Chapter 21

It was two days before Michael was able to make the arrangements to hire all the men he wanted, provide transportation for them and their families, and purchase seed and supplies for the coming year. "It will be good to get home," he said. "Gentleman's Folly has dulled my appreciation for town life."

"I agree," Anne replied. "I felt the same way about Philadelphia. I'm afraid I'm just a farmer's daughter."

"Aye." He winked at her. "And you know what they say about farmers' daughters."

"No. What do they say?"

"Shrewd in making a bargain, but oh, so easy in the hayloft."

"Not a bad description." Anne joined in his laughter, but she hadn't missed the word "home" when he spoke of the plantation.

With each passing day, Michael's ties to her and the Eastern Shore became stronger. She didn't believe that he could walk away from what they'd shared that night in the loft. It wasn't simply physical pleasure they gave each other; it was something more. And sooner or later, he had to realize that he loved her.

What troubled her most was whether or not love would be enough to make their marriage real. If she couldn't trust him, their wedding vows would always be a farce. And sooner or later they would break each other's hearts, just as Michael had predicted.

* * *

The journey back to the Eastern Shore was uneventful. Sean, his wife and children, and two other families came back on the same sloop. The rest of the Irish would arrive within the week.

To Anne's surprise her sister's maid Gerda was waiting for her when they reached the manor house. Anne dropped her bundles in a chair and glanced around the immaculate entrance hall.

The banister and wainscoting gleamed with beeswax. Not a single cobweb or dust mote marred the floor or ceiling. A quick glance through the open door into the dining room revealed an equal transformation. A bouquet of early autumn flowers stood in the center of the table. And the curtains, which had hung limply when Anne left for Annapolis, had been washed and starched as well.

"Gerda? Is Miss Mary with you?" Anne asked.

Grace, splendid in starched mobcap and white apron, bobbed a curtsy. "Welcome home, Miss Anne." Charity was nowhere to be seen.

Anne returned the greeting and looked back at the German woman. "If Mary isn't here, then how did you—?"

"The lady send me," Gerda replied. "And good t'ing. These girls you hav' is dumpling heads both. The house vas a shame."

Anne stared at her. "Mary sent you by yourself. But why?"

Gerda made a shooing motion with her hands. "Vhy you stand here, Grace? Take the mistress's t'ings upstairs. Go. Go. Vhat I hav' to say is for the lady's ears only."

Grace gathered up Anne's packages.

"That and that are for the kitchen larder. And the thread is to go—" Anne hesitated, remembered what Michael had said about thrift. "Put that in my room as well," she ordered. Then she motioned Gerda into the small parlor and closed the door behind them.

"Nothing's wrong with Mary? Is her pregnancy—?"

"Miss Mary is fine. She send me to help you." Gerda reached into the pocket of her voluminous apron. "And she also send this money and a letter. She vorries about you, her sister. She cannot go against the master, but she vants me to tell you that she loves you and prays for you every day."

"Mary sent me money?" Anne opened the envelope. Inside were two hundred dollars in small bills.

"Yes, Miss. Your mother's jewelry she takes to the pawnshop, so the master vill not know. Take it and velcome, Miss Mary says. She is sorry, I t'ink, for the hard feeling vhen she vas here."

Anne's eyes clouded with moisture. "Thank you, Gerda. It was very good of you to come. But I'm afraid—"

"Not to vorry about vages," the sturdy maid replied. "A year Miss Mary has promised me. And I like it here. I like this country place. Of my home it reminds me. Fresh air, good milk, and vegetables."

"I think I have you to thank for the condition of the house. Grace has a good heart but she—"

"Is young and needs haus keeper to tell her vhat to do." Gerda pursed her lips. "And that odder one, that Charity. A dumkin, she is. Lazy, but I vill not stand for lazy girl."

"I need a housekeeper very badly, Gerda," Anne said. "Do you think you could do that for me, at least for a little while?"

Gerda beamed. "You see. Vhat did I say? A good place. Two days here, and already I am promoted to haus keeper." She curtsied. "If you vill excuse me, Miss Anne, I must see to dinner. A roast I have on the spit and—"

"You cook as well? Praise God," Anne said. She waited until she was alone, then walked to a window where the light was better and unfolded the single page of parchment that had been tucked in with the money.

Dearest Anne,

I take pen in hand to tell you that I fear we failed you when we were at Gentleman's Folly. I am sending a little money. I hope it will help. We must remember that with Papa and Mama gone, we have only each other. Please do not let anything drive us apart. If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask. I must be loyal to George, but sometimes he can be difficult.

I must tell you something unpleasant that may make Mr. O'Ryan's desertion easier to bear. An Irishman here in the city contacted George with information regarding your husband. He demanded money, which I fear George paid. The rascal's claim is that he came to Philadelphia aboard the same ship as your Mr. O'Ryan.

But the informer claims that Mr. O'Ryan is really Cormac Payne, a stowaway and thief who is wanted for committing a murder aboard the ship Providence, September last.

If the accusation is true, we can thank fate that you have only lost property and not your life. If you hear of Mr. O'Ryan's whereabouts, do contact the authorities at once. On no account allow him back into the house, on peril of your own safety.

I remain, your devoted sister, 

Mary

Anne read the note twice, folded it, and tucked it back inside the envelope. It seemed to her that the air had suddenly become cooler in the parlor, despite the sunshine streaming through the windows. She rubbed her arms and tried to put Mary's message into perspective.

O'Ryan had told her the truth of what had happened aboard the Providence, hadn't he? He'd explained that the bosun's death was an accident, a result of the brute's attack on Nora Cleary.

But what if that wasn't what had really taken place? Was Cormac Payne Michael's real name? Why had someone gone to the trouble of seeking out George and selling him information about her husband?

The thought that Michael might have deceived her totally was shattering. She'd seen evidence of his creative way with words and his ability to persuade her creditors that he was someone other than who he really was. He'd made no secret of the fact that he was a fortune hunter. Was she so head-over-heels for him that she would ignore the possibility that he was a liar and a rogue? That she would accept O'Ryan's explanations for what had happened aboard the Providence without question or proof?

In her heart of hearts, she truly believed him to be a good man. He'd not harmed her or anyone since he'd been in Maryland. And he'd shown real compassion for Abraham, Ivy, and the other slaves. But what if this unknown informer's tale was true? If Michael had killed the sailor deliberately, she wasn't sure she wanted to face it.

If she confronted him with Mary's letter, O'Ryan might run. That would mean losing him and probably the plantation.

Not yet, she thought. She'd wait and think about what Mary had said. What harm could come of delaying long enough to harvest the tobacco and put in a crop of winter wheat? After all, if Michael wanted to be rid of her, he'd had plenty of chances already.

Besides, how could she be certain if George was genuinely concerned about her safety or if this was a ploy to gain control of Gentleman's Folly? If she had to trust someone, she'd rather it be her husband than her greedy brother-in-law.

"Miss Anne?" The parlor door opened and Shannon came bounding in. "Miss Anne," Charity repeated. "The master wants you to come outside. He needs to ask you... some-thin'... somethin'..."

"All right, Charity. Tell him I'll be right there." She bent to hug the frisking pup, all legs and paws and licking tongue. "Good Shannon," she murmured. "Good dog." Shannon had grown too big to pick up anymore, but she was dearer to Anne than ever.

"Anne!" O'Ryan shouted from outside. "Can you come and..."

She couldn't make out the rest of what he was saying, but it didn't matter. Her questions and fears would have to wait. There was simply too much to be done. Thirteen immigrants were waiting in her barnyard. There were babies and old people, as well as able-bodied men and women. She'd have to find shelter for them, arrange for their noon meal, and start to assign duties. And next week, when the others came, she'd have to do it all over again.

"You'd best not be lying to me, Michael O'Ryan," she muttered. "If you are, you won't need a judge and jury to hang you, I'll finish you off myself." And then she took a deep breath and went out to do what had to be done.

* * *

Anne knew when it was time to cut the tobacco. She might not remember everything about cultivation and curing times, but she'd followed her father through the fields every September since she was old enough to walk.

Cutting the precious tobacco had to be done at exactly the right stage. Some of this year's crop had already been choked by weeds or had gone to flower before it had been topped, but what was there looked good to Anne. The leaves had to be ripe, not too green, or they would never dry properly. And if an early frost struck, the cold could destroy the plants before harvest.

Anne allowed O'Ryan to direct the laborers. She let him instruct his Irish to build a hog barn and pen in the south pasture. She even permitted him to trade some of their remaining riding horses for mules. But she would not listen to him or to Nate when it came to making a decision about the right day for cutting tobacco.

On the whole, the new arrivals were proving to be dependable laborers. There were normal disputes between the new employees and the old, and some of the immigrants didn't understand the difference between free blacks and slaves. Women argued over chores and where to string their clotheslines, and some children wandered into mischief while their parents were at work. One family spoke no English at all, and Anne required an interpreter to communicate with them.

Today, every hand, young and old, had been pressed into service to bring in the tobacco crop. Anne, astride her little bay mare—the one she'd spent a solid hour the day before to talk her husband out of selling—rode up and down the fields giving instructions. Her hired black workers knew their tasks well; they could swing machetes from early morning until the noon break without stopping. The Irish were not only slower, they tired more quickly.

"We aren't getting enough of the field done," Anne protested to O'Ryan. "At this rate, it will take us days to finish. You must get them to work faster."

O'Ryan had stripped to the waist and joined the lines of sweating men moving slowly down the rows. Muscles rippled along his chest, arms, and broad shoulders, making it hard for Anne to keep her eyes off him.

A few had stared at Michael's scarred back and whispered among themselves when he joined the cutters. "Do you think that's wise?" she'd asked him. "If the sheriff comes looking for you..."

She hadn't been able to keep Mary's letter a secret. After much thought, she'd shown it to Michael the night before. She was fully committed to him. No matter what he'd done in the past, she was prepared to stand by him, even if it meant breaking the law.

"If the authorities come, we'll deal with them," O'Ryan had answered. "They'd have to prove I'm Cormac Payne and not Michael O'Ryan before they could arrest me. For now, I'll be damned if I'll try to chop tobacco in a shirt."

Women, white and free black, followed the men with the long knives. Their hair tied up in kerchiefs, skirts girded, the wives and daughters of the field hands cradled the leafy stalks as gently as babies and laid them in the beds of horse-drawn wagons.

Once a wagonbed was full, a driver delivered the leaves to a curing barn, where still more men hung them from the rafters to cure. Later, when the tobacco was dry, workers had to strip the leaves from the stalks and remove the biggest stem fibers. Next they would pack the cured leaves into wooden barrels to be pressed tightly before shipping to market.

At any point in the process, something could go very wrong. Anne knew she couldn't afford to lose a single hogshead of leaf. And with clouds hanging low over the bay and a brisk wind blowing, she had a real fear that the weather would turn against them before they could complete the harvest.

At noon, men and women stopped to eat cold bread and meat. No one went back to their quarters or to the house for dinner. Anne and O'Ryan ate in the fields with their help, washing down the simple meal with water from the well.

If she'd had her way, Anne would have gone immediately back to work, but O'Ryan shook his head. "Many of these men have gone without proper food for months. They need an hour of rest, and we have to give it to them." He wiped the sweat from his brow and tied a red handkerchief around his hair in pirate fashion to keep it out of his eyes.

"I'm going to drive one of the wagons," she said. "That will free Dave to join the cutters." She tied the ribbons of one of Kessie's old straw hats under her chin and pulled on a pair of leather gloves.

"You're trying to do the work of two," he said. "You'll wear yourself out."

"And you don't?" She touched his shoulder affectionately. "You cut twice as much tobacco as any of the others."

"We'd have none cut at all if it wasn't for your idea to bring in the immigrants." He smiled and rubbed the small of his back. "These Irish of mine prize land above all else. Ten acres for every grown man and woman who will stay five years, twenty-five acres if the family has children old enough to work. It's more than fair."

"Now we have to make certain we don't fail to pay off the mortgage. We can't let them down after I gave my word," Anne said.

"Don't worry. This new strategy will work. Baltimore is a growing market. Our beef and wheat will bring top prices. In five years you'll have your land free of the mortgage. I told my countrymen the risk, but they're willing to take it."

"I thought of the Irish, but changing Gentleman's Folly to a beef and grain farm is your idea. I would have gone on growing tobacco and falling further behind every year."

He grinned at her. "Are you saying that we make a good team?"

Her dark eyes sparkled. "Maybe we do."

It was something that he couldn't get out of his mind. The thoughts of staying here, of making Gentleman's Folly his true home, of someday having children with Anne seemed like heaven. But always his other concerns crowded in to shadow that dream. His responsibility for Kathleen and her child. And there were the charges of murder against him in Philadelphia.

He'd assured Anne that he could manage, but there was only one way to protect her home from his past—to run, to change his name and identity again. He could never go to trial, never face the inquiries into his past. And he cared too much for Anne to drag her down with him. Her reputation would recover from being abandoned by an Irish scoundrel, but not from being the widow of a hanged criminal.

In time, Anne would get over his leaving. She might hate him, but she would eventually find someone else, someone without a haunted past, someone worthy of her. If anyone deserved happiness, she did.

He'd not abandon her now. First he'd save her home and security. Then he'd give Annie the greatest gift he could—setting her free.