Miss Leslie's Secret

by Jennifer Moore

  Conall smiled at Mrs. Leslie’s persuasion technique. When in doubt, mention food. “That would be fine, lad. I thank ye.”

  Jamie had only gone a few yards when he stopped and ran back to join them. He put his hand over his heart and dipped his head in a bow. “Goodbye, Mam.” Then he turned and dashed up the street.

  Conall grinned, a combination of amusement and affection, as he watched the lad go. He turned toward Mrs. Leslie and schooled his features when he saw that she wasn’t smiling. He reached out his hand, offering to carry her basket, but she pulled it tighter into the bend of her arm and walked past.

  Mrs. Leslie led him away from the front of the store to a space at the corner of the building where the two could speak without blocking any shoppers.

  She set down the basket beneath the overhang of the roof and turned, her face serious and her eyes fiery. “Sergeant Stewart, I’ll have ye know I’m a capable woman, able to feed and care for my own family. I’ll not be beholden to anyone.”

  He studied her, trying to discern what had brought on her resentment. “Mrs. Leslie, any distress I’ve caused has been unintentional, I assure ye. And since I’ve no idea of what yer speakin’, I’ll ask ye to clarify if ye don’t mind.”

  “The mutton, Sergeant.” She folded her arms. “And the cheese and sausage ye’ve sent home with Jamie. Not to mention the milk, firewood, and mortar that ye were apparently just meaning to throw oot.” She flipped her hand, and her cheeks reddened, but he thought she looked more ashamed than angry. She lifted her chin in a look of stubbornness. “I’ll not accept yer charity.”

  Conall knew too well about the Highlanders’ belief of giving assistance to those in need—and how very at odds it was with their stubborn natures. A paradoxical people that was both frustrating and wonderful. He’d seen people go without, both because they’d given their last to a person in need and because they’d refused to accept it when they were the ones wanting. He would wager if the tables were turned, Mrs. Leslie wouldn’t hesitate to aid him, down to her last penny. But of course, he couldn’t tell her that. She’d dig in her heels, and there was no budging a determined Scotswoman. Especially when ’twas her pride on the line.

  He chose another tactic. “Mrs. Leslie, in the past five days since yer son’s been workin’ for me, he’s repaired loose stones from every wall and buildin’ on the property—most without me askin’. He’s pulled weeds and underbrush from the orchard and paths, fed and cleaned up after the animals, and swept my storage barn. The lad works harder than some grown men I’ve known and always with a smile on his face.” He saw her expression soften slightly. “I regard Jamie as a valuable employee, and I don’t consider the payment unreasonable. But if you’d prefer me to settle upon a weekly sum, I’ll discuss the particulars with the lad.” He intended to do so anyway, but neither he nor Mrs. Ross could bear seeing the boy hungry, and convincing Jamie to take home food was no easy task. He was as stubborn as his mother.

  Mrs. Leslie shifted, rubbing her arm. “I can take care of my son, sir.”

  “Aye, and ye’re doin’ a fine job. I can see he’s been well raised.”

  She continued to look uncomfortable, her eyes turned away and her brows furrowed.

  He touched her elbow to regain her attention. “Mrs. Leslie, I spent much o’ the last ten years hungry: Marchin’ through Spain in the winter, eatin’ only what we could forage along the way; aboard a ship in the middle o’ the South Sea, runnin’ low on rations; then reachin’ Sydneytowne and realizin’ the convicts’ supplies were scarce as well.” He rubbed his cheek, noticing his skin was quite wet from standing in the drizzle so long. He hoped Mrs. Leslie’s bonnet and thin coat were keeping her dry. “But I was an adult. ’Twas difficult, but I could manage.” He blew out a breath. “I remember how ’twas bein’ a young lad, always with an empty belly.” He glanced in the direction Jamie had gone. “’Tis only a bit o’ mutton or a chunk o’ cheese, but the givin’ of it is more for my own benefit, ye ken?”

  She squinted, regarding him for a long moment, and he suddenly felt vulnerable at revealing so much to a person who was practically a stranger. Her bright-blue eyes held an intelligence that he found appealing. It might be very enjoyable to have a conversation with Mrs. Leslie if an opportunity ever arose when she wasn’t angry with him.

  She finally spoke. “As a mother, ’tis my worst fear, imaginin’ my Jamie hungry. I thank ye for yer kindness to him.” She spoke slowly as if thinking through the words. “I’m sorry for yer own sufferin’, Sergeant. I’d not considered it.”

  His discomfort grew. What must this woman think of him? Sharing such personal stories, complainin’ about his time at war when there were so many who suffered much worse and others who didna return at all. “I’m sorry. I should not have burdened ye wi’ that.”

  She touched his arm, much as he’d done to her a moment earlier. “’Tis all right ye did.”

  Conall met her gaze, contemplating again how he enjoyed it, but just as quickly looked away, aware that his perceptions of Mrs. Leslie’s bright eyes were approaching the realm of inappropriate, as they pertained to a married woman.

  He cleared his throat and rocked back on his heels, changing the subject. “Jamie’s finally deemed my apiary satisfactory. I suppose the next step is to fill it with bees. Is it yer husband I speak to about hirin’ hives?”

  Mrs. Leslie’s brow wrinkled. “My husband?”

  “Aye. He’s the beekeeper, is he nay?”

  “If ’tis bees yer wantin’, ye speak to me.” She folded her arms and raised her chin. “I have no husband.”

  Conall blinked. “Oh, I beg yer pardon. I thought . . . uh . . . yer the beekeeper?”

  Her face tightened, and her stance became defensive. “Is it impossible to believe, Sergeant Stewart?”

  His plan to have a conversation without angering her was already failing. He opened his mouth then closed it, unsure of what to say.

  She continued to regard him, arms folded and one brow raised.

  “Nay, ’tisn’t impossible to believe. I apologize, I shouldna have assumed . . .”

  “’Tis rather unconventional, I suppose, but there are few payin’ positions in Dunaid for a woman.” She pulled her coat tighter. “My father kept bees before he joined the Ninety-Second Regiment and sailed to France. When Jamie and I had to leave our home, ’twas all I knew to do.” She paused as a pair of men approached leading horses toward the livery. She nodded a greeting.

  The interruption seemed to shake Mrs. Leslie from her discomfort, and her attitude became more businesslike. “If you’re worried about the bees, please inquire about my qualifications with the other farmers in the village. However, you’ll nay find another beekeeper for miles.”

  She curtseyed and opened her mouth, he assumed to make a farewell, but Conall had one more matter to discuss with her, and in light of recent discoveries, the topic had become much more pleasant. He even felt a tingle of nervousness, which he took to be a good sign.

  “Mrs. Leslie, I’ll be needin’ help gettin’ my animals to the bonfire tonight. Would Jamie be available?”

  She looked away but not before he saw hurt in her eyes. “I’ll ask him, o’ course, but I’m sure he’ll not mind.”

  Conall wished he’d worded his request better. He’d intended to invite the both of them—he wouldn’t separate a family on such a night—but he’d not had time to plan his words, not so soon after Mrs. Leslie’s revelation about her marital status had left him reassessing his intentions. Her declaration had taken him aback, and he’d still not fully arranged his thoughts. He realized his hands were clenched and forced them to relax. “Mrs. Leslie . . .”

  But she did not turn back to him. Instead, she waved at a pair walking toward them. Conall’s housekeeper, Mrs. Ross, carried a sturdy-looking box on her hip. She was accompanied by a small woman with striking eyebrows. The two made a comical duo, one tall and stout and the other slender and short.

  “I assume Mrs. Ross
is preparin’ yer house?” Mrs. Leslie asked. She lifted her basket and spoke without looking at him. Her voice sounded strained as if she were trying to find a comfortable topic.

  “Aye, that she is. Flowers everywhere ye can imagine, and she and poor Brighid have been scrubbin’ every inch o’ the place since before dawn.”

  Mrs. Leslie gave a smart nod. “She’ll do ye right.”

  The women joined them, and Mrs. Leslie turned to Conall to introduce her neighbor, a person Conall recognized from Sunday services as Mrs. Campbell. The older woman’s brow rose as she looked him over, then she looked to Mrs. Leslie with a knowing expression and a small smirk.

  “Nice to see the two o’ ye this mornin’,” Mrs. Leslie said, ignoring her neighbor’s teasing with a slight shake of her head that conveyed a world of meaning and also suggested a close relationship. “I was just takin’ the goat cheese to Mrs. Graham.”

  “I’ve some food for the feast as well.” Mrs. Ross tipped her head toward the box she carried. “I’ll deliver yer cheese if ye like. Then ye can hurry back to yer bairn.”

  “Thank you.” Mrs. Leslie hooked the basket’s handle over the housekeeper’s ample arm.

  “I left Jamie at home wi’ the bannoch Bealltainn,” Mrs. Campbell said. “I wonder if there will be any remainin’ when I return?”

  “I’m sure ye’ll make up another batch before tonight, Dores.” Mrs. Ross shifted the box on her hip, shaking her head. “Ye always make too much.”

  Mrs. Campbell waved her hands in the air dramatically. “I’ll not have the village fallin’ on hard times because the rituals weren’t honored properly.” She turned toward Conall. “And I suppose yer goin’ to the bonfire tonight?”

  “I wouldn’t be missin’ it fer anythin’,” he said.

  “’Tis wise.” Mrs. Campbell nodded sagely. “Ye’d not want yer crops or animals to fall victim to disease.” She looked back and forth between Conall and Mrs. Leslie. Her face took on a sly expression that nearly made Conall burst into laughter. “And doesna Aileen Leslie look bonny this mornin’, Sergeant?”

  Mrs. Leslie’s eyes narrowed. She pursed her lips and shook her head again at Mrs. Campbell. This time more forcefully.

  “Aye. Verra lovely,” Conall said.

  The older woman’s brow bounced up and down, which Conall thought was both fascinating and rather unnerving. “I wonder, Aileen, have you anyone to walk wi’ ye to the bonfire tonight?” She opened her eyes wide and pouted her lip as if hoping her question sounded innocent.

  “Mrs. Campbell!” Mrs. Leslie hissed the words, trying to catch her friend’s gaze. Unable to do so, she sighed and closed her eyes. Her cheeks flared red.

  “I think Sergeant Stewart intends to go alone,” Mrs. Ross put in with a shake of her head. “A pity, that.” His housekeeper wore a mischievous look of her own.

  Conall tipped his head to the side and tapped a finger on his chin, amused at the two women and their stratagems. “Well, now that ye mention it, I just had a thought.” He put on an innocent expression of his own. “Mrs. Leslie, ’twould be an honor if ye’d accompany me to the bonfire tonight.” He gave a small wink.

  Her cheeks flamed even redder. She studied his expression for a moment, suspicion tightening her eyes. Finally, she nodded. “The honor would be mine, Sergeant.”

  Relief relaxed his shoulders. He was surprised to find he’d anticipated her answer with a fair bit of worry.

  The older women smiled, apparently satisfied that their scheme had played out so well. They bid farewell and left, linking arms as they walked away.

  Conall stood beside Mrs. Leslie, watching them go. “Until I saw the preparations today, I’d not realized how much I’m looking forward to the celebration.”

  She remained silent, but from the corner of his eye, he saw her pull her coat tighter. “Excuse me, Sergeant,” she said. “I need to be leavin’ now to get my house in order for the festival day.” Her voice was soft and sounded uncertain. From the few short interactions he’d had with her, Conall knew uncertainty was not a characteristic typical to Mrs. Leslie.

  “Until this afternoon then.”

  “Aye.” She curtseyed without meeting his gaze and hurried away.

  For the third time that morning, Conall stood beside the dry goods store and watched a figure walking up the muddy road. But Mrs. Leslie’s departure left him feeling pleased and at the same time nervous. The unsettling feeling was one he’d not felt for a long time—or perhaps ever.

  The two meddling women had released him from any vulnerability in offering to accompany Mrs. Leslie to the bonfire. If she’d refused, he could have played it off as only going along with their insinuation. But at the same time, their interference had given her the impression that their coercion was the only reason he’d asked.

  Though she’d tried to hide it, he knew she felt slighted.

  He rubbed his cheek, concerned as to how he’d handle the situation. After a moment, he smiled. ’Twas a good thing he’d a merry festival and a night of celebration to convince her otherwise. Conall tipped his hat to a passing group and whistled a merry tune as he crossed the road to the Stag and Thistle.

  Chapter 7

  Aileen stood in the center of her cottage and wiped her arm across her forehead as she surveyed the room. Over the last hours, she’d swept, scoured, and dusted every bit of the stone, wood, and dirt that made up her home. Even the goat’s inside pen was spotless. The hearth was cleaned and fresh branches and peat placed inside, awaiting the holy fire. Yellow flowers adorned the sills of the two windows, and she’d woven a floral wreath for the door.

  She opened it, glancing upward. Weak sunlight struggled to shine through the clouds. At least ’twasn’t raining.

  Looking to the north, she could see smoke from the field above the village and knew the Beltane fire had been lit. Mrs. Graham and Mrs. Ross would be supervising the feast preparations, and when Aileen closed her eyes, she imagined she could smell the mutton roasting. The thought alone made her mouth water. The men of the village would have created the fire in the most primitive manner possible, rubbing sticks or sparking rocks together to make the flames. This made the fire’s protective power more potent. Mr. Graham, the minister, would no doubt have blessed the fire already. The combination of pagan customs and Christianity seemed at odds to some, but to her, it made perfect sense. The connection with the land and blessings from the heavens brought harmony to her world. For a moment, she watched the smoke rising in billows and knew the same sight was visible in wee hamlets and large cities throughout the country.

  Stepping outside, she gave a smile as she looked at the May bush. She and Jamie had found a lovely flowering hawthorn tree high on a rocky hill, and they’d cut off a branch, thanking the sacred tree for the gift. Now the limb sat in a bucket outside the door with stones holding it upright. The mother and son had laughed as they tied on bits of string and painted shells to decorate it. She knew ’twasn’t as fine as the bauble and ribbon-adorned bushes at many of the other houses, but her son’s excitement had made the scraggly branch seem as magical as if ’twere made by faeries.

  She surveyed the yard. Jamie had pulled out the dead plants from her flowerbeds and small garden. He’d turned under the soil as well as a wee boy with thin arms, bare feet, and a broken shovel was able, and now the lad was stuffing clumps of flowers between the skeps in the freshly swept winter apiary.

  Aileen paused to watch him. Jamie’s brow was furrowed in concentration as he attempted to make the flower bunches look as pleasing as possible. His face was smudged, his clothes dirty, and his curls wild.

  In spite of his probable exhaustion from hours of labor, he grinned when he saw her. “Doesnae the yard look bonny, Mam?”

  She couldn’t help but smile in return. “Finer than any in the village.”

  Jamie brushed off his hands and gave a satisfied nod as he looked around the property.

  Aileen thought of what Sergeant Stewart had said earlier that day, and
she could see precisely what he meant. Jamie was a hard worker and took pleasure in a job well done. The sight melted her heart with a combination of love and pride.

  The memory of the earlier conversation sent a flush up her neck. She felt humiliated by the sergeant’s reluctant invitation. Of course the man didn’t want to go to the festival with her. She’d hardly said a word to him that hadn’t been accusatory or angry. The embarrassment spread, making her stomach turn sour. Perhaps she could send word, tell the sergeant she was ill, but of course, she couldn’t miss the bonfire. She rubbed her eyes. Why had Dores and Mrs. Ross been so nosey?

  “What else needs to be cleaned, Mam?” Jamie asked, leaving the hives and carrying the garden tools toward the house.

  “Only ourselves, mo croí. Come inside.”

  Jamie refused her help to wash and dress but did allow her to rinse soap from his hair, pouring water from the bucket. He wore the new trousers and shirt she’d finished sewing just the night before. There’d been enough fabric for her to make a vest, which he delightedly put on, standing tall and puffing out his chest. “I look like a fine gentleman, don’t I, Mam?”

  “Aye. The verra handsomest, to be sure.” His clothing made him look much older than he had a few moments earlier, and the sight made her eyes misty.

  “I’ll be back soon, Mam. I’m off t’ admire myself in Mrs. Campbell’s looking glass.”

  She couldn’t help her smile as she watched him go. If only he’d a pair of shoes . . . But ’twould have to wait until the honey came in.

  While Jamie was gone, Aileen washed herself and dressed. She shivered, hair wet and no fire to help it dry, but she shook it out and ran a comb through the damp strands before tying it back.

  She pulled on her blue Sunday gown, wishing it were new and fashionable instead of practical and homespun. In the bundle of clothing from Dores, Aileen had found a scrap of lace that looked like it had once been part of a curtain. It was just long enough to wrap over her shoulders and pin at her neck.