Making a rude noise with her mouth, she said, “I don’t want that woman back here, and I don’t need anyone. Did our mams have housekeepers? No, they had their children without even enough to eat or peat for the fire. I’m sturdy. I’ll do.”
He shook his head, baffled. “Farrell, I don’t understand why ye resist every bit of peace, ease, and comfort I try to give you. Don’t you know that I only want to make your life better? Happier?”
She sat up a little and looked into his face. God, but she was a beauty with those green eyes and delicate copper brows. “We both grew up barely seeing a farthing from one year to the next. I learned to live without and to be thrifty. I can’t forget all that overnight. Besides, satin dresses and pretty china are lovely, but they aren’t what will make me happy.”
“What is it then?”
“I want to farm that claim out back.”
“What? When?”
“I’d hoped this spring, but I might be otherwise occupied now.”
“I can plow it for ye come February. How can I know what you want if you don’t tell me? Besides, you can have both, can’t you? Nice things and a farm?”
She nodded, a bit unwillingly. “Aye, I guess. But I’d like a husband at home, too.”
“Once we’re established, I promise I’ll be home more often.” Aidan supposed that a frugal wife was better than one who spent him into the poorhouse. But now, more than ever, he had reason to work hard. His child would not grow up ignorant entirely, or be educated in the hedges. There would be real school and perhaps, God willing, university. It made him a little nervous to think about it—an O’Rourke going to university. His own parents had not even been able to read or write.
He lay down beside her and pulled her closer. “Just the same, I don’t want you to wear yourself out. Um, when do ye think the babe will come?”
“In the spring, around May I think.” She yawned. “I’ve been so sleepy lately, I can barely keep my eyes open.”
He lay with Farrell sleeping in his arms till the candle burned low. He eased her to her pillow and moved the book from her lap so that he could undress for bed. Morning would come early for him, and now more than ever, he had reason to be up before the dawn, pushing the crew to keep the mill running at top speed.
A baby.
“I love you, céadsearc,” he whispered to her sleeping form, and drew the blankets to her chin.
* * *
“I tried to find out about her for you, your lordship, but O’Rourke wouldn’t say anything. To hear him, you’d almost think he has no wife. But I’ve talked to people who have met her. They say she’s got fire-red hair, and they’ve verified her name—Farrell.”
Seth Fitch reported to Noel Cardwell in the room he’d taken at the Linn City Hotel, just across the river from Oregon City. As always, Fitch remained standing, like any good butler or manservant who recognized his place in the social order.
Noel paced the room, his hands behind his back, as he studied the pattern of the rug beneath his boots. “And you say he has his own business? Not a farm?”
Fitch filled him in on what details he had about O’Rourke’s enterprise. “He’s doing well, it seems. But he’s also making some enemies.”
Noel looked up, interested. “Is he? Tell me more.”
“I’ve lingered in the taverns around town. Some of his employees are not too happy with the change of the mill’s ownership.”
That didn’t surprise Noel. The working class always had some whining complaint, about their pay, their employers, their working conditions. The ungrateful good-for-nothings. God knew he’d heard it all often enough in Skibbereen.
“What about other merchants and businessmen? Any complaints there?”
“None that I know of. In fact, I’ve heard mostly good things about the man, that he’s honest and ambitious. Dr. McLoughlin speaks well of him too.”
Noel made a sour face at the name. Although John McLoughlin was a wealthy prominent citizen in the Oregon Territory, Noel had learned that the Canadian-born man had defied a direct order from his own employer, Hudson’s Bay Company, by providing aid and comfort to emigrating settlers. It had been a British-controlled territory and their aim, naturally, had been to discourage such settlement. Instead, softhearted McLoughlin had extended credit to them, cared for their sick, fed, clothed, and housed them. He even gave them seed for planting and donated land for public use, including five different churches, a school and a jail. Eventually he resigned from Hudson’s Bay Company and relinquished his British citizenship by becoming an American. And this after he’d received a knighthood from Queen Victoria herself. God, what Noel wouldn’t give to kneel before his queen and receive the tap of her scepter. The man’s actions were beyond Noel’s comprehension. So of course he would think well of Aidan O’Rourke, and Noel knew he could expect no assistance from him in bringing the bastard down.
“McLoughlin will be no help,” Noel said aloud. “But this discontentment among the mill employees could work in our favor.” He went to the window and looked out at the river rolling past and the large, snow-covered mountain on the gray, eastern horizon. “In fact, it might be smarter to take advantage of their unhappiness and win McLoughlin’s favor separately.” It could serve as a screen between himself and the outcome of his plan, but he didn’t voice the idea. In the end, he would sacrifice anyone, including the dog-faithful Fitch, to attain his goal and keep himself above suspicion. Farrell would be his, just as soon as he dispatched her troublesome husband.
“Shall I mingle with the mill workers, your lordship?” Fitch asked.
“Yes, see if you can learn anything else. But for God’s sake, be discreet. There’s no point in arousing undue curiosity. We can’t know who might decide to play both sides against the middle, befriending you and then betraying you to O’Rourke.”
Fitch nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“In the meantime, I’ll see about getting an introduction to McLoughlin. Perhaps that famed generosity of his can work to my advantage.”
* * *
The next month or so went smoothly enough. Farrell’s clothes were getting to be too small and she spent part of her time letting out the waist seams of her dresses. But she knew there would come a point when she’d have to stitch up new things to wear for later on, when she was grew much bigger. Fortunately, her queasy stomach had finally calmed down and she was feeling altogether better, Brigit be thanked.
One morning she sat in the parlor, working on her alterations, chatting and having tea with Marigold Lewis, a woman close to her own age whom she’d met at church. Marigold’s husband had recently presented her with a charming little pony cart which she drove all over town. The little beastie that pulled it was a sweet, gentle animal but strong enough to do the job, and it gave Marigold the mobility that Farrell craved. Unless someone came to get her, or Aidan was available to take her, Farrell had to walk everywhere. That hadn’t been a problem in Ireland—her excursions rarely took her farther than a mile or two from home. But this was a big territory. Things were more spread out, and it rained as much here as it did in Ireland. Of course, the cart offered no shelter against the weather, but Marigold, possessing an ingenuity that Farrell recognized and respected, had suspended a tarp to go over the seat of the cart to cover her on rainy days. Farrell had learned long ago that resourcefulness could mean the difference between surviving and not.
“Maybe I should talk to Aidan about getting one of those wee carts. I could go to mass for some of the feast days, if I was of a mind, and I wouldn’t feel so alone up here. Maybe it could be my Christmas present—for the next five years!”
They both laughed, and Marigold’s long, bony face lighted with enthusiasm. “Definitely, that would be wonderful. That little cart has made my life easier, I can tell you. I do my errands in town and go calling—oh, all kinds of things. And now that you’re expecting, you shouldn’t be walking too far. My doctor said it isn’t good for the baby.” She had two children of her own.
“Really?” Farrell had never consulted a doctor in her entire life.
“Yes, a little exercise and fresh air is enough.”
Just then, as if in response, Farrell felt a flip-flop low in her belly. She let out a quiet gasp of delight. Putting her hand over the place, she waited. There it was again.
“What?” The other young woman looked alarmed. “Are you all right?”
Farrell laughed in surprise, her mouth open in astonishment. “The baby moved.”
Marigold pressed a hand to her chest and laughed in relief. “Oh! I remember the first time that happened to me.”
Farrell was so excited she threw down her sewing and rose from the sofa. “I can’t wait to tell Aidan.” She would hurry down the quarter mile to the mill and find Aidan to tell him. Giggling, she ran to the kitchen and grabbed her shawl from its hook by the back door. With her hand on the knob, she was ready to leave.
“Farrell, wait!” Marigold hurried after her, her heels tapping on the hardwood floor in the hallway. “You can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Well, dear, it isn’t at all fitting. Think a moment of where you’re going.”
Farrell nodded. “Oh. Of course, you’re right.” She couldn’t do this. It wouldn’t be appropriate. If Aidan were a farmer out in the fields with just his horse, that would be different. They would have no other witnesses but the earth and sky. Oh, and the horse. But the mill was big, noisy, and dirty, full of men shouting to be heard over the din, and not a place where a woman went to tell her husband about something so private. She’d been inside the mill only twice and those visits had proved to be quite enough.
Though she might burst with the anticipation, she’d wait until suppertime. She took off her shawl and went back to the study to take up her sewing again. After Marigold left, she spent most of her day wearing a secret little smile and cherishing her secret.
That evening, Farrell and Aidan were sitting at the dining room table, enjoying poached salmon, when she said casually, “I felt the baby move today.”
Aidan who had been a bit preoccupied until that moment, snapped up his head to look at her. “Ye did?”
She knew she wore a sly smile. “Aye, three times. Twice while Marigold was here, and one more time after.”
He grinned and reached over to squeeze her hand. “He’s a little mischief-maker with his fists, aye?”
Farrell lifted her brows and pointed her fork at him. “She might have just been shifting in her sleep. That’s what Marigold told me.”
He returned her sly look, one that said, think what you like.
“Aidan, that reminds me. Marigold has a gorgeous little horsecart that she can take everywhere. Her pony is as gentle as an old dog and she whisks around fine. I haven’t asked for much, but that’s something I’d truly like. I could get about on my own for visiting and such.”
“Not now, little red one. Maybe after the babe comes.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like the idea of ye out there alone in one of those little contraptions. Gentle or not, the pony could pull up lame too far from help. Or worse, the cart could overturn and you could hurt the baby, or be injured yourself. I don’t like the sound of it.”
“But—”
“After the babe is born and the weather improves, we’ll talk about it again.”
She put down her fork. “Aidan, you’re away so often and I’m lonely here, especially at night.”
He gave her a horrified look. “Christ, woman, ye wouldn’t go about at night in the thing, would you? No man worth his boot polish would allow his wife to do something so foolish and dangerous.”
“Well, no, I suppose not,” she agreed.
“Hmph.” He made a satisfied sound. “I wouldn’t think so. I promise I’ll try to be home more often now that you’re advancing in your—your condition.”
She smiled, obviously pleased with that. “Then after the baby is born—”
“Yes, then. But you won’t have a cart. Maybe a phaeton or something else more substantial.”
After dinner, Aidan led Farrell upstairs to bed, anxious for sleep himself. These were long, hard days. But Farrell had other ideas. Some women, he’d heard, had no interest in making love after they became pregnant, and wouldn’t even allow their husbands to cast eyes upon them when they were barefoot. Not his wife. She permitted him to see her sweetly rounding body in the candlelight, and she was shyly eager to be with him, to touch him.
When she joined him in bed, the sweet scent of her surrounded him, making him feel as if he were walking through a garden, rife with wild lavender. He didn’t know if it was a perfume she wore, the soap she used, or just an essence entirely her own that emanated from her skin, but the fragrance intoxicated him. One thought moved through his mind, that he wanted her—needed her. Just the idea of burying himself in her moist heat made his body harden.
At first he had worried that he would hurt the child, but she’d assured him that he wouldn’t and had taken charge of matters. Now, once more, he found himself helpless on his back, with her straddling him and driving him beyond the bounds of any passion he’d ever known before. Her hair, Christ help him, fell like a silken curtain streaked with fire, warm where it pooled on his chest, electrical as it slid like a caress over his skin.
Aidan knew he was a lucky man. He had everything he’d ever dreamed of, everything he’d ever hoped for. He lifted his hips to enter her, praying as he did that all would go well when she bore his child. Then with one shift of her own hips, she drove the worry and every other thought from his mind as spasms of excruciating pleasure shuddered through his body, one upon another.
Afterward, as he gathered her close in his arms, he wished to feel the baby move, but the wee thing was evidently asleep.
No matter, Aidan thought as sleep closed over him. He already held the entire world in his arms. How could he yearn for anything more?
* * *
Aidan came downstairs for breakfast to find Farrell doing laundry in the tub she kept on the back porch. She’d left the door ajar and he paused in the entrance to the kitchen to watch her. He could see steam rising from the water as she rubbed one of his shirts on the washboard. Her apron was tied about her waist, revealing the soft swell of her belly. Although it was a chilly autumn morning, the work was hot and made loose tendrils of her hair curl like burnished copper springs around her face. She’d rolled up her sleeves to her elbows, and the muscles in her pale, slender arms flexed with the effort of the job. He didn’t like to see her working that hard, especially in her condition. And yet . . . there was something arousing about the picture she made, a sturdy, finely-made Irish lass, carrying his child beneath her heart, and framed by the pewter-gray sky.
“Ye look quite fetching out there, Mrs. O’Rourke,” he said, coming out to talk with her.
She looked up at him, and he saw that either the hot water or the brisk air had put roses in her cheeks. The sparkle in her green eyes, he knew, was hers alone. “Do I now?” she asked, a coy note in her voice. “So you have a taste for washerwomen, then?”
“Maybe. I used to like milkmaids and shepherd girls, too.”
Sticking out her tongue at him, she slashed the water with the edge of her hand. He jumped, but not quickly enough, and he was wet from chest to knees. “Used to. Now it’s just washerwomen.”
“Ah, no, not all of them. Just one,” he replied. He closed his arms around her growing waist, and nuzzled her neck.
“You’ll have no clean shirts if you don’t let me finish here,” she said, without much conviction.
“I’d rather have my breakfast—in bed.”
She gave him a scandalized look, and then laughed. “You are wild and unrepentant, Aidan O’Rourke.”
“Aye, that I am,” he agreed, letting his hands run up and down her damp arms, raising gooseflesh as he went. “And that’s why you love me.” He threw that out and held his breath, not knowing how she would respond.
His blood turned to fire. She hadn’t come right out and said she loved him, but Aidan, starved for any sign of devotion that she might give him, grabbed onto her response like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline. He pulled her away from the tub and held her against the length of his body. “Damn the clean shirts. I’d rather have you instead.”
She stepped back and looked up at him with a mischievous glint. “But you’ll have to catch me.” Squealing, she ran back through the kitchen and down the hallway. He gave her a bit of a head start to add to the fun, but when she got to the top of the stairs, she was winded. He picked her up and carried her to their bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ten days before Christmas, Farrell stood in the kitchen peeling potatoes and onions for the supper stew she was cooking when three of Aidan’s mill workers came to the front door. One of them she recognized as Tom Fitzgerald. He introduced the others to her, Pete Dorsett and James Cole. As strong and broad as Tom, they nodded at her and mumbled a greeting.
“If you’re looking for Mr. O’Rourke, he’ll be down at the mill,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Yes, ma’am, he sent us up. He asked us to bring this to the house.” He gestured over his shoulder and she saw a horse-drawn wagon with crates in the back.
“What is that?”
“I don’t know, but we’re to unpack them and bring them in. Oh, and before I forget—” He reached into his pocket and handed her an envelope that bore her name, written in Aidan’s hand.
She watched as they pried open the crates and carried in a large dining room table, twelve chairs, and one smaller item that was wrapped in burlap.
“What in the name of St. Patrick—” she began, rubbing her arms to warm them in the cold December breeze that blew through the open door. By the time they were finished, they’d set up the new furniture and carried the old set to the attic.
The Irish Bride Page 20