mouth. She stayed that way a moment or two, then realized the kitchen had gone quiet. She chanced leaving the pantry, slipped down the hall and peeked around the door into the kitchen. Her hands flew to her mouth again.
Squire Ferguson and Mrs. Wallace were kissing!
A half hour later, Mary entered the kitchen, a long list in her hand. Some of the items were scratched out and then written down again. She wasn’t sure how much time the squire and Mrs. Wallace would need. But there was no sign of either anywhere. Could Mrs. Wallace have gone to the garden? She often did at this time of day.
“Ah ha! There you are.”
Mary jumped with a small yelp. “Squire Ferguson, ye frightened me.”
“I’ll do more than that before the day is out if we don’t get this list filled for Mrs. Wallace. Have you got it?”
She handed him the list wondering about his threat. What did he mean ‘we’? She went to the kitchen window and peered out. Mrs. Wallace was furiously digging in the garden. “I take it she’s not going to market?”
“No,” he said ominously. He looked out the window too. “I hope that woman digs herself a hole and crawls into it!”
“Squire Ferguson!” Mary said in shock.
He blew out a breath. “Oh, I didn’t mean it. Better she dig me a hole and I’ll crawl into it!”
Mary did her best not to giggle. Even though the squire and Mrs. Wallace insulted each other, they did it with affection, as was obvious. “Shall I get my cloak?”
“You won’t need it. It’s warm enough outside. Let’s go.”
She followed him out the door to the barn and waited as Mr. Gerber hitched up a horse to one of the wagons. Squire Ferguson, being the rich man he was, owned a small buggy, a wagon, and then a larger wagon for the work crews. Who knew how many more he had that he didn’t keep on the estate.
Mr. Gerber’s job done, he helped her onto the wagon seat as the squire climbed up beside her. “Tell Mrs. Wallace we’re going to eat at The Rose and Thorn today. She need not make me lunch.” The squire’s tone was terse, his words clipped. He was clearly upset about something. She was probably the only one that knew what it might be. In fact, she pondered the possibilities as they rode to the village.
“While we gather things on that woman’s list,” the squire grumbled. “I want you to go find Patrick Mulligan, and order me a couple of small barrels ale.”
“Yes, Squire,” she said.
“At this time of day you’ll find him at the brewery. Tell him I want two of his finest.”
She gave him a sidelong glance and did her best not to smile. She noticed he always got this way after a spat with Mrs. Wallace. And even though this one ended with a kiss, he seemed especially perturbed. “When shall I have him deliver them?”
“I’ll think about that over lunch,” he said and gave the horse a tap with the lines. The animal broke into a trot.
“Are you in a hurry, sir?” she asked, curious.
“I want to get our business done before Cromwell’s taproom fills up for the afternoon. I don’t care to eat with a bunch of noisy folks. Do you?”
“That depends on the people, I suppose.”
He looked at her. “What were your people like?”
His question surprised her. “My family ye mean?”
“Family, neighbors, relatives, whoever.”
A smile curved mouth. “They were happy.” She left it at that.
“Do you… miss them?”
Once again he surprised her. But, as she was his property, she supposed he might be interested in her background. “Yes, Squire Ferguson, I do,” she looked away and added, “very much.”
“It must have been hard on you. Mrs. Wallace told me why you became indentured.”
“She did?”
“Yes. I hope that one day you can bring your mother over. I’m sure you’ll find employment after your service to me is done.”
He might think so, but she wasn’t so sure. “I can only hope, Squire.”
Before he could
ask any more questions, they reached the village. They set about their business of seeing to everything on the list. After they ordered what needed to be ordered, gathered what they could and paid for it, the squire went into The Rose and Thorn while his purchases were being wrapped and put into the back of his wagon. He ordered lunch and then sent Mary off to the brewery to order his ale.
“Why, if it isn’t Mary O’Brien,” Patrick said as he saw her enter. “What is it, lass?”
“Squire Ferguson wishes to order two barrels of your finest ale.” Her cheeks grew hot and she began to fidget.
“Is something wrong?” he asked as he peered past her at the door beyond.
She looked too, as if expecting someone to jump through it with a shout. “N, n, no,” she stammered. “The squire is in the taproom, having lunch.”
“And where’s your meal?”
“I’ll eat when I return to the manor house,” she explained.
He looked her over. “Ye’ll eat now if I have anything to say about it.”
“Pardon?” she asked.
He went to a small desk in a corner and pulled out a small sack. “Here, come and sit, lass.”
She did as he asked and stared at the bag. He pulled out a sandwich, tore it in half, and gave one to her. “Mrs. Barker makes a fair snack.”
“But, isn’t this your lunch?”
“I said a snack. I’ll have lunch later. Ye look a wee bit pale, so I think ye’d better eat.”
She put a hand to her cheek. It felt hot. Mercy, was she getting sick? She hoped not. She could ill afford to shirk in her duties as new as she was. She didn’t want the squire to think he’d gotten himself a sickly servant.
“Eat up, lass,” Patrick said and took a healthy bite of his half. He chewed thoughtfully and watched her.
She nibbled at hers, unsure of whether or not to go to the taproom and tell the squire she’d ordered his ale. “Perhaps I’d better leave …”
“Nonsense. If the squire is eating lunch, then ye’ve time to spare.” He took another bite and watched her a moment. “Do ye like working for him?”
She chewed, swallowed, and nodded. “Yes.”
“Do ye?” he drawled.
“I said so, didn’t I?”
He eyed her a moment. “Just making sure ye know. After what happened last night …”
“But nothing happened last night. Ye saw to that yerself. And I thank ye for it.”
He nodded. “Has the squire mentioned if Mr. Pike will be returning to the manor house any time soon?”
“No. He’s not mentioned it. He’s been too busy … um … having words with Mrs. Wallace.”
Patrick took one look at her and laughed. “Good, that will keep him busy for a time.”
“Indeed,” she said with a tiny smile and took another bite of her sandwich.
“I bet ye heard them having words, eh?”
She pressed her lips together a moment. “Ye could say that.”
He laughed again. “Ah, lass, if those two don’t get married soon, ye’ll not have a decent night’s sleep.”
Hmm, she hadn’t thought of that. As mad as Mrs. Wallace appeared when she and the squire left for the village, he could be right. “But what am I to do about it?”
He wolfed down the last bite of his half and smiled. “Find opportunities to get them in the same room with each other. Maybe if they spend more time together, they’ll naturally get closer.”
She thought of the kiss the squire and Mrs. Wallace shared. “I think they’re well enough on their own. Besides, didn’t ye just tell me the other day to let love alone?”
“Aye, but in their case, maybe the sooner they marry the better.”
She thought about that, biting her lower lip as she did.
“Ye look worried,” he said.
“No, but … what happens to me if they marry?”
He stood and paced back and forth a few times. “Ye’ve a good point, there.” He stopped and turned to face her. “Maybe he’ll free you.”
“What?” she said with a laugh. “Before I’ve worked off my debt? Hardly.”
He shrugged. “It was a thought.”
She gave him a shy look. “And a nice thought, too.”
His face became somber. “Do ye ever wish ye hadn’t become indentured?”
“And starve or get thrown into debtor’s prison? No thank ye. Worse, what if my mother got tossed into prison? She’d never survive. Never. Not after losing Da.”
He returned to the desk and sat on it. “Ye miss him very much, don’t ye?”
“Of course I do,” she said. “Especially after he was taken from us so suddenly.” She looked away, not wanting to speak of it further. It was bad enough the squire asked her about her family on the drive to the village, but now Patrick? And why was she thinking of him as Patrick instead of Mr. Mulligan? Mercy! How long had she been doing that? The last few days she supposed. But it came so naturally …
“Yer a bonny lass, Mary O’Brien. Ye’ll have no trouble finding a good man when your contract is up.”
She closed her eyes against the sting of tears. “No, I won’t. I’ll be an old maid by then and we both know it.”
He hopped off the desk. “Don’t talk that way.”
She looked at him and kicked at the floor with one shoe. “But ye’ll be off managing yer inn. Where ever that might be.”
“And ye’ll work for me, remember?” he tossed back with a smile.
She looked at him as her feet swung back and forth. “Will I?”
“Of course,” he said. “I’ll make it so.”
She wanted to smile. She wanted to jump out of her chair, throw her arms around him and give him a big hug of gratitude. But all she said was, “Aye, sure ye will.”
“Ye don’t believe me?”
Mary almost fell out of her chair. “Don’t jest with me.”
He smiled and glanced at the door. “Think on it, Mary O’Brien.” He turned away. “I’ll get those barrels for ye.” He walked off, leaving her with his words.
She sat, utterly confused. Was he making fun of her? Teasing her again with something she could never have? If so, then she thought him cruel. He knew her plight, knew how many years she would have to serve. If he could so easily discover her name between the time they first met and the squire’s tea party, then he’d also know her the term of her contract.
Mary stood, forcing herself to wait for him to return. Her back was stiff, her shoulders tight with tension. If this kept up she’d get a headache.
After a moment or two Patrick emerged from somewhere in the back of the brewery, a barrel of ale balanced on each shoulder. He set them on the desk. “Is the squire’s wagon nearby?”
“It’s near The Rose and Thorn, being loaded,” she said, head down. She didn’t want to look at him. Not if he’d been making fun of her. Had he?
“What’s wrong, lass?”
Great, he would ask. She raised her face and met his eyes. “Ye can put them in the wagon but mind ye cover them. The last thing the squire needs is to have someone lift them from his own wagon.”
“No one will steal them. Especially if they’re the squire’s.”
He studied her, and she felt her skin grow hot under his perusal. “If there’s nothing else, I’d best be going,” she said.
His brow creased, and she wondered what he was thinking. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll set these in the squire’s wagon. Care to join me? Make sure I do it right?”
She blinked a few times. He was doing it again, making fun of her. How could he do such a thing?
He sighed. “Very well, off I go. Are ye coming?”
She started. “Oh … aye.” He gave her an assessing look, picked up the barrels and tossed his head at the door. Whatever there was between them, no matter how small, was now gone. Just as well, she couldn’t stand the thought of losing him like she had her Da.
Chapter 8
“What’s the matter with you?” Mrs. Wallace asked as Mary h
auled supplies into the pantry.
“Nothing, and I’d appreciate it if you’d leave it at that.” She started putting things on shelves, through with any conversation.
“Oh, dear you me,” Mrs. Wallace drawled. “You look like you’ve just lost her best friend.”
That stung. Probably because she had, not that Patrick was a best friend…
“You not wanting to talk about it only confirms my suspicions you know,” Mrs. Wallace said as she leaned against the doorjamb. “You might not want to talk about it now, but I’m sure you’ll want to later. Shall I make us both a cup of tea?”
Mary looked at her. She’d never offered her tea before. “Yes, I’d like that.”
Mrs. Wallace smiled and came away from the doorjamb. “Where is the squire?”
“He went to check on Lady Helena and her colt. I could use some help unloading the wagon.”
Mrs. Wallace smiled. “I’ll help you and then we’ll have that tea, all right?”
Mary nodded, unable to speak. She couldn’t afford to lose friends and wondered if she should apologize to Patrick. But for what? He was the one making light of her situation. At least Mrs. Wallace didn’t do that sort of thing. She called things as she saw them, nothing more, nothing less. She saw Mary as what she was, an indentured servant with little to no future. How Patrick could taunt her with words of her working for him when her service was up… well, it was downright cruel is what it was.
Between the two of them they got the wagon unloaded and things put away in short order. The squire passed through the kitchen at one point, said nothing, and continued on, probably to his study. As promised, Mrs. Wallace made them a pot of tea, poured the squire a cup, served it and returned to the kitchen. “Now, tell me what’s troubling you, dear.”