comfortable going near the large beasts beyond riding in a buggy. Yet before enrolling in the academy, she’d spent her entire life doing whatever honest work she could find to survive in a city not always kind to poor Irish immigrants. As to the cooking competition of the local ladies, she had a recipe or two she’d put up against the best of them. But again, she’d learned at Fairfield Young Ladies’ Academy not to brag, a challenge to anyone of Irish descent. Her people had long been great storytellers and she’d learned the art at her parents’ knees.
“Where’d you learn how to clean fish?” Rand asked later as they packed up to leave.
“In a Boston fishery when I was eight years old.” With a cool look, she dared him to think less of her for her hardscrabble life.
Instead he nodded and grinned with seeming approval. “I was mucking out stalls when I was that age. Don’t know which one’s a harder job, but they’re both pretty messy.” After securing the picnic basket to the back of the buggy, he offered his hand to help her climb up.
“And smelly.” She wrinkled her nose, which brought the hoped-for laugh. “Boston Harbor usually stinks from all the fish and other seafood, and I wore the smell home with me every night. Not like this river. Everything here smells so fresh and clean. Even the fishy odor is mild and washed off my hands right away.” She accepted Rand’s help into the buggy and settled comfortably on the leather-covered bench. This moment of camaraderie encouraged her. He wasn’t looking down his nose at her.
Maybe she should have trusted his parents enough to tell them everything about her childhood. They’d assumed she came from a middle-class home just because she attended a fine church and was a student at an academy for young ladies, but that was far from the truth. Yet Rand wasn’t bothered by her working at a lowly job. Maybe he just didn’t understand that only the poorest people took jobs cleaning fish at the fishery.
“I never thought about the smells of Boston.” Rand settled beside her on the bench and grasped the reins. “I was born there, but we moved out here to Colorado when I was about ten, so I can’t remember much about it. All I remember are the stories about the city’s part in the American Revolution. My brothers and sister and I played Minutemen.” His eyes took on a faraway look as if he were reliving those long-ago years. “Paul Revere’s ride. Bunker Hill. Boston Tea Party.”
“All the heroic events.” She and Jimmy had also played those games with other children in their neighborhood. Better to reenact a war the Americans had won than the tragic Irish Rebellion her people had lost. Or the war that had been going on between the States during her childhood. Many a father hadn’t come home from fighting for the Union, and her own da had suffered wounds that had plagued him until his death.
Rand nodded in response to her comment. “Heroics, yes. But being so young, I didn’t appreciate the real history.”
“Hey.” Laurie had mounted her horse and swung him around toward the buggy. “You think Mrs. Foster would like these fish?” She held out the dripping creel.
“How thoughtful.” Reaching out for the wicker container, Marybeth stifled the urge to dodge the river water flying about. She’d had much worse on her clothes working at the fishery. “I’m sure she’ll enjoy them for supper.”
“Well, if you two lovebirds can keep out of trouble, I’m going to ride on home.” Laurie grinned at Marybeth and winked at Rand.
“Is that all right with you?” Rand asked Marybeth.
“Of course.” If her teachers at the academy hadn’t said ladies never winked, she’d have copied Laurie’s impudent gesture. Winking at Rand might give him the wrong idea about her character, something she had guarded all her life.
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