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Authors: Anne Brear
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yer, woman. It’s me own business.’
Isabelle seethed at his foolishness. ‘We need to buy more live stock and make repairs. The roofs leak, timber has rotted in the barns and we need to buy grain and tools. Can that horse of yours pull a plough?’
‘Now wait just a minute.’ He jumped to his feet again.
‘For heaven’s sake sit down!’ She had a strong urge to throw her teacup at his ruddy face. ‘Can you not have a simple conversation without huffing and puffing like an enraged old bull?’
‘Yer fancy plans won’t work here. Me father and mother went to an early grave trying to make this farm something out of nothing.’
‘And do you wish to see all their hard work fail? Would you rather walk away and let their deaths be for naught?’
Farrell slumped back into his chair. ‘I did try after they went, but it was no good.’
‘You were one man alone. Of course it would have been hard.’
‘There was no money. Father wasn’t interested in making changes, and we had some bad harvests. What little money we had dwindled away.’
‘Things will be better now, I am certain of it.’ She smoothed out her skirts and became businesslike. Farrell didn’t have the gumption to take control so she would. If she had to live the rest of her life here then she was going to damn well make sure the farm was successful. ‘You have Hughie and me to help you. Together we will make the changes necessary. Surely the landlord will think differently now he knows you are… married.’
‘Hardly. That man thinks of nothing but himself.’
Isabelle rose and tidied the table. ‘The flock of geese is large. I counted seventeen birds. I think we should send them to market or at least ten or so. Do you agree?’ She looked at her husband.
He shrugged. ‘If we can catch them. It’s better to grab them at night when they’re not so flighty.’
‘We’ll do it now then.’ Isabelle went to the back door, wrapped her black shawl around her shoulders and turned to Hughie. ‘Do you feel up to it, dearest?’
He nodded and slipped from his seat to her side. Following Farrell, they left the kitchen and walked out into the darkness.
***
Isabelle carried an armload of firewood into the barn and stacked it neatly along the far wall. Their fuel supply now looked healthier after she had badgered Farrell into cutting up some old trees in the wood. She finished unloading the cart while he and Hughie sharpened the saws and had something to eat or drink.
The late December weather, although cold, remained dry, which pleased her after all the rain they endured in November. Once the cart was empty, Farrell and Hughie rumbled out of the yard for another load.
Watching them go, she sighed. Little had changed in her married life. She remained a virgin, and Farrell continued to remain distant and vague about his business. True, he didn’t venture out at night as much, but he still disappeared without warning some days and returned with money jingling in his pockets. Christmas and Hughie’s birthday had been celebrated only by a visit to church and a special dinner of roast chicken at midday. For a gift, she’d knitted Hughie socks and a scarf, using the last of her supply of wool, but Farrell refused to think of Christmas as different to any other day and so she complied and made him nothing.
She often wondered what he thought of her, his wife whom he treated like a stranger. Their conversations were strained, mainly consisting of safe topics like the weather or work around the farm. He slept in the kitchen on a straw filled mattress, content to let her and Hughie sleep in the bed upstairs. The situation wasn’t ideal, and soon they’d have to buy or build a bed for Hughie in the spare room. He deserved his own room.
As she turned towards the house, needing to check on the rabbit stew simmering on the stovetop, a horse and rider trotted into the yard. At once, she knew him to be the hated landlord.
He reined in a few feet from
Isabelle seethed at his foolishness. ‘We need to buy more live stock and make repairs. The roofs leak, timber has rotted in the barns and we need to buy grain and tools. Can that horse of yours pull a plough?’
‘Now wait just a minute.’ He jumped to his feet again.
‘For heaven’s sake sit down!’ She had a strong urge to throw her teacup at his ruddy face. ‘Can you not have a simple conversation without huffing and puffing like an enraged old bull?’
‘Yer fancy plans won’t work here. Me father and mother went to an early grave trying to make this farm something out of nothing.’
‘And do you wish to see all their hard work fail? Would you rather walk away and let their deaths be for naught?’
Farrell slumped back into his chair. ‘I did try after they went, but it was no good.’
‘You were one man alone. Of course it would have been hard.’
‘There was no money. Father wasn’t interested in making changes, and we had some bad harvests. What little money we had dwindled away.’
‘Things will be better now, I am certain of it.’ She smoothed out her skirts and became businesslike. Farrell didn’t have the gumption to take control so she would. If she had to live the rest of her life here then she was going to damn well make sure the farm was successful. ‘You have Hughie and me to help you. Together we will make the changes necessary. Surely the landlord will think differently now he knows you are… married.’
‘Hardly. That man thinks of nothing but himself.’
Isabelle rose and tidied the table. ‘The flock of geese is large. I counted seventeen birds. I think we should send them to market or at least ten or so. Do you agree?’ She looked at her husband.
He shrugged. ‘If we can catch them. It’s better to grab them at night when they’re not so flighty.’
‘We’ll do it now then.’ Isabelle went to the back door, wrapped her black shawl around her shoulders and turned to Hughie. ‘Do you feel up to it, dearest?’
He nodded and slipped from his seat to her side. Following Farrell, they left the kitchen and walked out into the darkness.
***
Isabelle carried an armload of firewood into the barn and stacked it neatly along the far wall. Their fuel supply now looked healthier after she had badgered Farrell into cutting up some old trees in the wood. She finished unloading the cart while he and Hughie sharpened the saws and had something to eat or drink.
The late December weather, although cold, remained dry, which pleased her after all the rain they endured in November. Once the cart was empty, Farrell and Hughie rumbled out of the yard for another load.
Watching them go, she sighed. Little had changed in her married life. She remained a virgin, and Farrell continued to remain distant and vague about his business. True, he didn’t venture out at night as much, but he still disappeared without warning some days and returned with money jingling in his pockets. Christmas and Hughie’s birthday had been celebrated only by a visit to church and a special dinner of roast chicken at midday. For a gift, she’d knitted Hughie socks and a scarf, using the last of her supply of wool, but Farrell refused to think of Christmas as different to any other day and so she complied and made him nothing.
She often wondered what he thought of her, his wife whom he treated like a stranger. Their conversations were strained, mainly consisting of safe topics like the weather or work around the farm. He slept in the kitchen on a straw filled mattress, content to let her and Hughie sleep in the bed upstairs. The situation wasn’t ideal, and soon they’d have to buy or build a bed for Hughie in the spare room. He deserved his own room.
As she turned towards the house, needing to check on the rabbit stew simmering on the stovetop, a horse and rider trotted into the yard. At once, she knew him to be the hated landlord.
He reined in a few feet from
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