“Looking at him, is more like it,” Isabelle said, her own gaze following the path Jenny’s had taken. “And ain’t he a fine one to watch.”
“He’s chosen to stay in one of the smaller rooms, I believe. I can’t think that he’ll be comfortable with just a bedroll, but he insisted.”
“There’s a couple of mattresses in the attic, if you want Noah to bring one down for him,” Isabelle offered. “He’d might as well be as comfortable as we can make him.”
Jenny nodded, walking toward the back of the house. The kitchen was warm, the stove throwing off an abundance of heat, and she opened the back door, allowing air to flow through the room. “For someone who didn’t take to him…” Her words slowed, and then she turned to face her friend. “I thought you didn’t like him,” she said quietly.
“Haven’t decided about that yet,” Isabelle told her. “But I decreed right off the bat he was a prime specimen.”
“He looks a bit the worse for wear, I think,” Jenny said, her words mumbled into the apron she pulled over her head. “And he probably won’t be here long enough for me to change my mind.”
Isabelle nodded wisely. “We’ll see.” She handed Jenny plates and silverware, then turned back to the stove. “Noah says the man’s a hard worker.”
Finished with setting the table, Jenny walked to the back door. Her hands lifted to her forehead, brushing back tendrils of hair that defied her best efforts at tidiness. “He’ll soon tire of working long hours and getting nothing in return.”
“Beg your pardon, ma’am. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I think you’ve got it all wrong.” From behind her, Shay’s deep tones denied her theory, and she spun to face him, one hand rising to cover her mouth.
“I didn’t hear you, sir. You startled me.” It seemed the man called Shay could move silently when the mood struck him.
He was quiet for a moment, watching her from beneath lowered brows. “Maybe I should have knocked. But then, the door wasn’t shut,” he said finally. “As to what I overheard, I beg to differ with you.” His hands folded into fists, then rose to rest against his hips. “I’m here to fulfill an obligation to a friend. Receiving a reward doesn’t enter into it.”
“It’s a good thing,” Jenny returned starkly. “A floor to sleep on and three meals a day will be the limit of your pay.” Her words sounded harsh to her ears and she bit at her lip, ashamed of herself.
“Miss Jenny, don’t forget the mattress,” Isabelle reminded helpfully.
Jenny cast her a grateful look, softening her tone. “I’ll have Noah help you bring a mattress out of the attic for your room,” she said. “Isabelle reminded me that we put a couple of them up there.”
Shay nodded, relaxing his stance, one hand sliding into his pocket, the other flexing open against his thigh. “I’ll take care of it later on. For now, I’ll just need a container for water, so I can wash in the morning, ma’am.”
Buckets were in short supply, the two in best condition being used for milking the cow. Jenny thought of the rough wooden ones in the barn and dismissed the idea. There was no choice, she decided. A guest must receive 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