Seven

The back door slammed shut, and stillness settled over the house. A clock ticked in the adjoining room—Mrs. Blackwell's bed chamber. Warm air blew in through the open window, ruffling the plain white curtains. Michael was alone.

He exhaled and let himself drop into the chair that sat before the dead man's desk.

He could do better than this. He had done better than this, at Cowper's. He knew how to act like a dutiful, polite servant. Hadn't he grown up around enough of them? But every time he opened his mouth, the only thing he could get out were thick grunts and stumbling, short words.

It hadn't helped that she'd brushed up so close to him in the enclosed study, and he'd noticed, really noticed , her breasts for the first time. They were small but pert, shoved up by her stays, and swelling just below her neckline. The smell of her, clean like the lavender soap he'd found in the pantry with a hint of the outdoors and woodsmoke . . . it clung to him, and made his head spin. It had been so long since he'd been near a woman. It didn't matter that her hair was streaked with gray, or that her eyes had creases at the edges. Indeed, those things only made her more appealing somehow. She'd lived and lost the softness of youth, just as he had.

And she needed him. To read to her, to teach her. That thought warmed him, more than anything had since he'd come back from Moreton Bay. Almost as if there was something to look forward to.

The kookaburra began to sing again, its loud, grating laughter breaking the stillness and jarring Michal's thoughts. It was mocking him. Of course it was. This warmth, it was ass-headed. He must snuff it out like a wayward flame before it spread and he began to believe his own foolishness. She didn't need him. Anyone could teach her to read. And she wasn't like him either. She was his master. A good woman. No matter what she might have lived through, she would never, could never be the evil he was.

If he had any hope of staying here, he must focus on his job, maintain the detached relationship of servant and master. Anything else, even the thought of it, would only lead to trouble.

Never mind.

He turned to the ledgers. It was a bit much, to give him so much time to glance through a few record books. It would take fifteen minutes at most. But if he was going to do the job, he might as well do it justice.

He flipped through the first book, the most recent one. It was written with a flowing, practiced hand, rather than the disjointed one of most of the men in the colony—convicts, sailors, and soldiers alike. It must have been penned by her husband. John, she'd called him.

Michael scanned the entries. There wasn't much to it. The purchase of seed and livestock in the spring. The sale of wheat in the summer, to Staples. Michael knew the man—a weasel if there ever was one. The entries stopped abruptly in the fall, five months ago.

Michael closed the book. The sun was shining on him fully now, erasing any coolness the breeze had brought. He took off his coat and draped it over the back of the chair.

What had happened to John Blackwell? Davey had said he'd died recently, but he hadn't mentioned how. Was it a long illness? An accident? Mrs. Blackwell wasn't in mourning, or at least she didn't dress that way. But such things as mourning and half mourning were rarely practiced in the colony, except by the highest of society. And, of course, most marriages were based on convenience, not love.

What had her marriage been like?

His thoughts wandered to the bed he'd seen when they'd passed through Mrs. Blackwell's room, with its tarnished brass headboard and wide mattress . . .

It was none of his business. He had a job to do.

He scooted the chair out of the sun and looked through the other books. They spanned back more than twenty years, all the way to 1804. And the longer he looked, the clearer the story became. There were far more negative entries than positive, especially in recent years. Supplies purchased on credit. Crops—a good amount—sold, but no record of debts paid.

Either the man was a lousy bookkeeper, or he'd used the money in other ways.

Did Mrs. Blackwell know of the debts? He hoped so. They were considerable, and they were her debts now. He didn't relish the idea of giving her the news.

Michael glanced at the clock, barely visible through the doorway. Only twenty minutes had passed.

He eyed the pile of letters on the desk. The red wax seal on the top one shone in the sunlight. He could open them and read them so he'd have an idea of what was important and what wasn't. That's what a true secretary would do . . . No. She'd not directed him to. It was better to wait.

He sat a few minutes, baking in the sun, listening to the tick of the clock. Waiting.

Bah. This was ridiculous. Surely there was something else he could do. In the kitchen perhaps. That room did need a good cleaning, and it might help him prove his worth.

He rose and left the small study, taking his coat with him. Passing through Mrs. Blackwell's chamber had felt oddly intimate when they'd come together, and now by himself, it did even more so. There was nothing off about the room itself. It was exactly what one would expect for a widowed farmer of the middling class. The bedstead, made up with a white sheet and light cotton blanket . . . Michael quickly looked away. A chest of drawers. A small dressing table by the window with a bowl and pitcher, a hairbrush and a small hand mirror sat discarded beside. A clean white apron hung from a hook on the wall, next to a plain cotton dress. There was nothing outwardly personal about this room. And yet, it was a place Michael distinctly did not belong. He hurried through and to the kitchen.

He was just finishing wiping the windows when the door opened and Mrs. Blackwell appeared. The sunlight poured in around her, wreathing her in light. She'd pinned her hair up, but it was coming loose, and her cheeks were pink with exertion. She held a basket of green peas in one hand, and a full milk pail in the other. She reminded Michael of a portrait of a dairy maid he'd once seen in London. So healthy and pure.

She walked in a few paces, then stopped short, her eyes widening as she took in the room.

Michael held his breath as her gaze slowly tracked from where he stood by the window, cloth in hand, to the freshly swept hearth, the neatly stacked wood, the clean floor, the basin, empty of the dirty dishes she'd stacked there.

"Wh-what have you done?" She set the milk pail down and shut the door behind her.

Shit. Michael's stomach clenched. Clearly, he'd overstepped. "I thought—" he started.

"It's so clean . . ." Her hand rose to her cheek, as if to test the temperature. Then she smiled. A wondering, sweet curve of her lips.

And Michael remembered how to breathe again.

She stepped further into the room, scrutinizing him as if she'd never seen him before. Michael felt the urge to back away, but at the same time, that warm feeling welled again in his chest. He didn't trust it, not one bit. But it pulled at him nonetheless . . .

She was pleased with him.

"I'm surprised." She exhaled a chuckle, then met his eye. "Thank you."

The warmth grew, the heat spreading up his neck and his ears. Michael couldn't take it any longer. He broke eye contact and went back to wiping the pane.

There was a long silence. He could feel her eyes on him.

When she spoke, it was with that brisk, employerly tone again. "I thought we'd have peas for our midday meal, along with maize bread and milk. I'll just fetch those letters, and you can read while I shell them."

She left the room, and Michael put all his focus on wiping the last of the grime off the window.

When they were settled at the table, he slit open the first letter in the pile. It was postmarked Sydney, from a creditor looking for payment for seed that Mr. Blackwell had purchased last spring. She nodded after he'd read it out, her eyes never leaving her hands, which were busy with the rhythmic task of breaking the pods open, extracting the peas into one bowl, then discarding the empty pods into another.

Her fingers were work-roughened and coarse, though her fingernails were immaculately clean. A long scar lined her left palm.

What would they feel like, the hands of such a woman?

She glanced up at him, shooting him a severe look. "There'll be plenty of those, I'm afraid."

Right. The letter.

"Did you look at the money book?"

"Yes."

"I'd like you to total the debts there. They're considerable, I've no doubt."

So she knew. One could only hope she had an idea of the scope. "Very well."

The second letter was a note from Mr. Whiteford, the magistrate in Windsor. Peter Gregory, one of her assigned men, had applied for a ticket of leave, and it had been granted. The recommendation had been forwarded to the secretary's office in Sydney for processing, and Mrs. Blackwell was to inform Mr. Gregory of the news and allow him to travel to the city and collect it.

Michael looked up when he'd finished reading to find the widow staring at him across the table, her jaw set and her hands still. A ticket meant she was losing the man, and he was gaining his freedom, or at least a bit of it. She sighed. "I'll tell him this afternoon."

"How many do you have?" The question crossed Michael's lips before he could think better of it. He was not meant to ask questions. It was none of his business.

But she replied without hesitation. "Men?"

He nodded.

"Three."

Now two. With Michael here, there was little chance of her getting a replacement for the ticketed man.

He looked down, studying the weathered table. She should send him back. That would be the prudent thing to do. She was in much greater need of an experienced field hand than someone like him. All the reading in the world would do her no good if she hadn't the means to run her farm.

The next letter was from London, postmarked six months before and with an official-looking seal. Michael picked it up and turned it over. From a solicitor or a barrister?

He broke the wax and unfolded the missive. A piece of thin notepaper slipped out, a list of some sort. He set it aside and began to read the main portion of the letter.

London, May 10, 1826

Mr. John Blackwell,

Dear Sir, It is my most solemn duty to inform you of the death of your late brother, Mr. Benjamin Blackwell, who departed this earthly plane two weeks ago, on April 24, after a long illness. I have been managing his London accounts for some years, and I have been given the task of executing his estate.

As you may know, your brother had no issue, and as there are no other surviving siblings, you are the sole beneficiary to the property and accounts of which I have enclosed a full accounting.

Given your remote location, I've no doubt you will need a man in London to manage your new interests. I served your brother faithfully yet she'd never got to know the man. He was so often at sea or in Sydney . . . and there was always that feeling, even the few times he'd taken his pleasure of her, that she was distasteful to him. That he wished he were somewhere else, with someone else. She'd always thought it was because of her Irishness, or her Catholic upbringing, or her looks. But it wasn't.

Elizabeth.

He was heart-scalded. He'd been in love with this Elizabeth, and his elder brother had stolen her from him.

Caitlin had rarely found reason to miss her husband or to feel anything resembling tenderness for him. But there was a tendril of remorse at this news. She wished he could have lived to know of this woman's love.

She uprooted the thought.

It made no difference now. And certainly, Caitlin herself gained nothing from all this. John was dead. Some other distant relative would inherit the fortune listed out on that slip of paper, and Caitlin's life would continue on as it always had. She'd still have to pay the debts her husband had left her—through her own hard work.

The door opened, and she jerked herself back into motion, broke open the next pod, slid her nail down the middle, popping each pea off its tether and watching as it tumbled, pell-mell into the bowl. Then on to the next.

"You want this in the kettle?" Michael grunted as he lowered the full bucket of water to the floor.

"I do. And the pot. We'll need water for these." She gestured to the peas.

Michael didn't answer, but he moved to the wood box and began picking out kindling.

Caitlin watched his practiced, easy movements out of the corner of her eye. John had never done such tasks. He'd always accused her of being a piss-poor housekeeper. And he wasn't wrong. She'd never liked such work, nor did she have the time for it. She much preferred being outside, working with the animals or crops.

But Dunn almost seemed to be enjoying himself.

Apparently satisfied with his armful of wood, he rose and moved toward the hearth, scooping up the water bucket as he went. He'd taken off the jacket he'd worn this morning, and she could see the outline of taut muscle, lean and strong, against the thin linen of his shirt.

He turned toward her as he set the bucket down, and their eyes met.

"I'll write a letter to that man in London." She quickly brought her gaze back to her work. Michael didn't answer. He crouched by the hearth and began arranging the kindling. "To tell him of John's death," she clarified. Still, no answer. He blew on the coals. "Do you think—" Once again, she stopped herself. She was master here. "I'll dictate it this afternoon."

"Very good." Michael stood back from the flames he'd just made and moved to fill the kettle.

They ate in silence, though Michael's thoughts were anything but peaceful.

That look she'd given him as he was building the fire. Almost as if—

No. That wasn't why he was here. Such thoughts would only muck things up. Hadn't he just resolved to remain her servant and nothing more? And anyway, women had only ever desired him if he had something to offer them. Money or power. He had nothing in that regard now. She was probably thinking of how useful he'd be as a house maid.

Which was exactly what he wanted her to think, wasn't it?

Yet, he couldn't deny the letch he'd felt when he caught her looking. Faugh . It had been ages since he'd had the desire to take himself in hand, but now he found himself anticipating the night when he'd be alone in that little straw bed.

After they'd finished eating, Mrs. Blackwell sent him back to the study to fetch pen and paper, and they settled again at the kitchen table. Michael dipped the quill in ink, then held it over the paper, waiting for the dictation.

Mrs. Blackwell opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

He cleared his throat.

She closed her mouth, looked at him, then opened it again, but she didn't utter the dictation. Instead, she addressed Michael. "You were a gentleman once, were you not?"

"Something like that."

"Then you must know something of these things. How would you begin?"

"I—" He hesitated. "I suppose I'd write something like, Dear Mr. James ."

She raised her chin. "That's good. Write that."

He did, then looked up to find her watching him intently. "I sincerely regret," she began, "that—to tell you—or inform ?" Her brows knitted together, and she bit her bottom lip. She was entirely lost but doing everything she could not to show it.

He tried a smile, though it still felt wrong. "Perhaps if you give me the gist of what you mean to say," he prompted, "I could write it up."

She nodded, clearly relieved. "Just tell him John's dead. That's all he need know."

"I suppose so, but—" Michael hesitated. Really, it was none of his business.

"But what?" When he didn't answer, she repeated herself, more insistently. "But what , Dunn? Out with it."

Michael sighed. There could be no harm in asking the question. "Did your husband leave a will, Mrs. Blackwell?"

Her brows shot up. "No. His death was sudden. At sea."

"Then how did you—"

"Inherit the farm?"

"Yes."

"There were no other heirs." She shrugged.

"I see. And your husband died after this letter was written, correct? In April?"

"He did. It was early July, or that's what the ship's captain told me."

"Then I'd expect you'd be entitled to a dower at the very least."

"A dower?"

"A third of your husband's estate, for your use until your death. Or—" He paused, searching his memory for the knowledge of such things. "I believe it's half if there are no children. According to English law."

Her eyes widened as she registered the meaning of what he'd just said. "But I don't want half of all that." She gestured to the list of assets. "I'd have no idea how to . . ."

"Not the investments, I shouldn't think. Nor the accounts. But the land. The estates." He stopped. He'd reached the end of his knowledge of dower laws. He'd probably said too much already.

But then another thought snagged. If her husband had left no will, and heirs were found for the rest of his estate, could it be possible that the new heir might be entitled to this farm, as well?

"What else?" Mrs. Blackwell's voice cut through his thoughts. She sounded suspicious. "What are you thinking?"

His concern must have shown on this face. "I'm thinking—" He looked at her, not wanting to say it. It wasn't his place anyway. Nor his business. "Do you have a lawyer, Mrs. Blackwell?"

"A lawyer?" Her eyes widened. "Whyever for?"

Michael spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. "It may be prudent for you to speak to one. Before you send anything back to London."

"Just to tell him John's dead?"

"No. To ensure you're able to keep hold of your assets. Here."

She blinked at him. "You mean Swindale ?"

He nodded.

"But—I own it. The title's in me name."

"Yes." He shouldn't have said anything. "I'm sure it's nothing. I'll just—" He lowered the quill to the paper.

"I do not have a lawyer." Her words, and the fearful worry behind them, cut him short. "Do you know of any?"

He looked into eyes clouded with fear, and every instinct told him to keep his mouth shut, to stay out of her affairs. He could be wrong, after all, and she'd be worried for nothing and think him a fool. But . . . what if he wasn't wrong? "I do know of one in Sydney," he heard himself say. "He worked for Cowper. A good man. Mr. Snodgrass."

A hint of relief gentled her face, and the same warmth as before pooled in his chest. "I've need to go to town with a load of wheat anyway. You'll come with. We'll go tomorrow." She folded the letter and set it aside. "And now"—she looked at him expectantly—"pour some tea, and we'll finish these letters. Then I'll go tell Greg his good news."