The Gentle Wind's Caress (8 page)

With this in mind, she straightened her shoulders and poured them all fresh tea. Yes, Farrell ranted and raved but he no longer scared her and she owed him no loyalty. He would be a means to an end and that’s all. ‘Right, how much money do you have?’

Farrell jerked in his seat. ‘I’ll not be telling yer, woman. It’s me own business.’

Isabelle seethed at his foolishness. ‘We need to buy more live stock and make repairs. The roofs leak, timber has rotted in the barns and we need to buy grain and tools. Can that horse of yours pull a plough?’

‘Now wait just a minute.’ He jumped to his feet again.

‘For heaven’s sake sit down!’ She had a strong urge to throw her teacup at his ruddy face. ‘Can you not have a simple conversation without huffing and puffing like an enraged old bull?’

‘Yer fancy plans won’t work here. Me father and mother went to an early grave trying to make this farm something out of nothing.’

‘And do you wish to see all their hard work fail? Would you rather walk away and let their deaths be for naught?’

Farrell slumped back into his chair. ‘I did try after they went, but it was no good.’

‘You were one man alone. Of course it would have been hard.’

‘There was no money. Father wasn’t interested in making changes, and we had some bad harvests. What little money we had dwindled away.’

‘Things will be better now, I am certain of it.’ She smoothed out her skirts and became businesslike. Farrell didn’t have the gumption to take control so she would. If she had to live the rest of her life here then she was going to damn well make sure the farm was successful. ‘You have Hughie and me to help you. Together we will make the changes necessary. Surely the landlord will think differently now he knows you are… married.’

‘Hardly. That man thinks of nothing but himself.’

Isabelle rose and tidied the table. ‘The flock of geese is large. I counted seventeen birds. I think we should send them to market or at least ten or so. Do you agree?’ She looked at her husband.

He shrugged. ‘If we can catch them. It’s better to grab them at night when they’re not so flighty.’

‘We’ll do it now then.’ Isabelle went to the back door, wrapped her black shawl around her shoulders and turned to Hughie. ‘Do you feel up to it, dearest?’

He nodded and slipped from his seat to her side. Following Farrell, they left the kitchen and walked out into the darkness.

***

Isabelle carried an armload of firewood into the barn and stacked it neatly along the far wall. Their fuel supply now looked healthier after she had badgered Farrell into cutting up some old trees in the wood. She finished unloading the cart while he and Hughie sharpened the saws and had something to eat or drink.

The late December weather, although cold, remained dry, which pleased her after all the rain they endured in November. Once the cart was empty, Farrell and Hughie rumbled out of the yard for another load.

Watching them go, she sighed. Little had changed in her married life. She remained a virgin, and Farrell continued to remain distant and vague about his business. True, he didn’t venture out at night as much, but he still disappeared without warning some days and returned with money jingling in his pockets. Christmas and Hughie’s birthday had been celebrated only by a visit to church and a special dinner of roast chicken at midday. For a gift, she’d knitted Hughie socks and a scarf, using the last of her supply of wool, but Farrell refused to think of Christmas as different to any other day and so she complied and made him nothing.

She often wondered what he thought of her, his wife whom he treated like a stranger. Their conversations were strained, mainly consisting of safe topics like the weather or work around the farm. He slept in the kitchen on a straw filled mattress, content to let her and Hughie sleep in the bed upstairs. The situation wasn’t ideal, and soon they’d have to buy or build a bed for Hughie in the spare room. He deserved his own room.

As she turned towards the house, needing to check on the rabbit stew simmering on the stovetop, a horse and rider trotted into the yard. At once, she knew him to be the hated landlord.

He reined in a few feet from her. His golden brown eyes narrowed as his gaze swept over her from head to foot. ‘Good day, Madam.’

She inclined her head and found she couldn’t stop staring at him. He held his head at an angle, looking superior. Something hit her between the ribs, robbing her of breath. Her skin tingled, blood pounded in her ears. ‘H...How do you do.’

‘My name is Ethan Harrington. Is Farrell about?’ Harrington glanced around the yard before pinning her with another bold stare.

She sounded his name in her mind, liking it. He was no John or Jim or Tom. His eyes were the colour of brandy, a warm brown highlighted with gold flecks. The fine hair on her nape prickled. He wore fawn corduroy trousers with a darker brown riding jacket. His black boots shone even in the dull light from the overcast day.

Isabelle was suddenly aware of her own worn dusty skirt and blouse. Shame tinged her cheeks with colour. The beating drum of her heart alarmed her. ‘No, he isn’t here. He’s out…gathering wood.’

He frowned and flicked the reins as if undecided what to do next. ‘Will he be gone long?’

‘Not certain… a half hour maybe.’ She cursed inwardly at her abrupt inability to talk coherently. What was it about him that made her so aware of him? She absorbed the regal way he sat his horse, and how the fine lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled when he squinted into the distance.
Lord, what was the matter with her?

‘Who are you?’

His question made her falter. Unexpectedly, she didn’t want to reveal to this fine gentleman that she was married to a man like Farrell. Her cheeks grew hotter. Guilt and embarrassment rendered her mute.

He peered down at her, arrogant and proud. ‘Have you no answer?’

She raised her chin, remembering from long ago her father’s words.
Never be ashamed of who you are, for the time might come when the only person you can rely on is yourself.
‘My name is Isabelle Farrell, formerly Gibson.’

‘You are a relative visiting Farrell for a time then.’ He made it a statement not a question.

‘I live here permanently now.’ She straightened her shoulders. He wasn’t the only one who could be proud. Her grandfather had been a respected vicar, her mother a lady’s companion before marrying Aaron Gibson, a distant and poor relative to the Gibson’s of Greenwood Lee. Adele Gibson had instilled in her daughters the same degree of dignity she had conducted herself with until the day she died. How glad Isabelle was now of her mother’s insistence that they learnt that. ‘I apologise for my lack of manners, Mr Harrington. Would you care to come inside and wait? Or, if you prefer, I can inform my husband that you visited and have him call on you tomorrow?’

Harrington’s eyes widened. ‘You are his wife?’

Isabelle tried to ignore the note of incredulity in his voice and quickly dampened down the spark of irritation it caused. What was the matter with him? Did she not look like a wife? At the workhouse she had gained a reputation for having a wild temper and outspoken tongue – such a contrast to her mother and sister. As a married woman she must now rise above such temptations to shout like a fishwife at anything that failed to please her. ‘Indeed, sir, as of ten weeks ago.’

‘I was not informed.’

‘Is it a requirement, Mr Harrington?’ She raised her eyebrows, his manner squashing the appeal she originally felt towards him.

He clenched his jaw. His chiselled face seemed as hard as the granite outcrops that littered the moor. ‘Obviously, you did not set your standards very high when you chose Farrell.’

‘I doubt very much that concerns you, Mr Harrington.’ She flicked her skirts aside as though she wore the finest silk and his company sullied them. ‘If you will excuse me, I shall be about my business.’

‘Your husband, Madam, is not a man to be trusted. Unless you want to be walking the streets carrying all you possess, I suggest you make him change his ways. So far he has managed to escape the net, but sooner or later he will pay for his actions.’

A sickly tingle of fear slid down Isabelle’s back. She urged some witty retort to spring from her lips but his cold stare silenced her. He gave her the slightest of nods and wheeled his horse about and out of the yard. Standing still for so long had made her cold, yet she knew the iciness she felt was from more than just the weather.

***

Ethan marched into the drawing room, paused to kiss his mother’s smooth soft cheek before nodding to Baldwin, the butler, to pour him a nip of the whisky he imported from a distillery from the Scottish Highlands. He rested his forearm along the mantelpiece and stared into the glowing fire. To his left on an emerald velvet sofa, reclined his wife, Clarice, sucking boiled sugar sweets. His stomach churned.

‘How was your ride, dear?’ Elizabeth Harrington smiled at him, breaking her concentration from her embroidery.

‘Cold.’ He replied without turning around. The scene of domestic serenity was such a lie that he had the hysterical urge to laugh like a madman.

Elizabeth put aside her work. ‘Shall I ring for tea?’

Ethan closed his eyes momentarily and then spun around, doing his best to not look at his wife. He concentrated on his mother, who was the only woman worth his time and love. ‘Did you know that Farrell had married?’

‘Your tenant, Farrell?’ Elizabeth chuckled. ‘Why would I be interested in him? That man is such a thorn in your side. I do not understand why you cannot break his lease. I am sure there is some law about it?’

‘Father gave the family another ten year lease just before he died. It expires in three years.’ Ethan took his drink from Baldwin.

‘Your father was always too lenient on those less fortunate.’ She gave a sidelong glance at her daughter-in-law and pursed her lips.

Ethan took a gulp of his drink. He needed no reminding of his father’s weaknesses. He lived with the consequences every day. He had married Clarice because his dying father had begged him to. Oh, he had done all right out of the deal, he freely acknowledged that, but time had cruelly shown him that money was not everything.

He gazed about the richly decorated room. His mother had sublime taste and the drawing room plus other rooms of Bracken Hall looked elegant; all with Clarice’s money. Her father, a wealthy York merchant and his own father’s good friend, had left his entire fortune to his only child. That fortune now safeguarded Bracken Hall for the next generation. Yet, the next generation was slow in coming. Ethan shuddered. There would never be an heir for the estate he loved if he couldn’t force himself to touch his wife.

‘What does it matter whether he has married or not?’ Clarice asked, forcing him to look at her.

He flinched as she licked her sticky fat fingers and then immediately searched for another sweet at the bottom of the cone paper cup. Beside her, on a small occasional table, was a selection of ornamental jars holding various sugared fruits and chocolates. ‘It matters, Clarice, because the man is a wastrel and a thief. He cannot afford to pay his rent on time, so how can he afford to support a wife?’

Clarice shrugged, pulled the nearest jar closer and poured out two brandy-balls, which she promptly popped into her mouth.

Elizabeth clicked her tongue. ‘It’s four o-clock, Clarice. Time to stop, my dear.’

Ethan cringed. Shame filled him that his mother had to chastise his wife like a child. He turned away from his wife’s down-turned mouth.
This is a nightmare.
He had been married for six years to this greedy, unintelligent half-woman, half-child. For the first year he had tried really hard to find some common ground with her, but they shared no same interests. As the years grew, they turned to their own concerns and did their best to ignore each other as much as possible. Clarice was content to sew, read her penny journals and eat. She insisted that his mother continue running the household, and for that he was glad.

‘Darling?’

He turned and looked at his mother. Her eyes reflected his own sadness. She understood his pain. He thumped down his empty glass. ‘I’ll be in the study if you need me.’

She nodded, and as he passed her she reached out and held his hand for an instant. He smiled and left the room. Down the hall was the one room that was entirely his.

Ethan paused in the study doorway and surveyed the dark richness of the book lined walls. The large walnut desk sat beneath the window that overlooked the park. In summer, deer grazed under the sycamores and beech trees.

Sighing, Ethan walked to the window and stared out. The bleak greyness of winter echoed his soul. His ridiculous marriage galled him, and until now he had kept up a brave face about it, but today, this moment, he felt as if he couldn’t breathe. The image of Farrell’s wife swam before his eyes. How had
he
, a useless idler, married someone so striking, someone so full of spirit and pride?

Ethan frowned, recalling the meeting with Farrell’s wife. Isabelle, that was her name. He sat at his desk and drummed his fingers on the polished top. Isabelle. He remembered how she had raised her chin and stared at him boldly. A spark had lit her unusually pale blue eyes. Defiance. Character. In only those few minutes together, he saw in her something special. Yes, she wore filthy, shabby clothes and her red hands showed how hard she worked, but despite it all her supple strength of spirit had reached inside him.