Rescuing Mr. Gracey (13 page)

Sean squared his shoulders and stepped to her other side. “We’ve known each other for most of our lives, have we not, Miss Mary?”

“Yet you failed to take an interest in her safety during evening deliveries,” Mr. Jordan said. “It appears from the scent in the air, you chose instead to visit the pub.”

Hardly believing that she stood amidst two men on a freezing evening, a laundry cart between them all, arguing about who kept her safe from harm, Mary elbowed her way from the middle of the circle.

“Mr. Dennison, though we’ve been friends since childhood, we have no formal understanding with each other,” she said, surprised at the sharpness of her own tone. Perhaps jealousy and a little worry about a nonexistent competitor might prod him toward action.

Satisfied when Sean’s jaw slacked, Mary waggled a finger at the stranger. “Mr. Jordan, please realize that Mr. Dennison and I have been friends our entire lives. He works long hours managing his farm and has little time to bother with escorting me to Castlewellan.”

Nodding decisively at each man, she took hold of the cart, reversed her direction, and trotted the short distance to her door. “Please excuse me, gentlemen. God bless you both this eve.”

As she entered the hut, her father turned from the small peat fire in the stone hearth. He beamed a smile, as he did each night when she returned home. Patting the chair next to him, he invited her to sit. “I’ve been a wee bit worried. ’Tis late and such a terrible night.” He handed her a cold potato cake.

Mary smoothed down her father’s fluffy white hair before plopping onto the creaky chair. “I’ve a surprise,
Dadai
.”

His brows lifted. “I’ve one myself. You must share first.”

Pushing off the too-small boots, she stretched her cold feet near the comfort of the glowing heat in the hearth. “Would you believe the Gracey family paid four weeks’ wages this night?” she said, waving the fat envelope of money.

She watched as shock flooded his face before she placed the envelope in his callused hands. “The devil ye say?”

“Aye, look at it. They said ’twas for the speedy washing of the extra clothes.”

He turned the packet over in his hands as if investigating its secrets. “I cannot believe Gracey would allow such generosity.” His bushy brows furrowed. “Do you suppose ’tis a terrible error?”

“’Twas what I thought as well. Yet…ummm…the person said the extra sum was for doing a grand job.”

“Well then. Looks like the good Lord outsmarted our nasty Gombeen again.” Bright blue eyes twinkled as his smile dented dimples into his ruddy cheeks. “For the Gombeen demanded a higher payment to our loan this very evening. This money covers the increase and a wee bit for the next month.”

Mary frowned, resentment burning her gut. The greedy traitor seemed to know exactly when to extract more money. So much for the hope of extra food or cloth for a dress.

Joseph leaned against the back of the rough pine chair, then folded his hands across his stomach. “Don’t look so glum, Mary. Gracey has twice blest our day.”

“What do you mean,
Dadai
?”

“Your brother Patrick has been offered a job at the mill.”

“What are ya saying, Da?” Mary straightened from her slouched position.

Her father smiled, nodding. “Aye. You heard me right.”

“Catholics are never offered jobs, especially a Smyth. Do you suppose ’tis a mistake?”

Her father shrugged. “Patrick applied months ago, and by some miracle, a note invited him to join employment.” He chuckled. “We’ll enjoy the moment until the dragon wakes from his cave and starts roaring again.’”

A giggle bubbled inside her. Lifting her arms, she stood and twirled in a carefree, girlish jig, the exhaustion from the evening dissolving to joy. A job! A good-paying job—an amazing turn of events that, if true, might sustain them despite the Gombeen’s constant demands for more. No workhouse! They might eat meat again, and pay off the Gombeen…

Dropping to the chair again, she smiled broadly as her breath caught up with her.

The two bounced smiles off each other, and then, knowing gifts of hope were not too easy to hold on to, they slipped into quiet reflection.

After she finished her dinner, she focused on her warming toes and said, “There’s more to tell, Da. You know the gentleman from the dance last eve?”

“Appears to be a man of education.”

“Aye, in botanical studies…and…well, he escorted me this evening.” She peeked guiltily toward her father.

His fluffy brow arched, but he offered no comment. Jittery nerves caused her leg to bounce, though she told herself to stop the silliness.

Casting her gaze once more on the glowing peat fire, she lowered her voice to a near whisper to prevent any possible listening ears within the small hut from hearing. “He waited hours in the cold before we met up. He just appeared out of nowhere, he did. And then he brought an umbrella. Have you ever used one, Da? ’Tis a miraculous thing.”

Bombarded with strange tingles and fearful sweat, Mary folded her hands tightly upon her lap. “And he shared cider and bread and gave up his coat to keep my laundry dry, and then…” Her mouth was suddenly dry. “And then he asked if he could escort me again.”

“Do you like the gentleman?”

Lifting her gaze, she allowed her father to see all the turmoil warring within. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never met someone so concerned about my comfort.” A blush heated her cheeks as she remembered the embrace and his scent and the way his hands made her feel excited and terrified at once.

Unwilling to share those secrets, she licked her dry lips, then rose to get a cup of water. Lifting the cracked wooden pitcher that rested on a three-legged table, she poured water into the cup and drank a large gulp. “Mr. Jordan and I ran into Sean on our way home, and I’ve never seen him so irritated with me. This could ruin my plan to get his commitment.”

“Aye,” her father said. A smile wiggled on his mouth, encouraging her. “I did see Sean upset every time you danced with Mr. Jordan, so perhaps the stranger has managed to get Mr. Dennison to realize he’s been letting his net idle too long looking for a perfect fish,” Joseph replied, lifting one brow.

Her face glowed. “I’d be lying if I said the stranger was unattractive. He’s polite. And patient. Waiting for me all that while and all.”

“You have a point about that,” Joseph said, folding his arms.

“But I can’t help wondering why a man like that—handsome and, well, perfect—bothers attending to me. I mean, a gentleman such as he should not be interested in someone like me, for clearly, I’m no prize.”

Mary pressed her lips together, suspicions once again making an ugly appearance. She walked back to the chair and plopped down. “And besides, he’s skittish as a newborn colt. Glancing about all evening as if afraid someone may see him. And he’s ignorant of our ways and customs. Did you see him on the dance floor last eve?” Itching to pace back and forth, Mary crossed her ankles and arms.

“Has Mr. Jordan asked anything about me or the Ribbonmen?”

“No. He’s not asked about the family except the number of siblings.”

“Did he ask about last year’s march?”

“No. Nothing political.”

Joseph tapped his chin, and then, eyes upon the glowing turf, he murmured thoughtfully, “I appreciate having a strong man escorting you, especially when you must deliver so late because of our field work. But Patrick will be home in a few days and soon enough solve that problem.”

In a day or two, there would be no reason at all to see Mr. Jordan.

“Ohhhh.” She studied her hands. “That’s good.” Of course, the news of her brother returning from Belfast made her happy. She missed him very much. And Sean did seem much more interested in her, so her plan might well be near completion.

After a moment of silence, she glanced at her father, surprised at the amusement on his face. “But,” he said with a teasing lilt, “I always say, let’s not toss a shiny coin back until we know if it’s gold or tin. Perhaps Mr. Jordan can continue escorting you for the summer, if you like.”

She jumped up and hugged his neck, inhaling the scent of ale and earth. “
Spraíúil lit
.”

Stroking her hair, he chuckled. “Aye, I’m teasing ya, darlin’ girl. We’ll be thankful for Mr. Jordan’s escort this week, but stay cautious. If you fear he’s a threat to our family, or makes you uncomfortable…” He lifted her chin with his thumb. “You must tell me immediately.”

“Aye, Da. I’ll be wary.” She closed her eyes and tightened her hold.

“And one more thing, little one.” He tapped the tip of her nose. “Don’t ever tell me you’re not worthy of a fine gentleman. You deserve even the prince himself if he would convert. Just be aware that the devil likes to sneak in the back just when you’re locking the front door.” Her father kissed her cheek. “Now, you’ve a busy day again tomorrow. Best be off to bed.”

“I love ya,
Dadai
.”

“Twice as much back, my darlin’. Don’t forget to say prayers of thanksgiving for this day.”

Mary squeezed her hands in prayer, thankful for today’s gifts.
And if Mr. Jordan is not who he appears to be, I ask that all be revealed.

Snuggled into the depths of her small cot, smiling contentedly, she let her imagination conjure the tall stranger’s beautiful blue eyes and his very sensual smile. But then, like the new slap of lightning that streaked against a black sky, a warning voice shouted,
Do not trust him, Mary Smyth. He is not what he seems to be.

~ 9 ~

“Our guns all over our shoulders,

 
and our broadswords in our hands…”

Joseph scanned the vast, unprepared field, and then, rubbing his eyes, he dropped his hand and wearily stared at the ground.

Mary ached for him, remembering how only three months ago, giddy as a baby, Joseph had rushed into the hut and announced his plans for this year’s crop. Tossing his youngest son in the air, he’d laughed. “Aye. ’Tis the answer.”

The family had stared, bewildered. Had the strain of the blight stolen Joseph’s sanity?

“Here’s my thought on it,” Joseph had said as he sat in the worn chair that creaked with age. “Dolly’s Brae, nor any Catholic community for miles around, can afford a Hedgemaster this year, nor next either. We must accept the Lord’s will on that, but at the same time, we must seek money to support the family.” Leaning into the room, he tapped his temple. “We must think like the Protestant farmer.”

“Da. What’re ya saying?” Michael, the oldest son, said, his arms crossed.

“I’ve decided that this year, we’ll plant flax.” Clapping his hands, he smiled around the room. No one smiled back. Instead, the air seemed to hold its worried breath.

Joseph rocked back on two legs of his chair. “Aye. You heard it right, dear family. The Protestant crop will be growing in our field this year. And ’twill not be for food, but for linen.”

Patrick spoke this time. “But we’ve no money for the seed. ’Tis expensive, Da.”

Joseph pointed to him. “Why do Protestant farmers plant flax? ’Tis very profitable,” he said, answering his own question.

He rose and walked to the only window in the house. As he looked out at the small, unprepared field yards away, his sigh sounded almost like a groan. “We’ve no option but to borrow the money until the crop comes in. I believe the Lord will bless our effort.”

Panic lined Maureen’s face as she grabbed Michael’s arm, urging him to intervene.

“Da,” the eldest said quietly. “You’re not a farmer, and we know nothing about planting flax. We cannot risk what little we have for such a dream.”

Turning, Joseph waved off the worry like an annoying fly. “’Twill be fine, son, you’ll see. Am I not an educated man capable of reading up on the matter?”

Once more, Michael braved the most obvious problem. “The field is little more than an overplanted rock bed. ’Tis the reason we’ve only grown potatoes before, Da. Flax needs more care than…”

“Michael, stop.” The sharp tone from Joseph startled everyone. Rubbing the back of his neck, he looked up sheepishly. “I’ve already borrowed from the Gombeen, the slimy devil that he is, and I’ve ordered the seed.”

Gasps flew around the room. Mary heard her mother choke back tears. Michael growled. “The Gombeen? Da. We’re lost, then.”

The room ached with fearful silence, but the decision had been made. By the end of the week, the family had lifted Joseph’s heavy dream and scattered to find work, anything that might provide an income. Joseph and Mary worked the field by day. Mary delivered laundry by night while Joseph tended the pub. Ten-year-old Brian washed dishes and swept floors in the bar for a few pennies a day. The eldest sons, Michael and Patrick, applied for work at the Gracey mill, but knowing their chances amounted to zero, they had packed their bags and trekked toward Belfast to beg work on the docks. Agnes hired on as a chambermaid in a Protestant manor in Banbridge, while Maureen lowered laundry rates to double the number of customers.

Yet all the effort had been too little. Each week, another item of worth was sacrificed—books, livestock, furnishings, linens. Treasures handed down from generations paid the interest to the moneylender. By the end of two months, the Smyths had no reserve left, and the horrible field remained unprepared.