You stay here and churn for Goody Hunter this afternoon,” Jack told Simon over dinner the next day. Simon scowled. “I thought to help with the haying again.”
“Nay. The field needs to dry one more day. And my wife has more need of you than I this afternoon. She must make butter, and you are just the lad to help her.”
Lucy opened her mouth to speak, but Jack threw her a glance that silenced her. “You’ve got that special weaving order to do,” he reminded her. “Set the boy up at the churn. He can do it.”
Lucy nodded. Jack and Simon had gone to her mother’s with the oxcart that morning, brought the big loom back, and set it up in the loft. Jack knew her fingers were itching to begin warping it for the new job they’d discussed—linsey-woolsey for a new jacket and breeches for Simon. The boy was outgrowing the clothes he’d come in, and they were getting ragged. Lucy had patched the breeches and given him an old shirt of Jack’s, but he needed new clothes, there was no question.
When he went to the barn for his pitchfork, Jack looked toward the pasture. Clumps of evening primrose grew wild near the fence, and the sight of the bright yellow flowers made him smile. He wondered if Lucy had seen them. He paused only a moment, then hurried to pick a bunch. Feeling a bit silly, he carried them back to the house. When he opened the door, Simon was beating away with the churn dasher, up and down, up and down. His eyes widened as he spotted his master, but Jack put one finger to his lips, and Simon kept churning.
Jack raised his eyebrows in question, and Simon jerked his head toward the ladder. When Jack looked up, he saw Lucy, her back to them, working at her loom above, near the window in the little loft.
Sneaking forward, Jack laid the bouquet on the table and fetched a small jug. He dipped water into it from the bucket Lucy kept full near the hearth, then stood the flower stems in it.
Simon watched him, laughing silently. Jack shrugged and smiled, then hurried out to the barn. Let the boy laugh. If it were up to Jack to raise him, he wanted to show Simon that a man wasn’t afraid to bring his wife a posy. Yes, and there were more things he wanted to do for Lucy, if she would let him. Tonight would perhaps clear the air on some things. He hoped he wouldn’t be too nervous to speak freely with her.
He hurried to the hayfield that bordered the lane and began turning the swaths of hay with his long fork. He winced as he lifted a clump and flipped it. His arm was sound now, but he still felt a twinge of pain with each sideways movement. Well, Simon would help him put the hay up tomorrow. He’d wanted to save Lucy the drudgery of churning, and it wouldn’t hurt the boy the way it would Jack to plunge the dasher up and down.
“Ho there, Hunter!”
Jack turned toward the voice and saw Charles Dole approaching him. The constable left the lane and walked across the hayfield, stepping through the drying grasses.
Jack lifted his hat and wiped his brow. What could Dole be wanting with him? Nothing good, he surmised. “Good day,” he said.
Dole stopped a few feet from him, frowning. “I see you’re back at your work now.”
“And why shouldn’t I be?”
Dole spat in the grass. “You think you can get away with foul murder, don’t you? Everyone’s coming ‘round and saying you was innocent.” Dole shook his head. “Oh, they may listen to the captain for now. Folks respect Murray. But the man’s faith in you be misplaced. Someday they’ll learn that fact.”
Jack forced himself to stay calm as he met Dole’s seething stare. “Goodman, I must get on with my work. I’ll ask you to leave my property now.”
Dole glared at him. “You’ll hang yet, Hunter!” He spun around and stalked toward the lane.
When the churning was done, Lucy sent Simon off to the field with a basket of fresh biscuits and butter and a jug of sweet cider. Once he was gone, she took a basin of water into the bedchamber, where she bathed and washed her hair, then put on her Sunday gown.
True, she liked to bathe on Saturday, but she usually waited until after the evening work was done and the supper dishes put away. And she certainly never wore her Sunday best to the table on Saturday. But tonight was special; she could feel it.
She took her workbasket out to the stump Jack used for a chopping block. It was behind the house, where there was no chance of the men seeing her from the hayfield, or passersby in the lane getting a glimpse of her with her hair unbound. As the fresh breeze of early September dried her tresses, she mended her stockings and put a button on Jack’s gray linsey shirt.
Her husband had brought her flowers. The sight of them had startled her, and when she questioned Simon, he had admitted that the master had sneaked in with the posies just after dinnertime.
Lucy hummed as she secured the button with neat, tight stitches. Things were beginning to progress in her marriage at last. Thank You, Father.
After supper Jack again led the three of them in worship. It seemed to Lucy that his eyes strayed from the Bible to her face more often than ever, and as soon as they had read a chapter and offered prayer, he sent Simon to the barn.
“Wash well, mind you,” Lucy called after the boy.
“Never fear,” Simon replied.
Jack rose and set the Bible carefully on the chest. “Be you ready to stroll, Goody Hunter?”
Lucy smiled. “I am.”
“It seems I’m walking out with the loveliest lady in Maine this night,” he said, his eyes dancing.
Lucy ducked her head but could not suppress her joy.
“You’ll want your shawl,” Jack said, and before she could protest, he went to the peg near the door and fetched it, then wrapped it snugly around her shoulders.
He stood very close to her, and Lucy’s pulse raced. “Thank you.”
The moon was rising over the pasture as they stepped outside.
“You’re leaving the sheep out tonight,” she observed.
“Aye. Sir Walter has become a good shepherd. If any predators come around, he’ll advise me.”
She laughed. “With strident barking, no doubt.”
Jack crooked his arm, and Lucy slipped her hand through it. “Would you like to walk to the creek?” he asked. “It’s pretty by moonlight.”
Lucy’s heart sang as they ambled toward the little stream. Her hand felt warm in the bend of Jack’s elbow.
He covered her fingers with his other hand. “Many a time over the years I’ve wished to walk thus with you.”
Her stomach flipped, and she dared to look up at him. My dear husband, she thought.
Jack stopped at the edge of the water, where the creek widened and formed a pool. “I shall have to bring Simon fishing here one morning.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
After a long silence, Jack took her hand in his and walked along the edge of the water. She sensed that he was on edge and wondered if his earlier confidence had deserted him when he found himself alone with her.
“So,” he said at last. “I want you to know….”
“Yes?” she prompted.
“You’ve made me very happy, Lucy.”
She smiled up at him. “I’m glad.”
“You’ve done everything I asked you to. You’ve worked hard and been frugal. You’ve never once complained.”
“I have nothing to complain of.”
He swung around slowly, and she realized with mild disappointment that they were heading back toward the house. When they came into the dooryard, Sir Walter raised his head and woofed.
“Hush,” Jack said.
He opened the door, and Lucy stepped inside. She took off her shawl and hung it on its peg. Jack went to the fireplace and stirred up the coals, then dropped another log on them.
“Will you want a fire in your room tonight?” he asked.
My room, Lucy thought, once more disappointed. “Nay, I’ll be fine.”
“Very well, then.”
She wondered how long this strained courtship would continue. She supposed she could put an end to it now by telling him to speak his mind or go up to his straw tick and leave her alone.
“Thank you for the flowers,” she said.
“Oh, aye. I’m glad …” He halted and stooped for another stick of firewood.
“Jack …”
“Lucy, I want you to know …” He straightened and tossed the stick into the fire, then brushed off his hands. “I’m not doing this very well, but I had it all planned out.”
“What, Jack?”
He looked into her eyes and caught his breath. “I wanted to tell you that if your father were alive now, I’d go and speak to him again. But this time I’d reason with him, and I’d make him see that I’m not the ruffian he thought me.”
“Oh, Jack.” She stepped toward him and touched his sleeve. “I think that if Father were alive, we’d find a way to let him see the true Jack Hunter. That doesn’t still distress you, does it?”
“I suppose it does, some. I botched things badly with your father, and instead of trying to make amends, I—”
“That’s past, Jack. Please do not speak of it again.”
“All right.” He eyed her anxiously.
Lucy wondered how they’d strayed so far from the cozy, romantic feeling she’d had earlier.
“So may I call upon you again tomorrow evening, ma’am?” he asked.
“Well, yes … certainly.”
Jack’s smile appeared far from assured, and she thought his hand trembled as he took her arm and guided her toward her bedroom door.
“Good night, then, Jack,” she whispered, looking up into his eyes.
He placed his hands on her shoulders. Even in the dim light, she could see the troubled yearning his eyes held. “Lucy …”
Wondering if she was doing the right thing, she reached up and touched his beard. He stood very still and lowered his eyelids, as if waiting to see what she would do. With agonizing slowness, she furrowed her fingers into his beard and stroked his cheek. “I enjoyed this time with you, Jack.”
“Oh, Lucy.” He pulled her toward him and stooped to nestle his face into the curve of her neck.
Warm satisfaction swept over her. She slipped her arms around his neck and held on to him, eyes closed, soaking up the pleasant assurance she craved. She felt his lips on her cheek, feathering soft, sweet kisses toward the corner of her mouth. She turned her head toward him. Their lips met in a shock of culmination. His arms tightened about her, and she rested in his embrace, relishing the riotous exuberance that shot through her.
He released her at last and leaned back, breathing in ragged gasps. “Dearest Lucy!”
She smiled at the glow in his eyes and stroked the back of his neck, feeling suddenly languid.
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” Jack whispered.
“Aye.” She was a bit surprised at this turn of the conversation.
“We shall have to rise early to do the chores before meeting.”
“So we shall.”
He frowned. “And I’ll have to put the hay in later. I expect Dole will come around and malign me for Sabbath breaking, but if I don’t make this hay crop—”
She laid her index finger on his lips. “I don’t fault you if you need to do some labor on the Lord’s Day. Sometimes it is necessary. Even Christ said such.”
“I’ll only do what I have to, but if we leave the hay out and it gets rained on …”
Lucy nodded, wondering at his anxiety. “Do what you must, Jack.”
He drew a deep breath, his eyes still fretful. Reaching up to his neck, he pulled her hands away gently and carried them to his lips. “So I’ll court you again tomorrow, dear Lucy.”
Ah, now she understood. He was saying a regretful good night, with a promise of something more on Sunday evening.
“I shall be waiting,” she whispered.
He kissed her once more, a lingering, thorough kiss, and they clung to each other for one warm, sweet moment. Then he stepped away and climbed the ladder.