preference.
“I’ll give you the pitcher from my room,” she told him. “There’s a basin with it.”
“I won’t take yours,” he said sharply. “Surely you have a kettle I can use.”
She shook her head. “Most everything is gone, sold piece by piece. We only have enough to cook in, nothing extra.”
His eyes narrowed, taking in her dress, the scuffed toes of her shoes and the worn apron she’d slipped into only moments past. “You haven’t spent much on yourself, have you?”
A flush climbed her cheeks and she felt her jaw tauten as he took inventory of her clothing. “I’m not complaining. We’re getting along.”
“For how long?” he asked bluntly. “You need something besides a field of corn and a couple of cuttings of hay to get you through the year. Where’s your cash crop?”
“They’re still buying cotton,” she told him proudly. “And ours has always been some of the best in the parish. We’ll be planting ten acres pretty soon.”
“Not enough of it to support you,” he said, and the truth of his judgment pierced her to the quick.
“There’s no sense in planting more than we can harvest,” she told him. “And with only the five of us to pick…”
“There’ll be four men this year, and the boy can help out,” he told her, amending her words.
Jenny’s lips compressed, holding back words better unspoken, given her tendency to allow her temper full rein. Marshall was a baby, not fit yet for field work. And the son of a gentleman, to boot.
“He’s not too young to carry sacks out to us and help dump them in the wagon,” Shay told her, his words gentle, as if he sensed her thoughts. “He shouldn’t stand by and watch his mother work. He’ll learn to do his share, and probably feel better for it.”
“You haven’t the right,” she said, her words stiff with anger.
“Carl gave me the right. He asked me to come here, and part of my duty to him is to teach his son how to deal with whatever life sends his way.”
There was no rebuttal to that argument, Jenny decided, for if Shay told the truth, Carl had indeed bestowed upon him that duty. And Shay gave every indication of being a gentleman, no matter his appearance. His speech, his bearing, even the tilt of his head and the calm arrogance of his manner, gave testimony to his claim. Whoever his family, they had reared him well.
“I can’t turn down your help. I can’t afford to be proud,” she said quietly. “If Carl sent you, I’ll give you leave to do as he asked.”
Shay bowed his head, a movement she sensed signified his acknowledgment of her words. She’d accepted his help. Now to learn compliance. For six years she’d been in charge, controlled the work done on Pennington Plantation. A sense of relief washed over her as she looked at the man who’d offered—perhaps insisted—on taking that control from her.
For the life of him Shay didn’t understand how she’d talked him out of sleeping in the hayloft. Yet, here he was, in the house this morning. He stirred, then rolled over, thankful for the mattress he’d hauled from the attic by candlelight last night. It surely beat sleeping on the hard floor, and was a far cry from the burned-out house he’d slept in the past couple of days.
He rolled to his feet and listened to a rooster in the chicken yard. “At least one of us has something to crow about,” he muttered beneath his breath, pouring water from the flowered pitcher Jenny had pressed into his hands. He’d carried it, and the matching bowl up the stairs, unwillingly to be sure, but unable to deny her the right to do as she pleased in her own home. One way or another, he’d see to it that a bucket became available for his use today, and return the china to her bedroom, where it belonged.
In the meantime, he could enjoy the image floating through his mind, that of Jenny’s hand pouring water for her use. Of Jenny’s skin being cleansed by some floral scented soap. He lifted a towel to his face, inhaling the fresh aroma of sunshine clinging to its fibers. Maybe he’d settle for that, he decided. She didn’t need some fancy milled bar to make her smell good. Whatever she used to wash with reminded him of meadow grass and spring flowers.
His mouth tightened as he sensed the direction of his thoughts. Water splashed over his hair as he doused himself in the china basin, and he closed his eyes against the blue flowers that reminded him of violets and forget-me-nots. It was time to fill his belly with food and get out to the barn. The men would be waiting and he wouldn’t be deemed a laggard by anyone. Especially not three men whose cooperation he needed if he was to make any sort of a success of this venture.
They were waiting anyway, he discovered, stepping out onto the back porch. Isabelle had fed them earlier, before setting the table for Jenny and the boy. Whether he was to have eaten with the men or with Jenny, he didn’t know. But, she’d offered him coffee and a full plate once he’d made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. They weren’t using the dining room these days, having turned it into a bedroom for the boy, and Jenny seemed to have taken over the smaller parlor as her own.
The furnishings in the big parlor were sparse, but comfortable, he’d noted yesterday. She’d obviously sold off most of her belongings. Probably to buy food and seed and whatever else they needed for survival.
Noah greeted him with a wave and led the way to the barn, where the mules were already harnessed and waiting. “My boys’ll rake up the hay and turn it so’s it’ll dry,” he told Shay. “You and me’ll finish the cuttin’.” Placing two scythes on the wagon, he reached for rakes, then looked over at Shay. “Unless Miss Jenny wants it done different.”
Shay shook his head. “Makes sense to me. We can’t put it up till it’s dry, and it can’t get dry till it’s cut. Let’s get at it.” He hopped on the back of the wagon, lifting one foot to the bed, and propping his arm across his knee. Noah’s sons were crossing the yard as the wagon rolled from the big, double, barn doors and they eased their way onto the lumbering vehicle, one on either side of Shay.
His greeting was met by identical nods, and he grinned. Aside from the blisters he’d managed to gain yesterday from the unfamiliar motion of the scythe, he was pretty much on a par with the three men, able to work a full day in the sun. The blisters would doubtless be a different matter by day’s end, he decided. Jenny might have some salve handy. He’d probably be ready for it.
What she had was a pair of gloves, old and worn, but welcome. Offering them to him at noon, she allowed a small smile to curve her lips. “I thought you might need these. I didn’t know how long it’d been since you’ve done any haying.”
“Not since last fall,” he told her, slipping the gloves in place. They rubbed against a couple of raw places on his palms and he adjusted them carefully. “This will help.”
“You’ve got blisters,” she surmised, reaching to touch his wrist. “Let me see.”
“No.” He stepped back from her, uneasy with the men watching. “I’ll let you take a look after we get done for the day.” Her nod was reluctant, but the smile appeared again.
It was still in place when he entered the house just before supper time. Isabelle stood before the cookstove and Jenny turned to greet him from the pantry door. “I’m glad you’re a few minutes early,” she said brightly. “I’ll
