The Gentle Wind's Caress (11 page)

She closed her eyes. The click of the door closing and the waft of cold air that hit her face told her he had gone.

‘What will we do, Belle?’ Hughie’s eyes were wide in his white face.

She stumbled to her chair by the fireside. Her breakfast threatened to surge back up the way it went down and sweat broke out on her upper lip.

‘Belle?’

Sucking in an unsteady breath, she had an overwhelming desire to cry, something she refused to do. Her mind whirled like a merry-go-round at a summer fair. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘What if Harrington calls the constable? What if they don’t believe us? They might arrest us!’ Hughie’s voice rose high with hysteria. ‘They might think we helped him. That we know where to find him!’

She stood and dragged him into her arms. ‘It’ll be all right, I promise. Harrington will believe me. He will.’ Tears filled her eyes as Farrell’s revelation came back to haunt her.
Harrington’s wife’s bedroom…
Her breathing became rapid as an unknown pain sliced her heart.
His wife…

***

They came two days later. Snowdrifts, in places five feet high, had kept Meadow Farm isolated. In Isabelle’s white world she went about her chores without thought or care. The animals were fed. The wood brought in. Paths cleared. Simple meals cooked.

As she fetched water, the distinct sounds of leather creaking and bridle bits jingling alerted her to their presence. Harrington led the way on his magnificent bay horse. Three others, wrapped up well against the cold, filed into the yard behind him.

Harrington dismounted and indicated to the others to remain where they were. He trod carefully on the cleared icy path leading from the house to the sheds, but never took his gaze off her face.

She set the bucket on the ground and waited for him to speak because her throat had closed tighter with every step he took.

He stopped a few feet from her. His eyes gave nothing away. ‘How do you fare?’

She didn’t expect that question. An ache spread out from her heart to touch each and every nerve in her body. She sighed deeply in acceptance that this man affected her profoundly. Her breath rose between them like a mist. ‘I…I am well.’

‘He isn’t here, is he?’

‘No.’

He remained very still. ‘When did he leave?’

‘Two days ago.’ She had thought she’d be embarrassed, but instead she was numb. A cold numbness had settled on her the day Farrell left and she couldn’t shake it. Even her monthly stomach cramps hadn’t penetrated the deadened weight of hopelessness she felt.

Harrington’s eyebrows rose. ‘He left you all alone?’

‘I have my brother, Hughie. We’ll manage…unless…unless you mean to punish us for
his
mistakes?’ She gripped her freezing hands together.

‘Why would I do that? Are you to blame?’

‘No.’

A muscle flickered along his jaw. ‘Do you think so little of me?’

‘I don’t know you,’ she whispered on a shiver.

Harrington swore softly. ‘Let us go inside. You are cold.’ He indicated for her to go before him while he turned and told his men to go home.

In the kitchen, Isabelle busied herself by stirring up the fire and putting the kettle on to boil. Harrington’s presence filled the shabby room and the fine hairs on her nape prickled in response. Her heart thumped so badly, she was certain he could hear it. Her hands shook as she placed the chipped cups and saucers on the table.

She jumped when in one stride he was beside her, his hands capturing hers. ‘Do not be frightened of me.’ He gazed earnestly into her eyes and the strength went out of her legs.

‘I…I…I’m not.’

‘No?’

She shook her head, once more robbed of speech.

One side of his mouth lifted in a wry grin. ‘Never be frightened of me, Isabelle. You will never have the need.’

The way he said her name, like a soft caress, sent heat pulsing through her veins. A rush of emotion made her want to either run from him or to him. Bewilderment reigned in her mind. Fleetingly, Isabelle wondered if the sensations that coursed through her body would kill her. She couldn’t breathe with him so close. Stumbling in her haste, she moved away and broke the contact of their hands.

Harrington stepped back. The tension eased. ‘May I have a piece of one of your famous pies?’

Startled at the question, she stared. ‘My…my pie?’

‘If I may?’ He took on an innocent expression then smiled. ‘You know all the district talks of your pies since Marge Wilmot made such a spectacle?’

Her gaze flew to the small portion left from her last batch; those made the morning Farrell arrived back with Harrington’s wife’s jewels. The thought pierced her crazed mind. The stab of hurt was quickly ignored and smothered. She located her inner strength that Farrell’s leaving had buried. Straightening her shoulders, she tilted her head and raised one eyebrow. ‘Maybe your wife would care for some too?’

At once his manner changed. His eyes darkened. ‘Isabelle-’

Hughie clattered into the scullery, kicked off his boots and turned for the kitchen. ‘The hens only laid one egg, Belle, do you think-’ He stopped mid-sentence and stared.

‘Mr Harrington this is my brother, Hughie.’ Isabelle gestured for Hughie to come further into the kitchen. ‘Come and greet Mr Harrington.’

Hughie wiped his hand on his trousers and shook the hand Harrington held out.

‘Your sister tells me Farrell has left you both to run the farm?’

Hughie looked from Harrington to Isabelle and back again. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘It will not be easy come spring when the work starts in earnest. And there is the lambing to come first.’

‘We will manage,’ Isabelle replied before Hughie was able. She raised her chin. ‘Hard work doesn’t bother us and we have each other, that is all we need.’

Harrington’s eyes narrowed at her subtle meaning.

Isabelle spun to the boiling kettle and lifted it off the heat. ‘Please sit down, Mr Harrington and I’ll pour the tea.’

‘I won’t, thank you. I must return to the estate.’ His clipped tones made her wince.

She couldn’t turn around, couldn’t look at him.

‘Will you call again, Mr Harrington?’ Hughie asked. So like the boy that he was, his fear had been replaced with worship.

Isabelle squeezed her eyes tight to stop her sudden tears from falling and waited for his answer.

‘I might, lad, should your sister wish it.’

She heard the door open and felt the temperature in the room drop a little. Hughie had walked out with him and their scraps of conversation carried on the still air. Isabelle replaced the kettle over the fire and felt her way to her chair as though she was an old woman.
He is married and so am I…

Chapter Seven

The church bells chimed the hour of midday. Isabelle rose from her stool and began packing her baskets with unsold pies. She looked around for Hughie. She didn’t want to be late in clearing away and leaving the market. Marge Wilmot enjoyed any opportunity to menace her and Isabelle was in no mood for her exploits today.

The clouds sat low, dark and heavy. A freezing wind lifted her hair from beneath the flat felt hat she wore and she sighed in frustration, as there was no sign of Hughie. She hoped he would have the sense to go to the stable behind the public house where the horse and cart were stalled. He’d not been near the market all morning.

Today, more than any other market day, uneasiness had cloaked her like a second skin. Repeatedly she felt as though someone was watching her. She peered into the crowds but nothing seemed out of place. Yet, the sensation remained. Her skin prickled.

Juggling the baskets and footstool, Isabelle hurriedly checked she hadn’t forgotten anything. For a moment, she wondered if she had enough provisions at home to last a few more days. The pennies that jingled in her pocket wouldn’t be enough to buy the flour and sugar she needed to bake the pies for the following weekend trade anyway and the quicker she got home the better. Something wasn’t right here today.

‘Didn’t do as good terday, did yer?’ Marge Wilmot with a few of her followers placed themselves in front of her stall.

Isabelle sighed. ‘Go away, Mrs Wilmot. I have nothing to say to you.’

‘Nay, but I’ve got plenty ter say ter yer.’ Marge heaved up her enormous breasts with her arm. ‘Yer might as well not bother coming anymore. I’ve put the word around that yer pies are rubbish and they’ll mekk whoever eats them sick.’

Fury burnt through Isabelle’s veins. ‘How dare you!’

‘Yer’ve got a farm ter get yer money, I don’t. Me pies are all I have. If yer keep tekking custom away from me, then I’ll not be responsible fer me actions.’

‘You think people will believe scum like you?’ She tossed her head. ‘No matter what you say, I still have customers.’

‘Not as many as before though, I’ll bet.’ Marge peered into the baskets she could see. ‘Yer’ve got some left, ain’t yer?’

‘The market wasn’t as busy today. The cold wind kept people home.’

Marge laughed, showing missing teeth. ‘I sold all me stuff and I’d have sold a lot more if I’d had it.’

‘I’m pleased for you.’ Isabelle inclined her head. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must find my brother.’

Marge gripped her arm as she passed. Isabelle winced as the fat fingers pinched. ‘Let go of me!’

‘Listen here, yer silly little bitch.’ Marge leaned forward to whisper. ‘Yer come here again and I’ll have yer. Understand?’

‘Your threats do not frighten me.’

‘Well, they should.’ Marge’s piggy eyes narrowed. ‘Yer husband’s gone and yer’ve no one ter protect yer.’

Isabelle whipped her arm out of the savage grip and stepped away. The threat didn’t frighten her but Marge’s words cut deep. She was a married woman without a husband. Trapped in a non-existent role as a wife to no one.

Hughie ran up to her out of breath. ‘Sorry. I didn’t realise the time.’

Isabelle glanced at Marge before gathering her belongings and walking off with Hughie. ‘Where have you been? If you’d arrived on time, I would have missed her altogether!’

‘Sorry, I was down by the canal watching the boats unloading.’

‘You should have stayed home and watched the ewes. That would have been more helpful.’ She thrust the stool at him and marched on. A scatter of light rain fell and she heaved another sigh at the thought of driving home in such weather.

‘Did the old bat give you much trouble?’

Isabelle pierced him with a look. ‘What do you think?’ Reaching the stable, she placed her baskets in the cart and then gave the stable boy a ha’penny for minding the horse.

Once out on the road, Isabelle concentrated on clearing the people and other transports in Market Street. Hughie sat sullen beside her. It was only when they were climbing up the steep Heptonstall road that she thought to the incident with Marge Wilmot.
What am I to do?
The woman would no doubt resort to violence should she keep attending the market. Besides, her trade had suffered today from Marge’s lies, and if it continued there would be no point in keeping her stall.

She shivered in her thin coat and pulled up her scarf to better cover her neck and chin. ‘We need to plan for the spring.’ She glanced at Hughie then back to the road. ‘We have little money, certainly not enough for the rent. The stall isn’t providing enough.’

Hughie huddled further into his coat. The icy wind slapped them full-on at the top of the hill. ‘I thought if we could buy more sheep-’

‘No, we have no money for that.’ Isabelle blinked away the sting from her eyes. The flatness of the moor provided easy access for the gale to gathered speed. ‘We have to put to better use what the farm offers. In April we’ll shear the ewes. The fleeces won’t bring in much, as the flock is small, but it’ll be better than nothing. Then in August we’ll sell the lambs. Is it August or September they go to market?’ She frowned. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask someone. We’ve got the piglets too. We can sell them.’

‘Yes, though one or two we’ll keep to fatten up for next winter. Maybe we could plough a field of wheat…’ Isabelle bit her lip deep in thought. She really didn’t know enough about farming. ‘I need a husbandry book.’

Hughie’s eyes grew wide. ‘There is one in the front room.’

Amazed, she twisted to look at him. ‘In the front room?’

He nodded and grinned.

‘When did you go in there?’

‘A few days ago, when it was raining and I was bored.’

Isabelle straightened on the seat and concentrated on the point between the horse’s ears. She hardly ever went in the front room herself. The cold mustiness of it reminded her of long dead former occupants. She believed nothing had been touched in there since Farrell’s parents had died. ‘A book is the last thing I thought the Farrell’s would own. I didn’t expect that they could read.’

‘Maybe they couldn’t?’ Hughie shrugged.

Much later, long after darkness had enveloped the land, Isabelle entered the front room of the house. Holding the lamp high, she paused by the door and surveyed the sparse room. Dust tickled her nose. On the mantelpiece above the large fireplace, little portraits of strangers stared at her. She thought the room would frighten her, but suddenly it didn’t. Instead, she felt a strange kind of comfort, a sadness. This room once represented all the small wealth of a family. A horsehair sofa occupied the area by the fireplace, beside it a small square table held an empty glass vase.