A Wish For Nicholas. Jackie Manning
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“We’ve got an able worker, here, Mistress Becky.” Geer said. “Ben hoes twice as fast as the regulars.”
A tinge of surprise flitted across her face.
Taking advantage of her refusal to glance his way, Nick drank in the sight of her. Her eyes were truly as violet as he had remembered. Her plain blue gown contrasted brilliantly against the riot of cascading black curls that fell unbound across her shoulders. In her unadorned dress, she appeared more lovely than any of the overadorned women he’d seen recently at court. Her rounded bosom lifted and fell as she caught her breath. He tried to imagine what the dark cleft between the soft mounds would look like—
“Twaddle! Get in the wagon,” Geer ordered. Then he glanced up at Becky. “I’m takin’ Ben to where the crew’s fixin’ the crumblin’ rock wall. No need wastin’ his strong back on weedin’ when those rocks need movin’.”
“Just see that Twaddle keeps out of trouble.” Becky wheeled the mare around and took off across the field, her black hair whipping behind her straw hat.
“Mistress Becky isn’t ’erself of late,” Geer said as he trudged beside Nick toward the wagon. “Her mind is full o’ troubles.”
“Because Sinclair is arriving to take ownership of the estate?” Nick asked uneasily.
“That bugger!” Geer sputtered the words. “What kind o’ man takes away a poor widow’s livelihood?”
Nick’s interest grew. “What are her plans when she leaves here?” He curbed his step to the older man’s slower gait.
“Our Becky won’t leave without a fight.” Admiration, pride and loyalty filtered through Geer’s words. “It’s Sinclair who’ll be runnin’ with his tail ’tween his legs before our Becky is through with ’im. Just wait an’ see.”
Nick’s curiosity edged up several notches. “How will she manage that?”
Geer shot him a silencing look. Nick knew that he’d have to be more tactful if he wanted further information from Geer.
“It must be hard for a woman to manage alone,” Nick said into the growing silence.
“Keane oversees the manor for ’er, ’though I’m not sure how much of a help ’e is.” Geer wiped the beads of sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve.
“Keane?” Nick didn’t recognize the name.
“Ye remember Keane, surely.” Geer squinted at him. “Some say he’s Ol’ Winky’s son, born on the wrong side of the blanket.”
“Ol’ Winky?” Nick asked carefully. Although he remembered Becky saying that Ben Twaddle had left Thornwood Hall when he was nine years old, Nick didn’t want to alert Geer by asking questions about things that Twaddle should have known.
“You remember Ol’ Winky.” Geer crinkled his brow as though Nick should have remembered. “General Forester, God rest ’is soul.” Geer shook his head. “Ol’ Winky never admitted if Keane was from his own seed or not. Don’t rightly blame him none.”
Nick was more interested in Becky Forester. “Why hasn’t the widow remarried?”
Geer chuckled. “No man’s good enough, I’d say.”
A few minutes later, they arrived at the horse-drawn farm wagon. Climbing next to Geer on the driver’s bench, Nick asked offhandedly, “Does the estate make much profit?”
Geer only grunted. His mouth remained as tight as his grip on the leather reins. Nick knew better than to ask any more.
The wagon creaked and wobbled as they traveled along the back fields where wheat and corn grew tall and green. Nick wondered about the spindly crops growing beside the lane he’d first seen on his way to the manor. Had the untended fields, unkempt hedgerows and fallingdown fences been neglected for a reason? Had someone purposely wanted Thornwood Hall to look unproductive? And if so, who and why? The first things he’d insist upon reviewing were the account ledgers. But another thought bothered him.
It’s Sinclair who’ll be runnin’ with his tail ’tween his legs before our Becky is through with ’im.
Something in the way Geer had said those words. Nick sensed that the lovely Becky had a plan to rid him of Thornwood Hall. Damn, he could feel it.
Ten minutes later, the wagon rumbled to a stop in front of a crofter’s shack. A tall, wiry man stood overseeing a group of men loading stones on a skid. Nick recognized him as the same man who had tried to lead the bull from the pasture yesterday.
“That’s Keane, the overseer,” Geer said. Before they had stepped from the cart, the man approached them.
“Who’s this?” Keane asked.
“Twaddle, Molly’s son,” Geer answered. “I thought he’d be best used to load stones for the cutter.”
“Yer not paid to think, Geer.” Keane’s attention remained fixed on Nick.
“Ye look nothin’ like yer mum.” Keane’s mouth twitched, then his face lit with an idea. “Twaddle, stay in the wagon. I’ve got just the chore fer that strong back of yers.”
Geer’s mouth drew tight. “But Mistress Becky says—”
“Git back to the fields, Geer, before I take me whip to ye.”
Nick had all he could do not to put an end to this charade and call this clodpoll out. He hated bullies and never tolerated such behavior aboard ship. He decided to wait and see what Keane had in mind.
Geer climbed out of the cart and lumbered back toward the fields. Keane said nothing as he climbed into the wagon and picked up the reins.
For the next ten minutes, the men didn’t speak until they reached the other side of the crest.
“Let’s see what yer muscles can do with Tumbledown Dick,” Keane muttered as he climbed from the wagon.
Nick glanced at him with curiosity. “Tumbledown Dick? Who’s he?”
Keane sneered. “Mistress Becky’s pet bull.” He rolled his eyes. “She’s mighty fond of that animal.” He spit on the ground.
Nick said nothing for several minutes, then he asked, “What are your plans after Sinclair arrives, Keane?”
Keane’s mouth dropped open, then he shot him a sharp look. “Ye know a lot for only bein’ back a few days, Twaddle. Who filled yer noggin about Sinclair?”
Nick knew he had said too much. “My mum, who else?”
Keane snorted. “From what I ’ear from Lily at the Seven Swans, ye ’aven’t been ’ome enough to hear much from Molly.” Keane lifted a black brow and grinned knowingly.
Nick decided to press the subject. “So what will you do when Sinclair takes over?” Nick asked, climbing down from the wagon.
“I’d worry about yerself, Twaddle.” Keane ambled toward a grove of sycamore trees. “I want ye to bring Tumbledown Dick back to where Geer and the lads are filling the skid.”
Nick glanced around. “I don’t see—”
Suddenly, a piercing snort shattered the stillness. The enormous black bull Nick had seen yesterday lay in the shade of the tree’s umbrella of leaves. The bull’s eyes bulged as he glared at them.
Nick swallowed. “That’s Tumbledown Dick?”
“Aye, ’e is.” Keane smiled at Nick’s apprehension. “Ye’ll find the way back by the wagon’s tracks in the weeds,” he added, barely keeping a straight face. “And don’t be long, Twaddle. The lads will have the skid filled with stones within the hour.”
Keane flipped the reins, and the horse lunged forward. The wagon wheeled around in a tight arc