"He was a nice looking hooligan," Richelle remarked with feigned casualness in her tone. "Strapping young fellow. I think I've seen him before. Out at the Atkinson farm. Maybe he's one of the masons or laborers. His face looked familiar. Must live in the general vicinity."
"Mmm," was all Lorella said.
"Your cheeks are red as twin roses, Lorella," Richelle said, unleashing her suppressed laughter. "I can't believe you were actually embarrassed!"
"I was, but not the way you're thinking," Lorella replied with new starch to the set of her shoulders. "I knew he was taunting me, hoping he could offend my sensibilities. Men like to shock a girl. But my face was red because I was wondering why it had to happen with a pumpkin. Where was that fine young stallion when I was at the butcher's picking out a sausage? That's what I'd like to know!"
* * *
Morgan was home before nightfall most evenings, and inevitably when he'd step through the front door he'd be instantly assailed by the mongrel—christened Patrick by unanimous vote, in fond remembrance of Sheila's burly doorman. The price of admission into his own parlor was Morgan scratching behind the big dog's ears.
Mornings were decidedly frosty now, Morgan noted. The bedroom window panes were etched with it. He debated whether to rise and greet the new day or linger within the cocoon of warmth generated by his sleeping wife and the bedcovers. But recalling the errand awaiting him, along with other duties at the company office, he reluctantly pulled on a pair of breeches, shivering as he tiptoed across the bedchamber to find his boots and a shirt. He dressed quickly and headed quietly downstairs. But the scent of brewing coffee assailed him before he reached the kitchen, announcing that Lorella was already awake.
"You're up early," he commented. "I thought I'd have to go begging this morning."
"Oh no, sir," Lorella countered. "I saw Mr. Atkinson in the square yesterday. He warned me you'd be riding out at dawn this morning. I've already started toast and eggs." She turned to glower at the big gray shadow at her feet. "And you, you worthless beggar, how would you like your eggs?"
"Straight off my plate, as usual," Morgan responded with a deep chuckle.
Lorella cracked several eggs into her skillet. "The girls from Sheila's sent a parcel last week. They knitted some baby clothes, blankets and such. That was nice of them."
Morgan grunted in assent and stirred a heaping teaspoonful of sugar into Lorella's dark brew. He grimaced and took a seat at the table.
"Now all we need is that cradle you keep promising to fetch." The maid's tone was soft, yet carried subtle reproach.
"Today, Lorella."
"What's today?"
Richelle stood yawning in the kitchen doorway, her long chestnut hair in tangles. Morgan was startled by his reaction to the sight. Even many months along with his babe, she stirred his blood. He briefly considered taking her back upstairs and slowly brushing her tresses, as he'd done many times since their wedding at sea. But Dr. Rowe advised abstinence, and they had to be prudent. Which didn't mean his groin had to agree.
"A last trip to the outskirts of the district," he answered. "But it won't take long. I'll probably be back at the holding company office a little past noontide."
Richelle's expression darkened. "You know how close I am. It makes me nervous to have you away now. Even for a few hours."
"I do know," he nodded, helping her into the big armchair beside their hearth, where Lorella had a cheery fire going. He handed Richelle his coffee mug. "You'll like this. I put just the perfect quantity of sugar for you."
"That won't sweeten me into forgetting that you've gone off somewhere, after you promised me you'd stay in the village."
"This particular outing is an exception. Something on the order of another promise I made, long before I met you."
"And this long ago promise is more important than—"
He smothered her protest with a kiss. "Nothing is more important than you and our child, Richelle. You know that." He offered a defeated sigh. "I'm going to see Entwistle this morning."
"Oh, Entwistle. Why didn't you say so in the first place?"
Lorella arrived in the parlor with a tray of toast. "Who or what is an Entwistle?"
"David Entwistle's one of Mr. Tremayne's oldest friends. Almost a father figure."
Lorella glanced over at Morgan in confusion. "But I thought your father had been innkeeper before you, and you took over when he died."
"Aye," Morgan replied, "But I worked on Entwistle's farm as a lad of fourteen. He was the first local farmer to hire me. Word had passed around the village that he needed help, even though David Entwistle has a full brood. My father snorted at that, saying if he himself could provide for his family without hiring chore boys, Entwistle should as well. None of the other lads were willing to ride out to Entwistle's farm. He was known as a fierce taskmaster and disagreeable sort."
"So," Richelle finished, "with Andrew Tremayne dead set against the idea and no one else willing, Morgan hired on."
"You must realize," Morgan qualified, "that of David's five sons, two were merchant seamen and one was at university. Only one of the remaining pair was old enough to be of any use at farm work. The youngest was a mere tot."
Lorella had an amused gleam in her eye. "So, was it as awful as all the other boys thought it would be?"
"I worked until my fingers bled and the sun went down. Day after day. Mistress Entwistle kept me in tea and scones with honey. The bank sent a fellow out one day to foreclose on David's loan." Morgan grinned broadly. "I ran a pitchfork through the fellow's hat, vowed he'd be paid inside a month, and made certain David kept that promise."
"And Morgan's word has been legendary ever since," Richelle said quietly, glancing into her husband's eyes. "It's good you're going to see David."
She gazed at him with a forgiving softness in her expression, but Morgan inwardly fretted. The damned place was too cold. And Richelle looked too pale. He tossed another hunk of wood on the hearth."Fix Madam Tremayne some eggs, Lorella. I'll be back as soon as humanly possible."
Richelle declined the food. Morgan halted, his hand on the doorknob, dismayed by what he'd overheard. Richelle typically ate like one of Entwistle's strapping sons, with gusto and frequent requests for second helpings. Peculiar that she'd awakened without appetite. "Richelle, you're all right?"
"Just tired. I'll eat later."
Morgan strode into the kitchen to seek out the maid. "While I'm at Entwistle's, I'll ask his youngest son to come by. He's a chimney mason. I'd been meaning to speak to him about installing a small stove in the hall upstairs. I also mean to ask the good doctor to look in on Richelle." He started toward the back door.
Lorella grabbed his arm. "Take the dog along, sir. He paces so when you're out, he makes the missus nervous."
Morgan opened the door and Patrick bounded along the bluff, panting with excitement. "Blasted mutt," Morgan complained aloud, heading toward the livery. "You underfoot and a massive crate due at Cramden's farmstead by ten. I've quite the day ahead."
He checked his watch and calculated he could make the deadline, even with the extra stop at the doctor's. He wasted few words with the physician and arrived at the Entwistle farm just after seven. With his furry companion firmly instructed to stay in the wagon and wait, Morgan approached David's back door, recalling another frosty morning like this one.
He ridden out here alone to speak privately with David and repay him for a favor. Morgan had wanted headstones carved for his father and sister, but couldn't afford to pay the Sheffield stonecutter. Arnold Somersdale had refused to loan Morgan the money. David Entwistle had heard the tale and driven to Sheffield himself to order the markers.
Morgan had repaid that debt, even though David never asked for the money. From time to time he'd see David at the inn. Once they shared a few pints together and had sworn a drunken oath that should Morgan father a son, he'd rock his child in the same hand-carved oak cradle that had rocked all five of David's sons.
Now M
organ stood gazing at that cradle, awed of all that had come to pass, the years and changes in both men. "Are you sure you're comfortable parting with it?" he asked. "You're bound to have more grandchildren."
"You saved my farm, lad. Only whelp in the village with balls enough to come work for me. And work hard you did, for little pay. Take the cradle, but know this. If you don't make me the child's godfather, I'll take a strap to your back!"
The door blew open, admitting a frigid blast of winter air and several other men to the big kitchen. Morgan recognized one chap as Entwistle's immediate neighbor. Behind him stood Joshua Tate. The others Morgan knew only in passing. "Did you tell him why we want to talk to him?" a stranger asked. Morgan turned back to David.
"Was getting to it." David lumbered to his broad oak table and sat down. The other men filed around to join him. Reluctantly Morgan took a place, as well, nervous at the somber demeanor of this unanticipated gathering.
Morgan nodded at Tate. "How you feeling these days? Chasing young Nathan across the fields by now, I expect."
"I'm well enough." Tate glanced at the others in turn, clarifying. "He worked my fields for a week last year when I was laid up. That's the sort he is."
"What's this about?" Morgan was distinctly uneasy now. Every man in the room sat staring at him.
Entwistle cleared his throat. "Some of us have been discussing the future, Morgan. Crowshaven's growing, due in part to your efforts. The others on the council will probably go along. Somersdale's likely to be a fly in the ointment, but we can set aside his objections regarding your holdings—"
"Objections? I don't understand."
Another man spoke up. "Your ownership of the inn could be seen as a conflict of interest, and on that basis Somersdale could try to block our nomination. You'd be wise to sell it, Tremayne, and eliminate the sore spot."
"My father built the bloody place! I don't know what the lot of you have in mind, but—"
"Morgan, listen, lad." David's voice was firm. "Crowshaven's becoming a proper town and needs a proper mayor. We're nominating you at next council meeting. Would help the vote pass if you'd agree to sell. You know council meetings are held in your taproom. Someone else must profit from our ale and food purchases. Shouldn't be the town mayor. That's the conflict we're speaking of."
Morgan was speechless. David scowled. "We'll pay you a salary, Tremayne! Not much at first, but you'll still have your fingers in other pies. Granary, warehouse and livery service. What say you?"
"I agree with the concept of needing to elect a mayor," Morgan replied slowly. "Same thought's crossed my mind. But I can't honestly agree that I'm the fellow for the job. What about Squire Martin?"
One man shook his head. "Too old."
"And some say not to be trusted," grumbled Entwistle's neighbor.
"Then Boyd. He's the administrative sort and his family goes back—"
"Who do you think suggested you sell the inn?" David laughed. "We need someone who's not afraid to look others right in the eye—bedamned, even spit in their eye, come down to it—for the good of this village. A man with a stiff spine, yet someone who can get on with one and all."
Tate spoke up. "And we want someone who won't favor a merchant over a farmer. A man known for his word. You're the bloke, Tremayne."
"I'm flattered, but—"
Entwistle noisily cleared his throat. "We discussed this with Boyd while you were overseas. We waited until your bride arrived and you settled into your new married life. You're about to find yourself with a new mouth to feed. You want the post or not?" David demanded. "It is me asking." His eyes flicked to the cradle.
So now it's personal, Morgan realized. How do I refuse?
"Be forced to sell my inn," Morgan mused aloud, swallowing the lump in his throat. "No way around that. I'd demand the same if it were another holding the council meetings in his own tavern. I've had that place a long while. Lived in it a long while."
The others shrugged. Entwistle gave him a hard look. "Weren't no way 'round the chores, neither. You did them."
Morgan took a deep breath, trying to loosen the tightness in his chest. "I can't attend the next council meeting. My wife's time is very close, and she lost a child during labor in her first marriage. She needs me with her." He rose and tucked the cradle under one arm.
He glanced at the table full of men. "Let's see first if the vote carries. We can meet and discuss this at length afterward. Thank you again for this, David."
His words came out all the faster as he neared the door. He realized he sounded ungrateful, but he couldn't help it—he had to get out. He couldn't take their eyes on him a moment longer. He hadn't come expecting anything like this. He mumbled an excuse about documents awaiting him at the holding company and stepped into the pale sunshine.
"Morgan!" David followed. Morgan quickly climbed up into the wagon. "Expecting an invitation to supper and see the new Tremayne soon as your wife's back on her feet. And a last drink with you over your bar, son."
Morgan waved and gave the reins a slap. Patrick slobbered over his master's face as they made the sweeping turn across the fields and started back down the road into Crowshaven.
"A last drink across my bar," Morgan repeated aloud. "I'm beginning to see there's much I don't know about my old friend and partner, Atkinson. First that stunt with Richelle and now this. Hell, I haven't a clue about being mayor, Patrick!" The dog thumped his tail.
"Running the inn, trade negotiations, dickering over prices...that's what I know. Hell, I've only recently begun to believe I can make Richelle a decent husband. Haven't the faintest notion how I'm going to be a good father. And atop all that they want me to be the town's first mayor? Jesus, Mary and Joseph!"
Chapter 28
Morgan raced back toward the village, his mind in turmoil. The wagon lurched abruptly. Too late, he mentally flashed on the image of a large rock he'd glimpsed in the roadbed. A splintering sound accompanied the wagon skid as he pulled the horses up short. "Bloody perfect! Busted a frigging wheel! Why today, of all days?"
He was still cursing and struggling nearly an hour later.
As partner in the livery, he'd insisted spare wheels be stored beneath the beds of all service wagons. But it wasn't easy working to change a wheel alone in the icy cold; Patrick kept loping across the moors threatening to wander off, Morgan's fingers were numb. He'd propped the left side of the rig by tipping the big crate on end and was positioning the new wheel when one of the horses stamped from the cold, jerking the wagon. The crate tipped. The wagon tilted crazily and skidded backward, knocking Morgan to the frozen ground.
There was momentary blinding pain. Morgan inhaled and forced his voice to sound calm. He clucked his tongue. "Forward, Midnight! Steady." The mounts were well trained. In unison they took one step, two. Then they halted, brought up short by the wagon's immobile dead weight. Morgan roared in pain as the load shifted and brought fresh misery to his pinned right leg. He couldn't get his shoulders positioned to apply full upper body strength. Forcing his arms against the wagon bed was useless and merely caused spikes of agony to shoot into his leg.
He glanced around and felt his spirits sink. The road was empty in both directions. No farmers appeared to be working their perimeter tracts near the roadway. In desperation, Morgan whistled to Patrick, grateful now that he'd taken the pesky cur along. The lanky hound trotted up to sit beside his master.
"Patrick, go home," Morgan ordered. "Go get Richelle. I need her, need help. Go, Patrick!" He waved his arm in dismissal, grimacing as the pain in his leg became one long incessant throb. The dog fretted and whined, sniffing at the dark stain spreading near the lower half of his master's body. "Get Richelle, Pat," Morgan gasped out.
The dog turned and trotted back toward the village. Morgan watched until the moving shape was beyond his blurring vision. He silently prayed the animal wouldn't be distracted by a cat or loose hen along the way. He begged God to let someone find him before he slowly froze to death. As the mi
nutes dragged on, he realized he barely felt the pain in his leg now. He mostly felt cold.
Not so bad any more. Can hardly feel my leg at all...Christ, I'm bloody freezing to death!Richelle, I don't want to die here. HELP ME!
* * *
Dr. Rowe addressed her in a somber voice while Richelle straightened her garments. "We may have a problem. The child hasn't turned. I've seen cases where the head repositions at onset of labor and things proceed normally, but I need to be alerted as soon as your labor begins. I'd judge that to be in less than a fortnight."
Before Richelle could respond, there was a banging and commotion downstairs. Richelle and the doctor hurried down to the parlor. Boyd was there, questioning Lorella about Morgan's whereabouts, worried since he'd missed making a delivery to old Cramden.
Dr. Rowe spoke up. "He was by my place early this morning. He's probably just been delayed somewhere."
Richelle didn't think so. Not when Morgan had sworn to return early. "Boyd, you're sure he didn't make that delivery? He was going past the outskirts of the village to see David Entwistle. He wouldn't forget the time. He promised it shouldn't take long. I hope nothing's happened to delay him."
Boyd got no chance to respond, for at that moment, Malcolm Entwistle came out of the kitchen. "Saw a crate in the back of Morgan's wagon this morning. He was visiting with my father and some of the other men when I left."
There'd been a moment of awkward embarrassment earlier that morning, when Morgan's chimney mason turned out to be the same young man who'd given Lorella a lesson in selecting the best pumpkin.
Lorella had instantly flushed beet red when she'd let him into the parlor, but he seemed to take no notice, professionally surveying the premises and taking quick measurements upstairs. As he descended the staircase, though, he cleared his throat and inquired whether she'd enjoyed the ripe pumpkin last month.
Lorella announced she'd baked it and another she'd purchased later into pumpkin bread. She inquired whether he'd like a taste and a cup of tea. Richelle wandered into her own kitchen to find herself about as welcome as a tax collector. The two young people had eyes only for each other. Dr. Rowe had arrived a short time later, going upstairs to conduct his physical examination of Richelle.
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