Chapter Eight
Deirdre
Deirdre wasn’t surprised when her new boarder was late for breakfast. Despite his reassurance last night it was clear that old habits weren’t easily broken.
She was stacking the dirty plates on the sideboard when someone cleared their throat behind her. Her nape prickled and she knew without turning around that he’d finally decided to grace the world with his presence.
She resolved to be polite but distant because last night he’d tried to blur the battle lines she’d drawn. “Good morning, Mr. Trenton. I slid a copy of the house rules under your door earlier.”
Cass pulled back a chair and folded into it. “I know the first rule was about breakfast, but I was hoping you’d show me a little mercy. I’m only fifteen minutes late.”
She pulled the basket of toast out of his reach. When he stretched toward the jar of preserves, she pulled it away too. “If you want breakfast, you’ll have to find it elsewhere.”
It might be petty, but she was sticking to her rules.
“If you’ve brewed coffee, I’ll take some. That’s my usual morning fare.”
Deirdre noticed he was exceptionally clean shaven, all hint of his beard removed. When she poured coffee into the tin mug he held out, she caught the whiff of his cedar aftershave. “You’ve shaved your beard. What’s the occasion?”
His grin was wry. “My father has asked me to attend the bank’s shareholder meeting this afternoon.”
“And they don’t approve of beards?”
“I didn’t want to give them any more cause than they already have to disregard what I say in the meeting.”
“They all have beards and seem quite officiously proud of them. You should have done more research before you undertook such a transformation.”
“So the change doesn’t get your stamp of approval.”
Heat climbed Deirdre’s throat and flooded her cheeks. “I didn’t say that. I’m merely saying that the beard suits you.”
When he smirked, she wanted to kick herself for giving him ammunition for more inappropriate teasing.
“Don’t assume my reaction has to do with any attraction on my part.
The beard just makes you look more distinguished - which you’ll need to convince your board you’re capable of stepping into your father’s shoes.
Remember this whole town knows what a rogue you were once upon a time and you need them to take you seriously. ”
He drained the coffee and slipped it into the sudsy water, his forearm brushing against her elbow.
That fleeting graze sent shivers down her spine and made her wonder what he looked like beneath the cotton sleeves. If his forearms had those intriguing ropy veins. If he’d inked something there - if remembrances of her and what they’d once been to each other marked his body.
Deirdre shook her head to clear away the daydreams. “The tavern beside the courthouse serves breakfast.”
“I had a meal there earlier this week - before I spoke to Liam.”
She lifted the stack of plates in her arms and gave him a sharp nod. “Then you’ll need no direction from me.”
“You’re the most obstinate woman I’ve ever met,” he admonished as he lifted half of the stack from her arms.
“You’ll get food on your shirt and I’m used to doing whatever needs to be done.”
“A little bacon grease or a spot of jam never hurt anyone - and I can easily change my shirt. As well-ordered as you are, I’m sure you have an iron I can warm on the stove if I need to.”
The extra weight he’d absorbed meant her arms wouldn’t be too tired to scrub the floors later, so it would be silly of Deirdre to keep arguing. She shrugged. “You can set them in the water for me after you scrape the leftovers into the bucket.”
“What do you do with them?”
“Not that you should concern yourself with the maintenance of my household, but I have James take them over to Farmer Smith every few days. His hogs get extra food and we get a discount on our bacon and sausage.”
“Well I’m grateful for your bountiful larder and will do my utmost to take full advantage of it this evening and at breakfast tomorrow morning.”
He tipped his hat in her direction and spun on his heel.
Deirdre watched him stride down the street, his coat open as he whistled a jaunty tune.
There was a bite in the air this morning, and there’d been a thin layer of ice on the lip of the milk pail this morning when she’d retrieved it from the stoop. He needed to button his coat.
She was putting more coals in the stove to warm the house when her children stumbled into the room. They were both rubbing their eyes, and they both wore the thick wool socks her mother had knitted them.
“Mam, can we please have some hot tea?” Jamie asked in a sleepy voice.
“Yes. You’ll need it to brighten you up for your lessons today.”
“Do I have lessons today, Mam?” Katie asked as she propped the wooden fairy Cass had carved her beside her empty bowl.
“Yes, Katie. Today we’re going to practice counting while you help me put up the apples.”
She sprinkled tea leaves in two china mugs and slid them in front of the children.
“Can I stay home and help with the apples?”
Jamie was usually so eager to get to school he gulped down his breakfast and bolted from the house like the hounds of hell were chasing him.
“No, you may not. You only have two more weeks until the school is closed for Christmas. You’ll have an entire week of helping with apples or whatever other chores I ask you to do.”
“None of my friends will be there,” he sulked. “They’re all helping with the last of the harvest.”
“Well we don’t live on a farm, so you’ll be going to school.”
“I wish I was old enough to go to school and have my own straw hat and pencil,” Katie said dreamily as she sipped her tea.
“Why a straw hat, poppet?”
“All the grown up girls wear them,” her daughter conspiratorially informed her over the rim of her cup.
“You only want one because you saw Jane Randall’s with the red bow when we went to the store last week with Mam,” James scoffed.
Deirdre knew for a fact that her son harbored a tendre for the grocer’s daughter. She was a good five years older than him, if not more, and every single time he found himself in her presence he gawked and stuttered. Deirdre found it adorable.
“‘Twas a very pretty hat. I wouldn’t mind having one for myself. But, Katie, dearest, you shouldn’t wish your life away. The time will come when you’ll want nothing more than to be standing on a stool while you help me put up apple butter.”
Once they’d finished breakfast, she packed one of the pepperoni rolls she’d made earlier in the week into Jamie’s tin lunch pail and sent him on his way.
It took her and Katie all morning and most of the afternoon to skin, core and stir all the apples.
By the time they’d finished, the cider Deirdre had put in the copper kettle over the firepit in the backyard that morning was boiled down enough to add them.
Katie loved using the big paddle to stir the apples.
They were taking turns, coatless because of the heat from the fire, when Jamie returned home from school.
“Mam!” He called. “The schoolmaster said there’s going to be a storm tonight because the clouds are nimbostratus!” He jumped over all three of the bottom steps and came running toward them.
“Take a deep breath and tell me exactly what Mr. Holden said.”
Jamie’s cheeks puffed out as he exhaled. “He said it was going to snow lots and lots and we should go home in case there was anything our parents needed our help with.”
“Then we’d better let this cool and get the rest of the quilts down from the attic,” Deirdre said as she kicked dirt onto the fire. When she was satisfied she’d put it out, she covered the kettle with oilcloth and took her children’s hands.
If Jamie’s teacher was right, Deirdre had to make sure there was enough coal and logs stacked in the woodshed. She started making a list in her head of all the things she needed to do before the storm hit them.
***
That night, supper was a hearty mutton stew and freshly baked bread. All three of her boarders virtually inhaled the meal, even scraping the last dollops of soup from their bowls with hunks of bread.
Cass sat back and patted his stomach. “No wonder you only had one spare room, Mrs. O’Shaugnessy.”
“I count myself fortunate indeed to be one of Mrs. O’Shaugnessy’s boarders,” Mr. Edmonds agreed.
“I won’t argue that Mrs. O’Shaugnessy sets an excellent table, Trenton, but I imagine the fare at Trenton House is even more satisfying. Doesn’t your father’s household employ a French chef?”
“Jean-Pierre’s about as French as my big toe, Gilchrist. And I have no fondness for escargot or most of the other fancy dishes he insists on laying out. I much prefer Mrs. O’Shaugnessy’s cooking.”