Master of the Moors (12 page)

"Campbell, that's
it
, get out and go sleep
it off," Sarah raged, fetching the dustpan and brush from beneath
the counter. In some distant part of his mind, Campbell found it
sadly ironic that this was the first time she'd ever spoken to him
so passionately.

"Not until this bastard
apologizes," he said, though the anger had already begun to fade,
perhaps at the sobering realization that he was attempting to pick
a fight he couldn't possibly win, and angering Sarah at the same
time. He leaned in close, once more forgetting the revulsion, his
nose almost touching Stephen's. "You'd better hope you don't fall
ill anytime soon," he said and whirled, almost losing his balance
in the process. Through bleary eyes, he noted the bulky shadows
rising in the corner---the farmers, eager to get their knuckles
bloody, but not from assisting Campbell. He scoffed at them as he
made his way toward the door. "Blasted bumpkins. Good for nothing
but shoveling manure." They glared but made no move toward
him.

The only sound was the
tinkling of glass as Sarah emptied the dustpan. When Campbell
looked over his shoulder before exiting the bar, he saw her smile
as she put a fresh pint of ale before the bandaged man.

He spat on the floor as he marched out
into what had been a morning mist before the breeze fled. Now a
cold fog hung in damp veils around him as he shook with
temper.

That bastard. That no good
bastard, I should have rammed his rotten teeth down his
throat
. It was an empty threat, he knew,
but it satisfied him to entertain the thought, and the image, of
the big man pinwheeling backward off his chair, mouth bloody, eyes
wide in surprise that an aged country doctor had put him on his
back. Perhaps the bandages would have come off, revealing to Sarah
and the chuckling farmers the hideous visage that had been so
content to smirk from behind them.

He smiled and buttoned up
his coat. The weight of the flask in his pocket was reassuring and,
with shoulders hunched, he headed home.

***

When Grady and Kate
entered the kitchen, there were two grinning heads on the table.
Wielding a wickedly sharp knife, Mrs. Fletcher was busy sawing the
scalp off a third, her tongue protruding from the corner of her
mouth as she strained to cut the skin.

"Well, well," Grady said.
"You've been busy."

Kate, still unsettled by
Grady's story, composed a smile and made her way over to the
charwoman. She ran a hand over a pumpkin's firm orange hide. "I
can't believe you have two of them done already."

Mrs. Fletcher paused to
wipe her brow. "Well if I was waitin' on you lot there'd be nothin'
done."

"They look
fantastic."

The pumpkins were fat and
shiny, freshly plucked from the field behind the house. While much
of the land used for planting had turned fallow over the years, the
acre directly behind the house was still used to grow potatoes,
cabbage, carrots, parsnips, turnips, onions, lettuce, and
occasionally pumpkins, albeit in much smaller proportions than it
had when the master of the house had been well enough to aid in
tending it.

Before thoughts of her
father could anchor themselves in the forefront of her mind, Kate
rounded the table and, using her hands as a shovel, began to scoop
up the mountain of pumpkin guts that had amassed behind the orange
heads. "Where should I put these?" she asked Mrs. Fletcher with a
grimace. The innards felt cold and slimy against her
skin.

"Just pile them in the
sink for now, love."

Kate did, rinsing her
hands immediately after, even knowing she was about to sully them
again. She gazed out the small window above the sink. "I'm so tired
of this fog. It started out to be such a lovely day."

Mrs. Fletcher shrugged.
"It always does, doesn't it?"

"I suppose." She dried her
hands on a cloth dangling from the cupboard beneath the sink. "Have
you seen Neil yet?"

The charwoman sighed. "He
came home lookin' a little rattled, whatever was goin' on in that
head of his. But he said he was fine, just tired."

"Where is he
now?"

"In the field, fetching a
turnip."

Grady laughed. "So he's
goin' ahead with his plan, then?"

"It would seem so."
Resting a forearm on the crown of a pumpkin, she added, "Honestly,
sometimes I think that boy must have been adopted. He didn't get
that laziness from his father, that's for sure. Or from his mother
for that matter." She recommenced her sawing, nodding in
satisfaction when the top of the pumpkin dropped to the
table.

Kate selected a knife from
the assortment Mrs. Fletcher had spread out on the countertop next
to the sink, and joined her at the table. She set to work on the
fourth and last pumpkin. "Grady, I thought you were going to help
me with these?"

"That's right, he did,"
Mrs. Fletcher said with a wry smile. "But I think by the looks of
it he was hopin' to let us women handle all the work."

Grady lowered himself into
his usual seat by the fire and waved away their remarks. "Don't
think fer one minute I don't know who'll be saddled with the task
of carryin' them blasted things to the dance tonight. If I pulled a
muscle laborin' over them now, ye'd be in fierce
trouble."

Kate rolled her eyes as
Mrs. Fletcher muttered, "I think we're supposed to be
grateful."

"They're almost all done
anyway," Grady said, hiding a grin. "'Twould be unfair of me to
steal yer thunder."

The back door opened and
Neil stumbled in, face reddened by the cold, a large dirt-caked
turnip held to his chest. The chill crept in around his thin frame;
the flames fluttered in the hearth.

Grady cringed. "Cripes.
Close the bloody door lad, will ya, before we all get
pneumonia."

Neil said nothing, but
aimed an expression of distaste at the old man before shoving the
door closed with his foot. Kate broke off from her pumpkin to guide
him, but he shrugged her off with a mild look of irritation and,
balancing the turnip in the crook of one arm, slowly made his way
over to the table. Kate hid her own exasperation, though she had to
admit her brother knew the layout of the house well enough to
manage on his own, and had told her as much a thousand times.
Nevertheless she found it difficult to restrain herself; she always
felt compelled to assist him, perhaps out of some worry that he
might hurt himself, leaving her with no family at all.

Neil let the turnip thump to the
table. Dirt scattered across its surface. The pumpkins
shuddered.

"That's a fine turnip,"
Grady quipped, and winked at the others.

Neil shrugged, and that
was typical of him. To an observer, he would appear a creature of
apathy, his disposition marred by disability, making him sullen and
indifferent. But Kate knew differently. She had seen him cry, had
experienced his warmth and kindness. Everything else was but a mask
to protect him against the vagaries of an unkind world. He'd found
strength in defiance, and, as hard as it might be to bear it, she
recognized it for what it was.

"It'll have to do, I
suppose," Neil said, in response to Grady's comment. He reached out
a hand and ran it over the nearest pumpkin's triangular eyes. "If
nothing else, it will be a lot easier than these fellows to hoist
down the road."

"Those wenches don't
care," Grady complained. "They won't be the ones carryin'
'em."

"Ah, so they've hired you
instead of a mule, have they?"

"An ass, more like," Grady
replied. Kate and Mrs. Fletcher chuckled but Neil's smile was
visibly forced. Kate watched him carefully, trying as always to
read the thoughts in her brother's face. When he began to feel the
surface of the table for a knife, she slowly and silently placed
her own within reach of his fingers. She had barely withdrawn her
hand when he latched onto the knife and grinned victoriously. She
mirrored his grin, but knew how outraged he would be if he knew
she'd assisted him. But sometimes she found it too hard to
resist.

"Mrs. Fletcher told me
Father woke today," Neil said, his tone unreadable as he dug into
the turnip.

Kate nodded. "Yes, but
only for a short time. Did you go see him?"

"Not yet. Maybe later. I
expect he needs all the rest he can get."

More
excuses
, Kate thought with a bitterness
that shocked her. If fear was the primary cause of his avoiding
their father, then why now, when a glimpse of hope had been
offered, was he still so reluctant to enter that room?

"All he's been
doing
is resting," she
said. "It wouldn't kill you to look in on him."

"I said I would.
Later."

Grady rose, clucking his
tongue. "I suppose I'd better lend a hand if all you two are goin'
to do is quarrel." He shook his head. "I'm tellin' ya. 'Tis gettin'
so a man can't even relax by the fire around here."

"Just wait till our young
miss has you dancin', then you'll feel the need to relax. You may
have to be carried home," Mrs. Fletcher said with a grin. Grady's
scowl coaxed a laugh from Kate and soon the brief moment of tension
was forgotten, all of them hacking, sawing or carving their fruits
and vegetables.

"Are you expectin' to do a
bit of dancin' tonight, Neil?" Mrs. Fletcher said.

"Hardly."

"Oh come now," she teased.
"I bet they'll have to drag you off the floor kickin' and
screamin'."

Neil scoffed.

"They will if Tabitha
Newman is going," Kate murmured. Neil glowered at her, thick black
brows drawn down over narrowed white eyes.

"Tabitha Newman?" Grady
said, obviously impressed.

"Dan Newman's daughter,"
Mrs. Fletcher said. "He's quite the gentleman. I'd say you could do
a lot worse than the daughter of a cotton broker, young
Neil."

Neil's face was puce, his
fingers so jittery on the turnip, Kate feared he'd cut himself. And
yet she couldn't resist saying, "I'll bet she's quite a dancer
too."

"Shut up," Neil
snapped.

"Neil, please," Mrs.
Fletcher said, "She's only makin' fun."

"Well she shouldn't," he
replied. "It's none of her business."

Grady grinned. "Come now
lad, it's---"

"Or yours," Neil said and
slammed the knife down on the table.

Awkward silence filled the
kitchen, until Kate said, "What on earth is wrong with you? We were
only joking." It alarmed her to see that he was trembling with
rage.

"You're always 'only
joking'. I'm sick of it."

Grady put a hand on the
boy's shoulder. Neil flinched and moved away. "Don't."

"All right," Mrs. Fletcher
said calmly. "No need for us all to get upset with each other. It's
quite obvious we've intruded on Neil's business, and shouldn't
have. Let's keep our noses where they belong from now on, shall
we?" She reached across the table, her large bosom almost sending a
pumpkin toppling but Kate lurched forward in time to stop it. "Are
we forgiven, Neil?" the charwoman said, lightly stroking Neil's
cheek. For a moment he looked as if he would turn away from her
touch, but gradually his expression softened, if only slightly.
"Yes."

"Good," Mrs. Fletcher
said, but Kate saw the upset in her face.

Grady returned his hand to
Neil's shoulder and this time the boy left it there. "This young
man works hard. He needs to let off some steam like the rest of us,
isn't that right?"

Neil nodded, then slowly
picked up the knife and returned to his hollowing. Peace was
restored, but the cheerful spirit had been sacrificed to allow for
it. They continued to work in silence, Kate slicing her thumb twice
as she tried to finish her pumpkin and watch her brother at the
same time.

She was more worried than
ever now. The expression on his face might have relaxed, but she
sensed the temper still there, beneath his skin, simmering inside
him. Why was he so angry? It had to be more than embarrassment at
having his courtship, or his hope for one, revealed.
Maybe I'm jealous
, she
thought, and had to admit there might be some truth to that. What
if Neil and Tabitha fell madly in love, married and moved away as
soon as it was deemed acceptable to do so? It would be akin to him
dying. She'd have lost him, just like she'd lost her mother, just
as she was losing her father. She would have nothing but Grady and
Mrs. Fletcher and although she loved them, she longed for someone
her own age to keep her company. Someone who'd love her and never
leave her.

Yes, it was jealousy, she
decided. Her fear of being alone was forcing her to attribute more
significance to her brother's behavior than was due. Yet, when she
looked at him again, at the tautness of the muscles in his neck,
the barely noticeable vein pulsating in his throat, she couldn't
help but wonder.

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