Jo didn't have to go far to find Mr. Harrington. She spotted the wagon stopped at the end of the road leading out of town. He stood on the dirt road, leaning against one of the large wheels of his wagon and chatting with a nice-looking couple about his age. Jo knew exactly what she needed to do. But it wouldn't work if the couple left.
Jo ran until she was out of breath and then yelled, "Mr. Harrington! Oh, thank goodness. I thought you'd left without me."
His dark eyes widened, startled at her sudden appearance.
"Oh, hello." She plastered a smile on her face as she greeted the couple. "My name’s Josephine Taylor. I think Mr. Harrington has had quite the shock. My brother’s a bit scattered these days, what with his job as a city lawyer and him getting engaged, and there seems to have been a miscommunication."
"Oh, Jack was just telling us about the mix-up,” the woman said, concern in her voice. The sun rose behind her head, making the woman’s dark hair appear raven black. Her dress was as fine as anything Jo owned, and the woman had the curves and grace of a maiden from a Ruben painting. It reminded Jo of one of the last afternoons she’d spent with her mother before she became ill.
Jo’s heart squeezed with the familiar ache that accosted her any time an old memory fluttered back to her. They’d enjoyed tea at Macy’s and then took a hansom cab uptown and walked through Central Park to The Met. Inside, they’d gone straight to the European paintings collection and spent hours in peaceful meditation. The Renaissance was still Jo’s favorite period of art.
What stood out about that day was what she’d discovered. It was the first time she’d seen both the male and female forms naked (besides her mother, who wasn’t shy about such things). It was also the first time her mother had spoken candidly about the relations between a husband and a wife.
“You’re overheating, my dear.” The woman’s hazel eyes glanced at Jo in alarm, bringing Jo out of the past. “You must be exhausted after traveling all this way from New York City.”
"Now that you mention it, my feet do hurt,” Jo said, pushing away the flood of memories still wrapped up in her mind. “And I’m so knackered, my bones ache. But I think your Mr. Harrington was planning to leave me at that station until the next train came to snatch me up. But that's not for another three days."
As Jo hoped, the woman gasped and threw a scowl at Mr. Harrington. "Surely not. Jack, you are always complaining about how you need more help, and Ruby will be off and married to James soon enough. Let this young lady come and assist you. Tommy would be so pleased. And that house of yours could use a feminine touch."
Mr. Harrington’s gaze moved to the man for support, but he only shrugged his broad shoulders, not willing to disagree with his wife. Mr. Harrington grumbled, knowing he'd been bested.
"Fine," Mr. Harrington relented. "You can stay on. But only for three days, and then you're back on that train and back to the city."
Jo smiled triumphantly. "Thank you so much, Mrs. . . ."
"Call me Lucy, and this is my husband, Will. We live on the farm next to Jack. I'll pop by tomorrow and we can have a proper chat."
"That would be lovely." Jo pressed her carpetbag into Mr. Harrington's hands, and he tossed it in the back of the wagon unceremoniously. It was several feet from the ground to the seat of the wagon, and Jo waited for his help, but he climbed on without offering assistance. Jo rolled her eyes inwardly and then hiked her skirts up and practically fell up onto the seat.
He was punishing her. But it was fine. She could handle more than what he was giving.
After collecting her trunk from the train station, they rode out of town in silence. The land was flat with tall grass growing on either side of the road. The sun beat down, and Jo pulled the parasol from her bag and popped it open, shielding the hot rays.
The ride was long, but it gave her time to curse George in her head. She knew her brother, and it had been no mistake. He’d purposely deceived Mr. Harrington. With George’s soon-to-be wife and the floundering law firm, he didn't want the responsibility of Jo.
And soon he’d have children of his own. Jo had hoped to stay on and help raise them, but George wouldn't hear of it. Her stomach roiled thinking of those unborn nieces or nephews growing up so far away. It made her wonder if she’d made the right decision to board that train. But she had to get away. If she’d stayed, there was really only one option for her.
Her mind wandered to the person she’d been avoiding thinking about—Charles Rittenhouse. Charlie had been her beau for the past two years, but she’d known him since they toddled around as children. She was fond of him, but there was no passion. Her parents, on the other hand, had been fiercely in love. In the privacy of their home, they were always holding hands and kissing and cuddling.
Jo could never imagine being with Charles that way. He’d kissed her once, and all she felt was trapped. There was no tickle in her belly or flush on her cheeks when his lips touched hers. After that moment, Jo feared she’d end up like Edna in one of her favorite novels, The Awakening—trapped in a loveless marriage and going outside her marriage to seek passion. No. Jo wanted that kind of hunger in her marriage. Like her parents had been lucky enough to find.
After her mother caught the fever and died suddenly, Jo's father became sick with the same fever only three months later and passed away. But Jo knew it was a broken heart that took him.
Jo wanted a love like that. So intense she couldn’t live without the other person. But it might be a fool’s wish. Her friends’ parents had been amiable with each other, but they kept separate bedrooms, and the fathers often had mistresses on the side. It wasn’t spoken of, and yet it was common knowledge that this was acceptable for the man. Never for the woman.
If Jo went back, George would make her marry Charlie. That’s what her future would be if she left in three days.
"How far to your farm?" Jo slid her parasol to the outside of the wagon and turned to Mr. Harrington. They’d started out on the wrong foot, and Jo wanted to mend the rift her brother had caused by his lie.
"Six miles.” His reply was clipped, and he never turned his head from the flat road ahead.
"And you have two children. How old are they?"
"Tommy is six and Ruby is sixteen.”
“Oh, Ruby’s only two years younger than me.” Jo smiled at this news. “And what happened to your . . . their mother?”
Mr. Harrington’s shoulders tensed, but he answered the question. “Jenny passed away when Tommy was born.”
Mr. Harrington glanced at her, but when he saw she was staring at him, he flicked his gaze back to the dirt road. Grievance crossed his features, but Jo was pretty sure that had to do with her and not his dead wife.
Jo’s parents had been gone only one year less than Mr. Harrington’s wife, and Jo still missed them dearly.
"Is it hard on the children?" Jo asked.
Mr. Harrington turned to her, his expression stark. "My children have plenty of affection from me, and Lucy is a great source of kindness to them. To all of us." He faced the road. "But don't you be expecting that kind of affection from me. You're not my daughter. But you best behave yourself, or I'll spank your hide redder than a rooster's waddle."
Jo clamped her mouth shut and swung the parasol to block her view of Mr. Harrington. They rode the rest of the way in tense silence. If she was going to win Mr. Harrington over, it would have to be through his children. He was throwing no compassion Jo’s way.
A road appeared to their left, shaded on either side by tall pines. Jack turned down it and as they rounded a bend, a small, one-story, wood-planked home came into view. They passed a large barn, which sat in front of a pasture, and then pulled up in front of the house.
A girl with auburn hair in braids skipped down the steps off the porch that wrapped around the house, but her expression changed from elation to confusion when she saw Jo. Mr. Harrington jumped off the carriage and embraced his daughter and left Jo to fend for herself. Again.
"Who's that?" Ruby pursed her lips.
"This is Miss Josephine Taylor. There was a mix-up. She'll be staying with us a few days until she can return to New York City."
"You can call me Jo," she said, straightening her skirts after clamoring off the high seat.
A little boy with curly dark brown hair bounded down the steps. "I thought we were getting a brother?" He wasn't upset, only curious.
"There was a mix-up," Ruby repeated in a commanding voice, as if to show who was the woman of the house.
"Is she our new mother?"
"No, Tommy," Ruby said.
"I'm only a few years older than your sister." Jo smiled, trying to express that she was not Ruby's enemy. One obstacle would be hard enough. Two would be nearly impossible. If neither Ruby nor Mr. Harrington wanted Jo, she might as well keep her bags packed. "She's much too mature to need a mother."
"You look much fancier than Ruby," Tommy said, fingering the silk of Jo’s emerald skirt. “And your hair is the color of wheat. Like in our fields. It’s very pretty.”
At least one person in the household was enchanted by Jo. And it was true. Ruby and Jo may only be a couple of years apart in age, but Jo wore a long fashionable dress—several seasons out of date on account that it once belonged to her mother—and a hat to match, and her hair was swept up in a chignon. Ruby wore a simple cotton dress that hit mid-calf and her tawny hair was in two braids, like a little girl.
"Too fancy for these parts," Ruby scoffed. "You're going to have to get your hands dirty on a farm. Everyone pitches in."
Mr. Harrington stood back and watched this exchange, but said nothing. Tommy put his hand in Jo's and her heart melted a bit.
"I'm not afraid of hard work. I've already told your father I'm as able as any man. I'll plow, ride a horse, dig up fields, tend to the animals. Whatever needs to be done."
"Have you ever plowed a field? Or rode a horse, Miss Taylor?" Mr. Harrington asked, but he already knew the answer from the smirk on his face.
"No. But I'm a fast learner. And I don’t scare easily."
As the sun lowered behind the patch of trees behind the house, the children and Mr. Harrington got set on their evening chores before supper. Jo offered to help, but had been ignored. It was just as well. She was exhausted from her travels and would start a new fight to prove she belonged in the morning.
Tommy had shown her where she'd be sleeping—a small room at the back of the house with a single cot, squat dresser, and nightstand. After she pumped water into her washbasin and freshened up, she found bread in the breadbox and shoved a piece into her mouth, starving. It tasted like the dirt that rimmed the bottom of her skirts.
Dirt, dirt, dirt. Everywhere was dirt.
She’d tackle the baking and cooking tomorrow too. If the bread was any indication, Ruby was in need of a lesson. Or twenty.
Exhausted from the day’s events, Jo lay on her bed and the thoughts of the day that circled her mind quickly extinguished, and she passed out.
A loud clap next to her ear sent Jo bolting upright. For a hazy moment, she thought she was still on the train. But then Mr. Harrington's angry features came into focus above her. His breath was hot on her face and she scooted back against the wall.
Her hands rounded into fists, ready to fight him if he made an inappropriate move on her, but instead he yelled, "Early to bed and early to rise, Miss Taylor. Get up."
His roaring face departed from above her, but when his eyes fell to her chest he paused and blinked several times.
A quilt hung on the back of the lone chair in her room, and he threw it at her. "Cover yourself."
Jo wore only her cotton nightgown, and the outline of her dark nipples was visible through the thin fabric. She held the quilt to her chest and slid off the bed. Then she slammed the door.
She readied herself for the day, choosing one of the two housedresses she'd brought. In the city, she'd be embarrassed to wear it outside her home, but on the farm, it seemed almost too fancy.
In the small kitchen, a metal coffee pot sat on the stove. Dirty plates were scattered across the table and lay in a pile in the sink. Food was left out, uncovered, and crumbs scattered across the floor. In a heap at the far side of the room was a mess of dirty clothes. Jo cringed. What else might she find in that house? Ruby was not much of a cook or a housekeeper.
"There you are, Miss Taylor." Tommy came into the kitchen, leaving muddy footprints in his wake. He wrapped his arms around her slight waist. "You slept in."
"I won't make that mistake again. Tomorrow I'll prepare the breakfast." She took a sip of the coffee and puckered her face as the bitter liquid hit her tongue. "And the coffee."
"Ruby always makes the coffee."
"Not anymore." Jo dumped it in the sink. "Where's your father? I need to speak to him."
Tommy followed her to the porch, where the sun was rising above one of the fields in the distance, making the tall grass shine golden. It really was quite beautiful, and the warm wind that tousled her hair made Jo sigh, enjoying the peacefulness of this pioneering life for a moment.
"In the barn checking on Darla. She's one of our cows, and she's gonna give birth any day now."
Jo gripped her stomach. Feeding and grooming the animals was one thing. Assisting in a live birth made Jo shrink in fear.
On the walk to the two-story barn, a black-and-white dog sniffed her skirts and then took off and ran to the small pasture behind the barn, where he circled around the chickens milling in the grass.
"That's Denver," Tommy said, skipping next to Jo. "He looks after the chickens and makes sure no large animals like raccoons or coyotes eat them."
"Do you eat the chickens?" Jo asked. She knew very well that the meat she ate came from animals, but she’d never befriended one of the creatures before she had to slaughter and cook it up for supper. She was hoping that would not be one of her tasks.
"Some are meat chickens and some lay eggs. But if they stop laying . . ." He made a slicing gesture across his neck, and Jo shuddered. If it meant the difference between her staying and going, she’d do it. But it would put her off meat forever.
In the barn, Ruby sat on a low wooden stool, milking one of the cows. Mr. Harrington was bent over inspecting another cow in a far stall. Its belly was swollen, and Jo assumed it was Darla. Mr. Harrington glanced up and smiled at Tommy, ignoring Jo.
"Morning," Jo said, not letting his coldness sour her mood. She stepped up to the cow that Ruby milked and put out her hand for the cow to smell. It puffed out air, but basically ignored her. She ran her hand along its smooth hide. "I'll be up early tomorrow to make the breakfast."
"I make the breakfast." Ruby moved the stool to another cow and pulled on the teats. The spray of milk hit the half-full bucket of white liquid.
"While I'm here, I'll do it." Jo smiled. "Enjoy the break, Ruby. Once you're married and have children, you won't get one."
Ruby harrumphed. "You're our guest. You shouldn't go to any trouble."
Jo understood why Ruby felt threatened, but all she wanted was to make their lives easier, and Jo said this to Ruby.
Ruby considered. “Father said you’re only staying a few days.”
“He’s upset. I’m not what he was expecting. But do you really enjoy cooking?”
Ruby shrugged.
“I saw that beautiful garden patch behind the house. I’m guessing you find much more solace growing the food than making it into a meal. But I can help you with that. Trust me, a man will appreciate a wife who knows how to cook a tasty meal.”
Ruby pushed her lips to the side, mulling over what Jo said. “I make James—my beau—
a basket every week with items from my garden, but even the dog won’t touch the biscuits I put in there.” A laugh popped out of Ruby’s mouth suddenly. “They really are awful.”
Jo and Ruby giggled together, and the knot in her belly loosened.
“I didn’t know how to make biscuits or anything until a few years ago,” Jo said. “But I talked my friend’s cook into showing me a few recipes and giving me some tips, and after experimenting with a few very bad dishes, I now have a hearty repertoire of meals. And even if I do leave in a few days, I bet your neighbor Lucy would help you. She seemed very nice. Hasn’t she ever offered?”
Jo had only met Lucy briefly, but she seemed very fond of the Harringtons.
“I think Lucy is afraid Father would get angry if she overstepped her bounds. But she brings Father’s favorite cobbler every Sunday.” Ruby filled several glass jugs with the milk from the buckets and then placed the empty buckets under the swollen utter of the next cow and began milking.
If Jo stuck around, she’d make sure to ask Lucy for that cobbler recipe.
Mr. Harrington finished his inspection, and Jo called to him across the barn, “Could I have a word outside, Mr. Harrington?”
"I've work to do. What is it?" he asked as they stepped into the bright morning sun. Jo shaded her eyes against the blinding rays.
"Can we speak frankly?” Jo asked, but continued before Mr. Harrington answered. “I understand that you have reservations about me. But you put that ad in the paper because you needed help. You paid for my fare to come here, so let me help you. And I don’t just mean with the household work. Use me as you would have used that boy you thought was coming. I know I’m a woman, but I meant it when I said I’m as capable as any man.”
Jack frowned through Jo’s speech but then he exhaled, as if making the decision to accept what she said. “It’s not that I don’t think you’re willing. I can see you are. But working the fields—plowing, planting, harvesting—is hard work. And I don’t just mean arduous. You need to be fit and strong.”
“Don’t any of the wives help in the fields?” Jo asked.
“You’re not my wife.”
“Oh for goodness’ sake.” Jo threw her hands in the air. “I didn’t mean that.” And then she buckled over in laughter. The absurdity of it and the seriousness with which he’d said it made her laugh from deep in her belly. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . you’re so serious. Don’t you ever let the fun of life seep in?”
“Farming isn’t fun,” Mr. Harrington deadpanned.
“But life is. If you let it. Look, I understand that you’ve had a hard time, but my parents died five years ago. Both of them within months of each other. Then my idiot brother—who can barely stand me—spent all our money and we had to leave my family home—everything I knew and loved—and move to a tiny cottage. But I didn’t stop living. I learned to cook and do the housework and helped my brother in the office.”
Mr. Harrington crossed his arms, but his face had lost the frown.
“I’m not some spoiled city girl who’s never had to get my hands dirty. I know you think I won't last long out here, but I have two able hands and feet. Let me help take some of the burden off you and your family. If you don't want me doing manual labor to start, fine. I can start in the house. It will free up the children to play. I can teach them songs and some schoolyard dances I remember."
His face crumpled back into a frown. "The children don't play. Or sing or dance."
"But Tommy is just a boy. He should be running around and exploring and playing as all children do." His scowl deepened and Jo hurried on. "I mean, I know he needs to do some chores, but . . . just let me show you how I can be of service."
"You’re a stubborn woman. Didn’t your brother teach you better manners?"
"He was too busy grinding our father's business into the ground to worry about me. And my manners are refined. But this is a farm, not a society event in Manhattan. I'm offering you a hard worker and you'd be a fool not to accept."
"I’m no fool.” Mr. Harrington raised his eyebrows, daring her to challenge him. “But in the twenty-four hours I’ve known you, I see you're defiant and willful, Miss Taylor. If you were a horse, I'd ride you until I broke you."
Heat burned her cheeks. Her imagination stirred up an image of him riding on her back and she sucked in a breath as she remembered a similar position she’d seen in a book she once found in her parents’ room. It had been tucked under the ropes of her parents’ mattress. The book was filled with drawings of men and women performing sexual acts. The illustrations were unlike the nude paintings she’d admired at The Met. They were explicit, and Jo had been stunned, but extremely curious.
When her mother caught her with the book, instead of scolding Jo, she’d sat down and explained the beauty behind the images. Unlike so many of her mother’s contemporaries—who found the marriage act a distasteful part of their marriages—Jo’s mother said it could be quite enjoyable. She called it faire l’amour.
Jo had liked that. The idea that love was more than a feeling but a physical act. When Jo was very young and her grandmere still alive, her parents would sometimes take naps in the middle of the day. Her grandmere would mutter the phrase faire des galipettes with a sneaky smile on her lips. It wasn’t until later that Jo realized her parents weren’t “doing summersaults,” and they weren’t sleeping, either.
Jo blinked three times, coming back into the present, and for a moment, her view of Mr. Harrington shifted. Even though he was seventeen years older, he was an attractive man. His features were strong and chiseled along his jaw line, and his body was fit and strong. But his attitude was so ugly, it made her scoff at this unwanted attraction to the man.
Anger swelled in Jo, and she fisted her hands as Mr. Harrington walked away after his scolding. It took all the willfulness Mr. Harrington had spoke of to bite her tongue.
"He's not used to being told what to do."
Jo turned. Ruby stood behind her, holding a crate filled with milk jugs.
"I can see that." Jo walked to the house. It would take up most of the day to clean it, and she needed something active to do to release all the anger Mr. Harrington continually evoked in her.
"Momma always did what he said. She was sweet, obedient, and knew her place." Ruby deposited a wood crate on the porch.
“Will you obey your husband in everything?” Jo asked, countering.
Ruby’s cheeks turned rosy and her expression softened. “For James. Yes.”
Jo smiled. Ruby was in love.
“Would your father really wallop me?” Jo asked. Even in all his cruelty, her brother had never laid a hand on her. “Or was that an empty threat?”
“Oh, he used to make my backside raw when I was naughty.”
“But I’m not one of his children,” Jo protested.
“Father’s always been true to his word. If he says he’ll give you a wallop, you best listen to his warning.” Ruby spoke the words matter-of-factly, then walked back to the barn.
Out in the pasture, Mr. Harrington walked with Denver at his heels. Jo huffed and snatched up the milk. She almost broke one of the glass jugs putting it in the icebox. Her mind was caught up in two thoughts: she only had a day and a half to win Mr. Harrington over, and if she really disobeyed, would he keep to his threat and break her like one of his steeds in the barn?