Rescuing Mr. Gracey (11 page)

She obediently gulped the sweetly spiced cider that spread its warmth from her mouth, hitting her naked stomach with such impact, her eyes closed and her exhausted body shivered with pleasure.

“Which way, Miss Smyth?”

Her eyes flew open. Disoriented, she had to swivel her gaze about the street. How had she completely lost time and place?

“Here—we turn here.” Now anxious over the ease with which he stole her control, Mary suddenly wanted him gone.

“You’ve been most thoughtful, sir, but I fear you will catch a chill from the abuse of the evening. I’ve only two more stops, and I will…”

His astonished laugh bounced down the vacant stone street. “You, afraid for me? Miss Smyth, you befuddle logic. You don’t fear for yourself, a tiny pixie, hauling a lumbering cart down threatening roads, challenging any attacker with a squeaky wheel and a fierce little frown.”

She grimaced. She didn’t want to be pitied. “I don’t do it alone,” she said, a bit of irritation tainting her tone. “My mam washes the clothes. When I return from the field, I only just help iron and then deliver perhaps three or four loads.”

A surprised huff preceded his next statement. “Did no one tell you that you’re but a wee thing and should not be working yourself to an early grave?”

Buffeted by pride and absolute confidence that a man of his obvious privilege would never understand the terrors of her people, she pressed her lips closed. Compared to the workhouse, the starvation of a loved one, or the stench of a ghost ship to the Americas, she would suffer much worse than delivering at night in the rain.

They walked in silence, the rain’s pattering upon the umbrella slowing, but the bitter, swirling wind still attacking them.

“This is another stop,” she said, flipping the next bundle from the cart. Having him escort her had slowed her deliveries all the more, and the next maid was even ruder than the one before. She dreaded the last load—the most arrogant house in all of Castlewellan.

Mr. Jordan had refilled her cup with cider by the time she returned. She bobbed her head and drank a long, soothing sip. “Have you settled in?” she asked him on their way to her last delivery.

“Aye. Thank you.”

“Were you able to find employment?”

He delayed answering for a moment. “I have a position. However, I fear I am not suited.”

“Ohhh,” she said, turning her face away so that he would not see her disgust. No one of her acquaintance would complain about suitability. More proof of his aristocratic upbringing.

“And I stay dry while you haul rock from a field,” he added. “You complete the task of delivering in dark streets while I take my sup and rest.”

Mary tucked her head inside her hood, the sympathy for her both confusing and annoying. “’Tis not as bad as you describe,” she lied. Some nights she found herself dozing while pushing the cart. Of course, the general lack of good food also disintegrated her stamina. “’Twill not last much longer. The field will soon be planted, and then Da can manage until the harvest.” With another sip of cider, she kept weary legs moving.

“Is it not late for planting?” he asked unexpectedly.

      She hated the probing, personal questions, the implications, the pity. Exhaling, she nodded. “The field resists our attempt to improve it.”

He laughed softly. “I have tools that may help the effort.”

Her heart tripped uneasily. “No. That is to say, we could not pay you.” She swallowed a final gulp of cider and leaned forward to place it inside his linen napkin.

“No repayment is expected. There is also a new fertilizer mixture that has proven to replenish depleted fields. I’ve been hoping to test it myself, and your field would provide that opportunity.”

She shook her head.
Please…please don’t let him see me in the field…dirty, sweaty…defeated.
“I would no’ wish it on ya, sir. I would no’ wish it on anyone.” Mary pressed her lips together, rebuking the Irish brogue that tattled on her anxiety.

“Miss Smyth.” He paused as if to find a way to undo any damage caused by his suggestion. “Once again, I am most sincere—I apologize.”

She swiveled her head, blinking rapidly to dry an unexpected rush of tears. “Here is my last delivery,” Mary said as she pointed at the large manor set back on a hill

He stiffened as he released a sort of strangled gasp. “This is your last drop?” Fury laced his words. The tick on his jaw pulsed, and his black brows were drawn in a furious line.

“Do you know the house?”

“I know it,” he snapped. He pivoted and viewed the remaining bundle, jamming his hands into his pockets.

Alarm tapped at her chest as she puzzled over the information. The powerful owner of the manor, Alexander Gracey, not only ran the most prosperous mill in town, but was an unapologetic persecutor of native Catholics in Castlewellan. Though she felt traitorous taking on the washing job from such a terrible man, her family’s need was too great to decline.

But why would a stranger know the man? Why would he be so offended that she did their laundry?

“I will not allow you to carry this monstrosity,” Mr. Jordan said, a scowl warning against argument. “I assure you, there will be no repercussion to my delivering it.”

“No… Sir…”
 

He held up a stiff, silencing hand. Tossing the huge load onto his shoulder, he jogged toward the service alley.

Confusion thickened. This man, this stranger, knew the despicable family who forbade Catholic employment at the mill, supported the earl’s prejudicial policies, and encouraged landowners to evict renters. However, Mr. Jordan’s reaction was so annoyed, almost violent, she wondered if he might be a native sympathizer.

Mary held the umbrella, pacing in front of the manor, wondering if the staff would scream at him or rebuff the load…maybe refuse to pay him altogether. After several anxious moments, Mr. Jordan reappeared from the rear of the manor. He dropped the new load into the cart, then handed over a too-thick packet of money.

“Oh no,” she said, shaking her head at the money. “They’ve given too much. When they find the error, they’ll have me arrested for thievery.”

“What?” he said, confusion lacing his tone. Releasing a pillow of white frost, he sighed. “No…no. They said extra pay. For excellent service. And an expression of gratitude. For taking the unexpected load.” His broken explanation was too rushed, too uncertain to be believed. “And…for delivering it with such expediency,” he added.

She shook her head. “They’ve not given extra before, sir. I think you are mistaken.”

He touched her arm gently. “Please. Do not question the amount,” he whispered. “’Tis clearly deserved and given by one who obviously can afford to pay.”

Brushing loose hair from her head, she knew she was frowning with confusion. “I canno’ believe…” This was more than she made in a month of daily laundry. “I dare not believe…”

Mr. Jordan snapped his coat free of the cart and slung it over his shoulders. “You must be quite tired. Let’s return you home.” His hand rested on her elbow, urging her on.

Walking slowly forward, she stared at the money.
We could buy some fresh meat, perhaps even some cheese.
“I cannot understand why they were so generous.”

The rain had ceased, and Mr. Jordan closed the umbrella and tossed it inside the cart. “I guarantee the funds paid were intended for you, Miss Smyth.” Once more pressuring her elbow, he guided them through the thickening mist.

Echoes, warning, worries all clattered through her thoughts and joined in the amplified squeaks of the cart. “Sir, I know nothing about you.”

He cleared his throat. “Well then,” he said, imitating the accent of a native Irishman. “The lady wishes t’ know about me.” He tapped his chin. “But I do need to keep a wee bit of mystery, so let me calculate carefully what tidbit to give.”

Ridiculous. Charming.
A surprised giggle escaped her.

“Ah-ha.” He turned his attention to her. His one-sided smile penetrated a surprising path to her heart. “Do ya like me accent, miss?’”

His teasing relaxed her enough that she looked up and returned the smile. “It seems mismatched, sir.” Without the umbrella, the dim gaslight and the reflection of wet cobblestone lightened the night so that she could see him clearly.

His gaze roamed over her face, then dropped to her lips. “I do love your smile, Miss Smyth.”

She could not define the current that ran through her blood, and though the sensation was not unpleasant, it was unnerving. Tucking her head, she hid inside the hood and kept her eyes locked upon the movement of her feet.

“This past decade, I have been getting my education in Dublin. Having an invitation to return, I am reacquainting myself with Castlewellan, my birthplace,” he continued.

“Ohhhh.”

He cleared his throat. “I’ve a wealthy relative who sponsors me.”

The wind slowed to a warmer breeze and scattered the rolling clouds so that the moon’s light began to peek out. “I believe you said that before,” she said, wondering why he needed to repeat that information. “And, your friend, Mr. James?”

She glanced over in time to see a frown marring his brow.

Mr. Jordan cleared his throat again. “He is not a friend. I hope you understand I would not befriend such a man. He is an associate, no more.” His strong chin rose a notch before he added, “He sends his sincerest regrets, but ’tis doubtful he will have time to visit.”

The cart wobbled when they left the smooth stone road for the muddy, ill-kept coach road. “Miss Smyth,” he said, navigating around ruts, “I hope to further my proposition. I am highly educated in the study of agricultural science and would enjoy an interesting activity if you should allow me to assist in planting your father’s field.”

She gasped. “Why?” she whispered.
Interesting activity!
Who would ever think such a thing as lifting muddy rock an interesting activity? Shocking images further agitated her—his callused hands clawing at mud, heaving rocks, pulling leftover potato trash, his fine clothes covered with smelly, filthy bog, his expression exhausted.

Quakes of trepidation overtook her shoulders. “
Ta an domhan uile ina staitse agus testaionn cleachtadh go gear on morchuid again
.”

He shook his head. “I recognize Irish, but I don’t speak it.”

Her teeth clenched. “Aye, nor anythin’ else ‘Irish,’ I wager.” Chaotic emotion snarled her voice. She stood in the road, hands on hips, her eyes defying him. “The lion and the lamb may lie down together, but the lamb won’t get much sleep.”

His mouth dropped; his brow quirked. Surprisingly, he burst into laughter. “I’m no lion, mistress. You misunderstand my intent.”

Chained by dark suspicion, she tried to inhale, but the air seemed too thick. “Our two worlds are too far apart to crash together and…and I’m wonderin’ what ye think I am, Mr. Jordan?” she demanded. “Because ye’ve a bit of money and spare time, ya think ya could buy me off with a wee bit of work in me field and dally with me very life?”

As if she’d insulted him with a slap, the smile dropped to a frown, and his eyes narrowed dangerously.

They stood there, the cart the only referee. Prickles swept down her neck and warned of danger, but like a wild animal unleashed, she had no idea how to recapture her calm. “Let me put it another way.” She paused and slowed her words. “I see only three reasons why you’d make such an offer.” She used her callused fingers to count down the reasons. “I’m your charity for the month, which I have no wish to be, or you’re expecting something sinful in return, which I would never agree to, or you’re looking for information, which I would rather die than give.”

She knew from the shock in his expression that she had misjudged him, but it was too late to call any of the insults back.

He leaned toward her, the heat from his breath dispelling the cold air. “Expecting something?” His voice had tightened treacherously. “What has so embittered your life that honest motive is twisted to insult?” he whispered.

She swayed. Her feet stumbled back two paces as her mouth opened and closed. No words would push through.
Pride.
’Twas her pride, she wanted to say. Her terrible—sinful—pride that so insulted his honest kindness. Dipping her head back inside her hood, she hid her icy hands inside her cloak.

Finally, disgust marring his mouth, he unlatched his imprisoning gaze and presented a stiff back to her.

Her stomach clenched in mournful shame, and she wanted to cry out, begging his forgiveness. Instead, she bit her lip to stop herself. ’Twas better to end the chivalrous motives now than to continue down the dangerous unknown.

He lifted his head toward the heavens.

“I meant no offense, Miss Smyth,” he spoke to the sky. “My objective, though not received thus, stemmed from neither charity nor sin.”

She placed trembling fingers upon her mouth, the cider now threatening to come up. “Please…please accept my…regret. I was not raised to be rude.”

“I merely offered skills for which I am both known and respected,” he said, turning back to her.

“I am grateful for your kindness, but would never accept such an offer. I would prefer you not think on it again,” she whispered. Emotion pulled her chest too tight. Every limb quaked as she waved a hand toward the footpath to the forest. “I’ll be going this way, sir. Thank you for tonight’s consideration.”