The Gentle Wind's Caress (6 page)

‘I’m hungry,’ Farrell growled, his head hung low.

Stiff and hesitant, she moved to the range. Her mind went blank. What to feed him? She couldn’t think. ‘We…we don’t have much. No meat.’

His face reddened in anger. ‘I bought bread yesterday. Don’t yer tell me yer’ve both eaten it all!’

‘No, no. We haven’t.’ Isabelle held onto the back of the chair to keep upright.

‘Christ, woman, are yer dumb or what? Peacock said yer could cook!’

‘I…I can bake pies. Our old cook showed me…’

‘I don’t care what it is, just feed me.’

She closed her eyes momentarily and left the safety of her end of the kitchen. As she passed his chair, he jerked out a hand and caught her wrist. ‘If yer want to stay here, yer’d best smarten up.’ His fingers felt like they were crushing her bones. ‘If I’ve got to have a wife, I’ll not have a stupid one.’

She nodded.

Hughie clambered in carrying a bucket full of water. He stopped on seeing Farrell clasping her wrist. His gaze flew to her. ‘I…I…got water.’

‘Thanks, pet. Put…put it over there. I’ve got some tea in the pot for you.’

‘
Thanks, pet!
’ Farrell mimicked in a woman’s high voice, then he stood so fast he knocked his chair over. ‘Get me something to eat!’ he roared. ‘I’ll not be placed second behind this runt.’ With a swipe of his ham fist, Farrell knocked Hughie in the chest, sending him skittling backwards. The bucket fell from his hands and splashed over Farrell’s boots.

Farrell leapt to the side, shouting he’d kill the little asswipe. Hughie ducked Farrell’s swinging fist and raced outside.

Isabelle went to follow him when she was abruptly yanked by Farrell’s grip on her hair. He glared down at her a mere inch from her face. ‘Yer get me something to eat or yer’ll be out on the road with nowt but the clothes on yer back!’

She nodded, wincing as the movement made the pull on her hair tighter.

‘And clean this mess up.’ He flung her away.

With her scalp burning, she stumbled into the scullery and through to the larder. She allowed herself a moment to sag against the cold shelves before straightening up and raising her chin. She’d feed him and keep her mouth shut until his mood left him. Nodding, she gathered the bread and a jar of lard. All it will take is a little adjusting – on everyone’s part.

***

Isabelle arched her back and winced with pain as the cramped muscles stretched. Sweat dripped off her nose and hot steam buffeted her with every plunge of the washing stick. Sheets filled the large copper tub and her arms ached as she lifted and wrung the water from them. She carried the full wicker basket outside and walked towards the rope she and Hughie had strung between two trees.

‘Hey you!’

He’s awake.
She turned as Farrell called her. ‘Yes?’

‘I want a cup of tea.’

‘I’ll be there in a minute. I must hang this washing out to dry or there’ll be no sheets for the bed.’

‘Bugger that. Get me some tea.’

‘I will after I have finished.’ She strode to the rope and dropped the basket. She heard him curse violently. Her legs trembled a little at her own defiance and she hurriedly hung the sheets out, hoping he wouldn’t beat her once she was inside.

A weary sigh escaped her as she turned back towards the house. The man was unreasonable. His bad mood from after his fall yesterday morning had stayed with him all day, plus the copious amounts of ale he’d drunk during the rest of the afternoon didn’t help lift it. He had sat for hours drinking at the kitchen table. At first whenever she or Hughie were in range of his arm, he’d swing out and strike them.

Stunned by his temper, Isabelle found it impossible to think or do anything worthwhile. She went around in a daze of disbelief. It seemed impossible that she’d been clouted and yelled at. Never in her life had she been hit or treated this way before by a man.

Soon they learnt to stay clear of his end of the table, but since he sat closest to the back door they needed to pass him to go outside. He’d ordered them about until he fell into another stupor. She and Hughie had crept around him during the evening until, thankfully, they had gone upstairs to the bedroom that held the bed.

Curled up together, they had inspected their bruises on arms and faces. She cleaned up a cut on Hughie’s lip and eventually they fell into an exhausted sleep, but they had paid for that sleep this morning. For on waking, they found themselves covered with red fleabites that itched in the most ferocious way.

Hence, her washing day. She was determined to scrub the whole farm, brick by brick if need be.

Entering the kitchen, she edged around him and went to the range. ‘Do you want some boiled eggs?’

‘Aye.’

She set about boiling the water and putting plates on the table.

‘What happened to yer face?’

Isabelle paused and stared. ‘You don’t know?’

He had the grace to look away. ‘Tell me I didn’t do it,’ he whispered.

‘Well, I doubt that Hughie did, do you?’ She tilted her head and raised one eyebrow. ‘Or perhaps you think I did it to myself?’

Farrell cleared his throat. ‘I wasn’t aware I…’

‘Could be so cruel?’

He glared and opened his mouth to speak further, but instead simply grunted and turned away. ‘Where’s the boy?’

‘My brother,
Hughie
, who was also on the receiving end of your drunken temper, found an orchard behind the barns. He’s collecting windfall apples, if there are any, to feed the pig, but I’ll use the best ones to fill a pie.’ She added more tea leaves to the tin teapot and glanced at him under her lashes. ‘This farm is in a deplorable state.’

He thumped the table and made her jump, spilling the tea. ‘Don’t dare to tell me about me farm. Yer uppity wench!’

She hid her trembling hands behind her back.
I’ve done it again
. ‘I simply mean that it looks to me like you need some help. A labourer or two.’

His harsh laugh frightened her even more than his violence. ‘Where do yer think I can get the money to hire labour?’

‘Surely…I mean can’t you sell some stock?’

‘Does it look like there is stock to sell? I’ve hardly enough here to keep this place going as it is.’ He sat heavily in the chair and hung his head, his hair, over long, fell forward. ‘I don’t need yer to tell me about the state of this farm. I see it each day.’

His slumped form filled her with pity, which surprised her. He had no idea how to behave with people but she knew she could assist him, teach him. She simply didn’t believe that he was all bad. ‘I will help you run the farm. Together we can accomplish much I am certain.’

He lifted his gaze to meet hers and for once there was no hostility in him. ‘Yer nothing but a girl.’

She gave him a cheeky smile that hurt the bruising around her eye. ‘I am strong and determined.’

He stared at her as though he was seeing her for the first time. A soft chuckle escaped him. ‘Yer’ve no notion of what it takes to run a farm.’

‘I can learn, besides the situation cannot be worse than it already is.’

‘What’s yer name again?’

‘Isabelle.’

He nodded and looked around the kitchen. ‘This place wasn’t always so dire.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Me mother wouldn’t be impressed to see her kitchen so bare. And I hate to think what me father would say about outside.’

Isabelle poured the tea and passed it to him. ‘How did it get so bad?’

He took the cup from her and cradled it in his hands. ‘I’ll not discuss it.’

Commotion from outside had them both leaping for the back door. Farrell looked out the window and then pushed Isabelle back inside. ‘Stay in here and do
not
come out.’

Isabelle stepped back as he promptly shut the door in her face. She sighed, annoyed that their first proper conversion had been cut short. She went to the window, but Farrell glared at her as he went past so she hid in the shadows and peeked the best she could.

The richness of the riders’ clothes and magnificent horses at once interested her. She inched towards the window again for a better view. Farrell’s aggressive stance swung her attention to him. Voices rose and the first rider thrust his crop in Farrell’s chest. Isabelle nibbled her fingernail appalled at the scene being played out. The second rider hung back, she picked him out as a steward or something similar. He didn’t have the aura of authority that the first rider did.

Farrell gestured widely, his face crimson in anger. She hunkered below the window and prayed he wouldn’t become violent. Shaking his fist, her husband shouted like a madman. The forefront rider sat back in his saddle as though weary of the argument. Isabelle studied him. What struck her first was that he wore no hat. He had dark, thick chestnut brown hair, much darker than her own. From this distance she couldn’t see the colour of his eyes, but his strong jaw line and arrogant manner revealed that he was a man of consequence. He oozed influence and power. An unidentifiable tingle ran along her skin.

Suddenly, the man looked straight at the window. Isabelle ducked, her heart pounding in her chest. She admonished herself for being so silly. Why did it matter if her saw her or not? Standing, she glanced out the window, but the men whipped their horses about and trotted out of view.

Farrell flung open the door. ‘That bastard!’

Isabelle bit her lip as he threw himself into a chair. ‘Who is he?’

‘The bloody landlord, blast him to hell.’

‘What did he want?’

‘Blood!’ He spat on her clean floor and she shuddered. ‘He wants his rent, which I haven’t got. He can go swim in the midden for it as far as I’m concerned.’

‘He won’t throw us onto the streets will he?’

Farrell banged the table with both hands. ‘Let him try!’ He slammed his chair back and strode outside.

Isabelle gripped the table. Lord, what had she done marrying this fellow? She forced herself to smile as Hughie sidled into the kitchen.

‘You all right, Belle?’

‘Of course. The visitors upset Farrell, that’s all.’ She straightened her shoulders. ‘Did you find many windfalls?’

‘Some, yes. I fed the pig, but I was thinking that it should be let out into the orchard. Its pen stinks awful bad.’

‘Do the best you can, pet.’

Later, they ate their meal in silence silhouetted by one candle stub. Farrell had killed a chicken for her and, after the tedious chore of plucking it, she’d boiled it. She wasn’t good at cooking interesting meals, especially with the limited ingredients they had. So, boiling a chicken was about the best she could do, but at least she knew how to bake bread and pastry pies. That, if nothing else would fill them, just as long as Hughie could catch rabbits or the odd pheasant until the summer when the fruit ripened.

Outside darkness enclosed them like a tomb. Isabelle shivered. She glanced at Farrell and wondered whether he wanted her in his bed tonight. Their marriage hadn’t been consummated, not that she was eager for his touch, quite the opposite in fact. She wasn’t entirely sure what the act involved, but did remember her parents laughing and giggling in the night, so she didn’t think it could be all that bad if you liked the person.

Again, Farrell was in a foul temper. Snarling at her attempts of conversation and totally ignoring Hughie’s stumbling questions about the farm. She hoped the landlord never came again if this was the result.

She and Hughie jumped when Farrell hastily stood. ‘I’m off out.’

‘Out?’

Farrell slapped on his battered hat and turned at the door. ‘That’s what I said.’

‘But where are you going at this hour?’

His gaze pinned her into silence. ‘I need to find the rent for the bastard landlord, don’t I?’

She stared at him, puzzled. ‘How though?’

‘You’d best not know.’ The click of the door closing seemed terribly loud in the quiet of the kitchen.

Chapter Five

Isabelle dug the spade into the soil and turned the sod over. Recent rain made the ground soft and she was thankful for it. She wiped her hair out of her eyes with her forearm and then ploughed the spade in again, moving her way down the vegetable plot. Neglected over time, brambles and nettles crowded over it. However, in some cases the wind had carried the seed of blown vegetables around the plot where they had re-sown. Isabelle had picked self-sown vegetables until there were none left, which was why she now planted new seeds. She knew a little about growing vegetables having spent time in the garden with her grandfather, who had enjoyed the practise.

‘It’s Sunday, Belle, you shouldn’t be working,’ Hughie said, coming up beside her. Grime stained his face while his clothes hung on his lanky frame. In the month living at the farm, he had grown, but not filled out. Hard work and not enough food gave him a haggard beggar’s look.

‘Well, on the way home from church this morning I thought that if we dug this plot, I could perhaps grow something over winter or failing that, we could have the soil ready for spring.’