The pattern of her heart, p.12
The Pattern of Her Heart, page 12
“Aye,” Liam said as he rejoined the conversation. “Even West Point and the Virginia Institute buy Arabians from the Houston Stables.”
“The Shagyas?” Mary Margaret asked, recognition shining in her eyes.
Paddy squared his shoulders and his chest swelled. “Ya know of our horses?”
“I heard me master speak of them at the time he was buying another horse. He said he had seen the Shagyas, and though they were beautiful animals, he found them to be far too costly.”
“Ha! The man is a fool. Ya need to come to the stables and have a look fer yarself,” Paddy said.
Liam waved at Rogan as he and Kiara approached. “Our young Paddy has invited Miss O’Flannery fer an outin’,” he told them. “Say, Paddy, when was it ya were gonna be comin’ to escort Mary Margaret to the farm?”
Paddy glanced at Mary Margaret, uncertain what he should do. If he set a time, the lass might tell him she had no interest in keeping company with the likes of him. And if he said Liam had twisted his words, Mary Margaret might be insulted and think he didn’t find her attractive. Of course, it would be altogether impossible to find the lass undesirable, with her piercing blue eyes and hair the shade of gingered carrots.
“I’m thinkin’ we can arrange the time fer ourselves. Would ya like to dance, Mary Margaret?” Paddy asked, anxious to escape Liam and Rogan’s antics.
“Aye, that I would,” she replied.
Before there was opportunity for further discussion, Paddy led the slender beauty off toward the assembled dancers.
“Have ya found a good Irish family to live with here in the Acre?” Paddy asked as he put his arm on her waist.
“The Corporation put me in one of the boardinghouses,” she explained.
His eyebrows raised to resemble twin peaks. “In one of the boardinghouses?”
The flounce of her deep green dress shimmered as they twirled in time to the spirited music. “Aye. And why is that surprisin’ ya?”
“I would think ya would prefer livin’ among yar own people,” he said. “Na many of the Irish lasses live in the boardinghouses, and them that do say they’re treated poorly. I’ll talk to Bridgett. I’m sure ya could live with Granna Murphy, who’s a fine cook.”
Mary Margaret’s dancing came to an abrupt halt. “And why would ya be thinkin’ to take it upon yarself to talk to Granna Murphy? I’ve got a perfectly good voice, and if I want to move to the Acre, I’m more than capable of doing so without yar help. And I have na been treated poorly at the boardinghouse. Mrs. Brighton keeps a good house and will na tolerate foolishness,” she retorted.
“Are ya feelin’ a wee bit too good to live with yar own people?” Paddy asked.
Mary Margaret’s eyes flashed with anger. “Who do ya think ya are to be sittin’ in judgment of me and where I choose to live?”
“Ya have more than yar share of a temper, Mary Margaret O’Flannery.”
“So I’ve been told!” She gave a small stomp of her foot for emphasis.
Paddy narrowed his eyes as he glanced at her foot and then met her angry gaze. “Ya should na take offense so quickly.”
She put her hands on her hips, her elbows pointed outward like two triangular blockades. “And you should na be attemptin’ to pass yarself off as a horse trainer when ya do na even know anything of Baucher’s method!”
She marched away, her hair flying as she threaded her way through the crowd. The lass had a sharp tongue and more than her share of pride! Who did she think she was, questioning his ability to train a horse? He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, continuing to track her every move. She had stopped to talk to someone. He elevated himself to full height and strained to see above the crowd. Timothy Rourke! Why would she want to speak with him? Everyone in the Acre knew Timothy traded one lass for another at the drop of a hat. Yet even the brokenhearted continued to tag after him, seeking attention. What special charm did Timothy Rourke possess?
Paddy ignored Rogan, who was pointing his thumb in Mary Margaret’s direction as he approached. “Why did ya let that bonny lass escape? Can ya not see she’s talking to Timothy? Get yarself over there before he offers to walk her home.”
“If it’s the likes of Timothy Rourke that interests her, then she’s na the lass for me,” Paddy said while still keeping Mary Margaret in his sights.
“Then why are ya still staring after her like a lovesick pup?” Rogan asked. “If it’s fear that’s holdin’ ya back, I’ll go and fetch her back here for ya.”
“I do na need yar help,” he said, breaking loose of the firm clasp Rogan held on his arm and striding off.
He could hear Rogan’s deep belly laugh as he approached Mary Margaret. He gave momentary thought to walking past her and pretending he didn’t see her standing with Timothy Rourke. But if he did such a thing, Rogan would find some other way to embarrass him.
He approached the lass feeling a combination of fear, hope, and discomfiture. “I was wonderin’ if I might escort ya home this evening,” Paddy inquired.
“She already has an escort home,” Timothy said.
“ ’Twas Mary Margaret I was askin’.”
She met his expectant gaze. “And why would ya want to escort the likes of me? A lass with a dreadful temper?” she inquired sweetly.
“I’ll explain while I’m seeing ya home,” he replied, now feeling somewhat more confident.
“If ya want to wait until I’m ready to go home, then ya may escort me. But I do na have to be in the boardinghouse until ten o’clock, so until then, I believe I’ll accept Timothy’s offer to dance.”
Tim Rourke grasped Mary Margaret around the waist. As he began to lead her off, he whispered to Paddy, “No need to wait—I’ll see the lass to her boardinghouse.”
Paddy scowled at his rival. “I’ll na be leaving without her. It’s me that’ll be seein’ her home.”
Filled with envy, Paddy watched Mary Margaret and Timothy. The man would not turn her loose for even a moment.
“He hangs on her arm as though he’s afraid I’ll steal her away,” Paddy muttered aloud, angry he hadn’t insisted upon dancing with Mary Margaret himself. Instead, he stood idly by while Timothy held her and danced another eight-handed reel.
“Come join us for a game of kick the turnip,” Johnny Kelly urged as he tugged on Paddy’s sleeve.
“I do na want to play games,” Paddy retorted. There was more irritation in his voice than he’d intended, and Johnny’s smile quickly changed to a frown. “I’m sorry if I hurt yar feelings,” Paddy called out as the boy hurried away without another word.
It seemed as though hours had passed before the musicians finally set their instruments down and cited the need for something cool to drink. Paddy quickly stepped forward to claim Mary Margaret. “If ya’re to be home by ten o’clock, we best be leaving,” he said.
Her face was flushed from the dancing, and damp curls clung to her forehead, forming an auburn frame around her creamy complexion. “I’m having such fun I now am wishin’ I would have asked Mrs. Brighton for special permission to return later than ten o’clock,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow. “So ya find Timothy Rourke pleasant company?”
“He’s a lively sort of fella and can dance better than most. He did na miss a step on the jigs nor the hornpipe, though I do na think he can step dance as well as I. He said I should wait until the fiddlers returned and give him a chance to outshine me,” she said with a cheery smile.
“I do na doubt he’s tryin’ to talk ya into staying a wee bit longer. If the fiddlers hadn’t stopped for a drink, he’d still be fightin’ to keep ya by his side. And then what would Mrs. Brighton say when ya returned home late?”
Mary Margaret’s laughter filled the air like the soothing sound of a rippling brook. “I do na know, but I’d like to think she’d be understandin’.”
“My buggy is at the end of the street,” he said, leading her through the crowd.
“Timothy said there would be some strawboys comin’ to call at Granna Murphy’s later this evenin’. I do wish I could stay and see that bit of fun,” Mary Margaret said as they reached the buggy.
“I do na know who told him there would be strawboys, but I’ve heard nothin’ of it. The custom of going strawing is not often practiced in the Acre.”
Mary Margaret’s eyes shone with excitement. “I’ve never seen strawboys, and I’m thinkin’ it would be amusing to see the young men dressed in their straw costumes while performing a jig or singing a song. Of course, I would na be able to guess their identity, but all the same, ’twould be fun trying.”
“Aye. ’Tis true that the performance of a group of straw-boys can add much to the weddin’ festivities, but I think Timothy Rourke was speaking out of turn. I do na think ya’ll be seeing any special performances this evenin’. Timothy would say whatever words he thought might entice ya to remain in his company a little longer.”
“Ya seem mighty anxious to discredit him.”
“I’m only speakin’ the truth. Ya can ask any of the lasses he’s trifled with,” Paddy said as he helped her into the buggy.
“So ya think I’m a lass whose head is easily turned by the smooth talk of an Irishman?”
He thought for a moment as he pulled on the reins to direct the horses into a right turn down John Street. “I canna say for certain, but it appears ya might be.”
Her lips tightened and her eyes narrowed. “Ya are an incorrigible man, Padraig O’Neill. Since the first time I set eyes upon ya, ya’ve done nothing but find fault with me.”
“I’m merely attemptin’ to direct ya down the right path,” he explained.
She bristled at his reply, and her eyes darkened with anger. “When I need help making my decisions, I’ll ask. Until then, I’ll thank ya to keep yar opinions to yarself.”
They rode in silence, Paddy’s gaze firmly fixed upon the horses and Mary Margaret’s back to him and her arms crossed tightly across her chest. Once again he’d managed to alienate the lass. Why couldn’t she see that he was merely attempting to look out for her best interests?
“Like I told ya earlier, if ya ever plan to wed, ya’re going to have to learn to control yar temper,” Paddy finally said as he pulled back on the reins and they came to a stop in front of her boardinghouse.
Her lips puckered into a tight knot as she turned to face him. “Plan to wed? Is that what ya think? That the only thing I have to look forward to in my entire life is finding a man to marry? Ya flatter yarself, Padraig O’Neill!”
Before he could make his way around the buggy, Mary Margaret had jumped down and rushed toward the boardinghouse. She vanished behind the front door before he could say another word.
CHAPTER • 7
October 1857
NOLAN LEANED back in his chair and rubbed his weary eyes. He’d been staring at the ledgers, bills, and records of the plantation all morning. Fortunately, Malcolm Wainwright had been a meticulous man when it came to his holdings. Any information Nolan needed was at his fingertips— including papers of ownership for every slave now living at The Willows, along with a ledger listing personal facts about each one. The slave’s name was followed by notations for medical treatment, type of clothing supplied, Christmas gifts, and a listing of special abilities and characteristics. A carefully inscribed date of entry preceded each detailed fact.
The swishing sound of Jasmine’s skirt caused him to turn as she entered the library. “You look particularly lovely today,” he said, enjoying the sight of her even more than he had years ago when they’d first wed.
“You are becoming quite the Southern charmer, Mr. Houston,” she said with an exaggerated drawl.
“What I say is entirely true—I’ve always said you look stunning in yellow. You’re like a ray of sunshine on a dreary day.”
Jasmine laughed as she drew closer. “I believe the South has also rekindled your desire to write poetry. What have you been doing in here all morning? The children were hoping you might join us outdoors for a noonday picnic under the trees.”
“Going through this paper work.”
“I told you I would take care of the ledgers, my dear. I don’t expect you to assist Mr. Draper and do the bookwork as well.”
“Wendell doesn’t need my assistance at this point. Besides, your father’s slaves are now freed men. They can come and go, work or not—it’s their own choice. Mr. Draper no longer makes their decisions; he merely directs those wanting to work to the tasks that must be accomplished.”
“Miz Jasmine?” Prissy stood in the library doorway, twisting her hands.
“Yes, Prissy? Is something wrong?”
“Massa Wade from Bedford Plantation has come calling. I had him wait in da parlor. He says he has business wib Massa Nolan. Should I show him in?” The girl’s voice quivered as she spoke.
“Did he say something to frighten you, Prissy?” Jasmine inquired.
“No, ma’am. But yo’ daddy bought some slaves from Massa Wade one time. He treats his people real bad—likes to use da whip.”
“There’s no need to worry, Prissy. We’ll not let anything happen to you or any of the others. You go back to what you were doing, and I’ll see to Mr. Wade.”
The girl’s even ivory teeth shone like a string of fine pearls as she beamed at Jasmine. “Thank you, Missus,” she said before hurrying off toward the back of the house.
Nolan arched his eyebrows. “I assume you know Mr. Wade?”
“The Bedford Plantation has been in Harold Wade’s family for years. None of the Wainwrights have had a close association with the Wade family, however, because Father didn’t particularly like Harold. I can’t imagine why he’s come. Do you want to see him here in the library, or do you prefer to entertain him in the parlor?”
Nolan stood and walked around the desk. “Why don’t we entertain him in the parlor. Perhaps he won’t stay long, and we’ll be able to join the children for their picnic.”
She clasped his arm and gave him a winsome smile. “And here I thought you’d completely forgotten the picnic.”
Harold Wade stood with his elbow perched on the fireplace and his gaze fixed upon the foyer. Except for turning toward the young couple as they entered the room, he remained motionless.
“Mr. Wade. It has been some time since I’ve seen you,” Jasmine said. “I don’t believe you’ve met my husband, Nolan Houston.”
Mr. Wade gave a slight nod of his head and finally stepped away from the fireplace to shake hands with Nolan. “My pleasure, Mr. Houston. Sorry about your family, Jasmine. We were never close, but I always respected your father.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wade,” she said. “Won’t you be seated?”
“I prefer to stand—problems with my back. Besides, my business shouldn’t take long. I’ve come to make a proposition, Mr. Houston.”
Nolan sat beside Jasmine on the brocade-upholstered settee. “What kind of proposition might that be?”
“Like most everyone in these parts, I lost slaves to the fever. From what I’m told, I lost more than the rest of you. Then, to make matters worse, a lot of my field slaves aren’t recovering as quickly as I had hoped. I thought it was probably their usual laziness, but the doctor tells me they need more time to fully recover. Says I’ll never get another good day’s work out of any of them if they go back to the fields before they’re back to full strength,” he complained.
“Perhaps if your slaves had been healthy and well fed before the fever hit, they would have fared better throughout the epidemic,” Jasmine said.
Mr. Wade ignored her remark and turned his attention to Nolan. “I’m wondering if you’d consider striking up a bargain with me whereby we would share the use of our slaves until the cotton crop has been harvested. Some of the other owners have worked out such an arrangement, and I thought you might be interested in doing the same. Or have you already made such an arrangement with others?”
“No, I haven’t entered into an agreement with any of the other owners. I understand your dilemma, Mr. Wade, but I doubt we’d be interested in doing such a thing for the entire harvest. If you’re in dire straits at the present time, I can ask our folks if they’d be willing to go and help out for a short time.”
Mr. Wade looked at Nolan as though he’d taken leave of his senses. “Ask your folks if they’d be willing?” he asked before emitting a harsh laugh. “Those folks, as you call them, are slaves. And they’ve got no say in whether they’d be willing or not. They do what they’re told, when they’re told, and how they’re told. Now, I realize you live up north, and likely you don’t hold with the idea of slavery, but you need to readjust your thinking while you’re in Mississippi.”
“Thank you for your suggestion, Mr. Wade, but we appear to be doing just fine with our own method. If you’d care to ride out to the fields with me, we can inquire about your proposition. However, I don’t anticipate a large number will agree.”
Harold Wade looked at Jasmine as though he expected her to explain Nolan’s behavior, but she merely smiled and nodded at him.
“We shan’t be long, my dear. Please tell the children that if they are willing to wait a little longer, I’ll join you for that picnic you mentioned.”
Nolan realized their visitor thought he was completely daft. Men such as Harold Wade didn’t stop to have picnics with their wives and children during the harvest, and they certainly didn’t inquire whether their slaves were willing to work. But Harold didn’t realize the men, women, and children harvesting the crop at The Willows were no longer slaves. And this was a fact Nolan didn’t wish to divulge at this juncture.
“I got about ten healthy men and maybe five women that I could trade off with you,” Mr. Wade said. “They’re all good pickers. Overseer might have to take a whip to one or two to keep them moving, but otherwise they’re well trained. You think you could spare that many of your folks?” he asked as they rode to the cotton fields.
