The Gentle Wind's Caress (9 page)

He would find out more about her, this woman called Isabelle Gibson. Resting back against the padded leather of his chair, he nodded. Isabelle Gibson – never Farrell.

***

Choking smoke billowed into Isabelle’s face. She coughed and flapped the dishcloth. ‘Dratted chimney!’

An assortment of cakes and tarts cooled on the table. With practise, she had become more skilled at cooking. Her new plan to sell cakes at the Hebden Bridge markets caused her no end of heartbreak as she perfected the skill of pastry making.

Hughie entered through the back door, bringing with him a blast of cold air that circulated the smoke. ‘They look good!’ He nodded at the display on the table. ‘Can I have one?’

‘Yes, you can, after you’ve washed your hands.’ She glanced out of the window. Long shadows stretched across the yard. ‘Are the ewes in the house field?’

‘Yes, all in. Farrell says they’ll have to be put in the barns next month before lambing starts. That means I’ll have to do more clearing.’

‘Is he still out there?’

Hughie sat on the scullery step and pulled off his boots. ‘No. He’s gone. Hitched up the cart about an hour ago. He didn’t say where he was going.’ He stood and placed his boots by the back door before going into the scullery to wash.

Isabelle sighed. ‘It wouldn’t have hurt him to tell his
wife
his whereabouts.’ To save her from further unhappiness in soul-searching her bizarre marriage, she dismissed Len Farrell from her mind. He treated her with mediocre respect, but still kept his distance, which suited her admirably.

Last week, Farrell took her for a brief visit to the market, and she bought several items of clothing for herself and new trousers for Hughie. With the money from the sale of the stolen goods, she had bought a pallet bed for Hughie and placed it in the spare room. The excursion terrified her. Handling ‘dirty’ money was not something she ever wanted to do again. Her heart nearly gave out every time someone bumped into her, and when she saw the constable at the end of the market, she nearly fainted, certain that he was going to arrest her.

Once home, she berated Farrell like a gin-filled fishwife. Never would she endure such an ordeal again. He let her shout until she was exhausted, but didn’t retaliate except to say if she had finished, he was going for an ale in Heptonstall.

Remembering her fear of that day in the market, and knowing that stolen money had bought her goods, Isabelle took a knife and savagely cut a piece of apple pie and placed it on a plate for Hughie as he sat down. Frustrated at her husband’s lack of care, for her or anything else, made her voice sharp. ‘Did Farrell do any work today?’

Hughie shrugged, taking a large bite. He swallowed and poured himself a cup of tea from the pot on the table. ‘When I was chopping wood, he was fiddling around in the end shed. When I looked later, I couldn’t see what he’d been doing. He was supposed to be fixing the broken boards on the back wall.’ He took a sip of his tea and then added more milk. ‘Oh, he did trim some of the fruit trees in the orchard. There’s only about five left to prune now. I’ll do them tomorrow.’

Isabelle nodded. ‘You’re a good boy.’

‘So, we’re off to market tomorrow?’ Hughie asked, wiping his hand across his mouth.

She stood and opened the oven door to check on the golden currant buns cooking. ‘Yes, if Farrell brings the cart back in time.’

‘I checked his hidey hole today.’

Isabelle spun to face him, her eyes wide. ‘You shouldn’t have. You know how he reacts.’ She paused, her voice dropping to a whisper, ‘Tell me there wasn’t anything in there.’

‘It was empty.’ Hughie stretched and yawned. ‘But you can’t tell me he’s stopped.’

Her heartbeat drummed in her chest. ‘He promised he would.’

Hughie snorted, suddenly looking much older than his fourteen years. ‘Then where does his beer money come from?’

Chapter Six

The cries of stallholders carried on the wind and filled the marketplace. Early morning crowds, all eager for a good buy, picked their way past the numerous stalls. Housewives and grandmothers fiddled with sale items, bargaining for the right price, while servants inspected fruit, fish and cheese to make certain their master’s money bought only the best.

Isabelle viewed the stream of people from behind her stall. Smiling, she nodded to those who stared at the newcomer. Her tarts, pies and cakes lay on a clean sheet covering the trestle table. Farrell, having driven her to the market, had then disappeared, but promised to pick her up at one o’clock.

Her neighbouring stallholder, a grey haired elderly man selling garden tools and other ironmonger equipment, stepped nearer. ‘I’ve not seen yer before?’

She smiled in reply. ‘No. This is my first time here. I’m Isabelle Gib-Farrell.’

‘Farrell?’ He took his pipe out of his mouth. ‘The only Farrell’s I know are from Meadow Farm or out along Sowerby way.’

‘I live at Meadow Farm.’

‘Yer married Len Farrell?’ His incredulous look made her uncomfortable.

‘Yes.’ She noticed that behind the old man, more stallholders in the row were suddenly very interested in her. Her skin prickled from their scrutiny.

The old man replaced his pipe and shook his head, mumbling. ‘More fool you then, lass.’

A customer to her stall saved Isabelle from worrying at the old man’s comment. Besides, he couldn’t tell her anything that she didn’t already know or suspect about her husband. She hurriedly assisted the woman whose three children fondled her delicious pies and tarts. Each child received a slap from their mother for their rudeness before the woman bought an apple pie.

For the next hour, Isabelle remained busy as a slow but constant line of purchasers filed by. Her skirt pocket jingled with coins, and buoyant with her success, Isabelle smiled widely at anyone who looked her way. Yes, she was new and drew interest but she didn’t care. For the first time in her life she had earned money and the success of it made her light-headed.

As the midday rush dwindled to a trickle, Isabelle placed the last remaining lemon curd tart in her smallest basket. She stacked two other baskets into the biggest one and then folded the sheet. She glanced up as a large woman with straggly black hair and a hairy chin stoped in front. ‘I’m sorry, I only have a tart left, but I’ll be back next week-’

‘No, yer wont!’ The woman sneered, bending forward over the table just inches from Isabelle’s face. She smelt of stale sweat and ale.

Isabelle stepped back. ‘Pardon?’

‘Didn’t yer ‘ear me?’ The woman spat to the side. ‘Yer ain’t coming back to this market!’

Alarmed, Isabelle looked at the gathering crowd, who having heard raised voices thought they might find some free entertainment.

The enormous woman placed hands, as large as frying pans on her wide hips and stared at Isabelle as though she was filth in the gutter. ‘Yer’ve tekken me trade away. I’ve sold next ter nowt terday!’ She stabbed a fat finger at Isabelle. ‘I sell the pies and tarts around ‘ere see, and old Mrs Brierly at top end sells her bread. Tis an arrangement we’ve had fer nigh on ten years.’

‘I wasn’t aware-’

‘Well, I’m telling yer now aren’t I?’ The woman crossed her wobbly arms under her huge pendulous breasts. She was a giant and Isabelle, standing at five foot five, felt like a dwarf.

A few jeers filtered through from the back. Isabelle straightened, trying not to be intimidated. ‘I am certain there are more than enough people buying to allow my stall here too.’

As quick as a flash, the woman grabbed a fistful of Isabelle’s hair and pulled her across the trestle. Isabelle screamed. The crowd roared. The woman’s grip tightened. ‘Listen ter me, yer scraggly poacher’s woman! I’ll not be told what ter do by the likes of you!’

Anger and pain mixed to give Isabelle the rage of a charging bull. She scrambled over the table and grabbed the woman’s hand that held her hair as the people at the front spread the word to those at the back that a fight was on.

‘Let go of me you filthy cow.’ Isabelle tried prising the fat fingers from her hair, but the woman jerked her head. Fit to kill, Isabelle swung her fist and landed one on the woman’s chin.

In an instant she was free. She sagged back against the table holding her head. Her eyes watered with the throbbing of her scalp.

‘What is going on here!’ The authoritative voice silenced the commotion. The gathering parted and Ethan Harrington rode straight up to the stall even though his horse was in fear of trampling people and goods together.

Isabelle looked away, embarrassed. He, of all people to see her fighting in public! Her shame grew.

‘What’s your name?’

Isabelle thought he was asking her and jerked around, but he stared at the large hoyden. She closed her eyes momentarily in relief.

‘Marge Wilmot.’

Harrington pointed his riding crop at her. ‘Make any more trouble like that again, and I’ll have you arrested for disturbing the peace.’ His hard, unforgiving stare swept the crowd. ‘Be gone, all of you!’

Mutters and foot scuffling signalled their departure though Isabelle didn’t watch. She turned away and slipped behind the stall to collect her baskets.

‘Mrs Farrell?’

At his sympathetic tone, emotion sealed her throat. Never had she been involved in such a spectacle. Her mother and Sally would have been so ashamed. Her grip tightened on the basket’s handle. Slowly, she raised her gaze. His toffee-coloured eyes held tenderness before he quickly masked it.

Harrington dismounted, lifted his horse’s reins over its head and held them. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘N…no.’ Actually her head felt on fire, but she wouldn’t have told him that even if she were put to torture. His expression softened and she instinctively knew that he saw through her lie.

‘Where is your husband?’

‘He is to collect me at one o’clock.’ Suddenly she didn’t want Farrell to be anywhere near her or Harrington.

Harrington took out his fob watch and opened it. ‘He’s late.’

‘He’ll be along any minute.’ Her cheeks grew hot under his sharp gaze. Her heart thumped against her ribs. ‘Th...Thank you for your help.’

‘You are welcome.’ He tucked the watch back into his waistcoat pocket and glanced around at the emptying market. ‘What was the argument about?’

‘She was unhappy about my selling pies. She does the same and today the people shunned her stall and instead wanted to sample my wares.’ The moment the words were out of her mouth, Isabelle blushed violently. Lord, she sounded like a whore on a street corner. ‘I meant…not my wares as in…you see…what I mean was-’

His laughter echoed throughout the emptying stalls and the last few people in the market spun to stare at them. ‘I do know what you mean.’

She dropped her gaze and bit her lip.
He must think me the oddest fool
.

He grew serious again. ‘It might not be wise to come here again. Mrs Wilmot will enlist her cronies to support her heckling next time.’

Swift fury at the injustice of it made her voice sharp. ‘She cannot keep me from running a stall. I need to earn money. The market is big enough for the both of us. She just doesn’t like the competition! My baking is undoubtedly superior.’

His eyes widened at her speech and the words she used.

Unashamed of her mother’s teachings, Isabelle raised her chin. She might now live on a farm, but she was educated and above the class of that Wilmot woman.

Harrington’s mouth lifted slightly as though he fought a grin. ‘I suspect you are correct. Nevertheless, she will make it difficult for you.’

Isabelle tossed her head. ‘Let her try.’

Something she couldn’t name flared in his brandy eyes, lighting them with gold. The atmosphere surrounding them seemed to suck the air out of her lungs. She stared at him boldly, ignoring the way heat circled her belly. Her gaze dropped to his lips, and she had an unexpected urge to touch them with her fingertips.

Clatter from behind her shattered their fascination with each other. Regretfully, she turned and stared as her husband halted the cart at the end of the stall row. Isabelle swallowed and glanced back to Harrington. ‘Thank you for your help.’

He peered at Farrell seated upon the cart and once more became rigid. He bowed to her, stiff and formal. ‘Until we meet again, Isabelle Gibson Farrell.’

Wordlessly, she turned from him and towards her husband. The baskets’ wicker handles seemed embedded in her hands so tight did she clutch them. She walked the length of the row on unsteady legs, certain that Ethan Harrington watched her every step.

‘What did he want?’ Farrell asked the second she was in speaking range.

‘Nothing at all.’ Isabelle placed the baskets in the back of the cart and then hoisted herself up onto the seat, knowing Farrell wouldn’t get down to help.

‘I don’t want yer talking to him.’ He whipped up the horse.

‘I can hardly ignore him can I? He is our landlord after all.’ She ached to look back to see if he still watched. She didn’t understand what had happened between them, but she knew something certainly did. The thought frightened and warmed her.