Chapter Five
Harry leaned against the washtub and wiped her forearm across her forehead. Her arms ached from working the land, but she knew it was pointless to complain while there were clothes to launder. After drawing in a deep breath…and then another, she resumed her chore.
Scrubbing, rinsing, and wringing, she finished washing the shirts and trousers her son had nearly outgrown. She knew she would be spending more than one night sewing larger clothes for him. If only she could manage to squeeze in time to make the trip to the village and purchase fabric, Bart would have something new to wear.
Mentally calculating how much more material would be needed to account for the new width of her son’s shoulders called up the unwanted image of one Michael O’Malley. Why had she let that tall, broad, irritatingly handsome, green-eyed Irishman get under her skin? He was like a sliver of wood that refused to be dislodged.
Though it was well past midnight when he’d arrived last night, she remembered the visual impact of his strong physique. It reminded her of her husband’s frame. O’Malley’s grass-green eyes and sunlit hair were a sharp contrast to her husband’s dark brown hair and warm brown eyes.
Shaking her head to clear it of ridiculous thoughts of a man she had no business pondering, she returned her focus to the task at hand and lifted the next worn item from the washtub. Staring at the trousers—her late husband’s—she remembered taking them in because there was no extra coin to purchase a pair closer to her own size. Putting her back into it, she scrubbed at stains that had been too stubborn to remove when her husband had worn them.
A tear slipped past her guard as she carefully washed his cambric shirts. His scent was long gone…only her own remained mingled with the dirt from working their land. Her eyes welled with more tears, but she blinked them away, saving them for a time when Bart wouldn’t see her crying. Resolved to finish the laundry and move on to the next chore, she dug deep to ignore the emotions she had no time to deal with.
Lifting the last piece of clothing, she was dismayed to discover the fabric of one of her husband’s shirts had frayed, leaving a hole the size of her fist in it. Biting her lip, she knew she’d be sacrificing the last of her gowns—the pretty blue one she wore the day she’d pledged her love and life would be sacrificed in order to sew shirts for her son and herself.
No matter—she couldn’t recall the last time she’d worn a gown, let alone had a need for one.
“Serves you right for letting your mind go down a path it has no business traveling,” she told herself.
“And what path might that be, Mrs. Mayfield? If I may be so bold as to ask.”
Harry snorted with laughter before she could think to hold it back. The man who’d been front and center of her thoughts, disturbing her sleep and interrupting her chores all day, sat atop a beautiful roan gelding.
His beautifully sculpted lips curved into a smile that simply stole her breath. Michael O’Malley’s face and form would make a weaker woman swoon.
But Harry was not weak. She lifted her chin and frowned. “What brings you back this afternoon?”
“His lordship.”
The bottom dropped out of her stomach. The viscount must have finally realized that the revenue from their farm had decreased to the point where he would have no choice but to demand she and Bart leave so he could install someone far more capable of earning their keep. After all, it was his right.
Her mind whirled as the familiar ache tore through her heart. Where would they go? What would they do?
She swayed, clutching the worn, damp shirt to her breast.
O’Malley dismounted and swept her into his arms, holding her against his pounding heart. “Are ye ill, lass?”
Harry’s eyes burned as tears threatened yet again. She had not given in to weakness since the night she’d sobbed her heart out on the fresh dirt covering her husband’s final resting place. Mortified she’d let her fear overwhelm her, she struggled in his arms.
“Until ye answer me, I won’t be setting ye down.”
Their gazes clashed. Wide gray eyes met steady green.
She refused to believe he wouldn’t set her on her feet. “Unhand me!”
His grip tightened. “How do I know ye won’t keel over and crack yer head against the washtub?”
He was far stronger than she realized. He lifted her easily—and she knew her sturdy bones alone were heavy. It was futile to continue. Struggling to move past her embarrassment, she managed to reply, “I am fine, just a bit more weary than I thought.” When he did not budge, she added, “I did not stop at midday to eat.”
He held her gaze for long moments before repeating his unanswered question: “Are ye ill, lass?”
She clenched her jaw as indignation swept up from her toes. “I am not ill, and I am a widow—not a lass.”
He chuckled and gently set her on her feet, holding her arm to steady her. “Well now, as ye’re a woman younger than meself, ye’re a lass. If ye prefer, the Gaelic for it is a wee cailín.”
Though her shoulders and upper back ached, Harry stiffened her spine and straightened to her full height, surprised she was nearly a foot shorter than the giant of a man currently smirking at her. “I am not a small woman.”
O’Malley’s eyes slid from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. “Aye, that ye’re not, though a cailín is a young girl.”
She squinted up at him. “As a matter of fact, I am probably older than you.”
“I doubt it, lass.”
“My son is four and ten…I was just shy of my twentieth year when he was born.”
“Well now, Mrs. Mayfield, ye are a wee bit older than me, though ye don’t look a day over five and twenty.”
She felt the flush heat her cheeks, but for the life of her did not know how to respond. It had been years since a man looked at her the way her husband had—as if she were pleasing to the eye. Unbidden, her emotions tangled into a tight knot. Praying she would not disgrace herself and dissolve into a puddle of useless tears, she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and cleared her throat. “Why did his lordship send you?”
His eyes narrowed for a moment before he responded, “He wanted to come himself, but Lady Calliope was not feeling well, so he asked me to deliver a message.”
Worry filled her heart. She knew from experience that as a woman’s time drew near, exhaustion and labor pains were to be expected. She herself had thought she was about to deliver a sennight before Bart was born. The midwife had assured her it was normal for some women to go through laboring pains for days—even a week or two before delivering.
Concerned for her ladyship, she asked, “Has Old Miriam been to the manor house to see Lady Calliope?”
“Aye, which is the only reason she’s resting and not pulling up behind me at yer door. She wanted to see for herself how the Clarkes, the Johnsons, yourself, and Bart fared after last night.”
She smiled. “Lady Calliope is caring and kindness itself. We are beholden to her and his lordship for so many things. After they married, our homes and plows were repaired. There was enough seed to plant to ensure a harvest worth celebrating. We owe his lordship and her ladyship far more than we can ever repay.”
Understanding, and an emotion she could not quite place, filled O’Malley’s gaze. “I’ll be happy to pass on yer words.”
Throat tight with emotion, she nodded in reply.
“Where would I find yer son? I need to speak with him before I ride over to speak with the others.”
“In the far field between our farm and the Clarkes’.”
“I’ll take me leave of ye, then, lass.”
Indignation at his insistence on calling her lass surged up from her toes, but his crooked smile had her chuckling instead. “You are a stubborn man, O’Malley.”
“To hear Ma tell it, I’m hardheaded too.” He mounted his horse. Holding her gaze, he inclined his head. “I’ll bid ye good day, then, Mrs. Mayfield.”
“Good day, Mr. O’Malley.”
Harry watched as he rode off toward their neighbors, belatedly wondering if he would deliver the same message to her son, or if he had something else entirely to say to Bart. She should have asked him about the message.
Pinning the rest of the clothing to the rope stretched between two posts, she shook her head, admitting to herself, “He probably wouldn’t tell me.”
She bailed out the washtub, watering her household gardens. Best check on the stew. Bart will be here soon, and hungry enough for three men.
And just like that, her thoughts returned to O’Malley. Staring at her handiwork drying in the midday sun, she marveled that he seemed to have the strength of two men. How else would he sweep a woman her height and weight off her feet as if she weighed but three stone?
Exasperated with the unexpected direction of her thoughts, she firmly put the handsome man from her mind. After setting the washtub against the back of their cottage, she stepped inside, ready to take on the next task.
Hands washed, she checked the pot on the back of the cookstove, stirred it, and replaced the lid. The mindless task had her mind repeating the viscount’s message. Gratitude filled her.
“We won’t be evicted from our farm today, my love,” she whispered to her heavenly husband. She felt a sense of peace surround her, as if he agreed.
Stronger for having felt it, she moved about the cottage with a spring in her step, ready to face whatever the night would bring.
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