The Bargain (3 page)

She should want his kisses as much as he enjoyed offering them.

She should love him!

Love?

He stopped short and nearly tripped again. Did that word just flash before his eyes? Was Mrs. Narvel right?
 

Gareth swallowed hard at the implications. He tried to blink away the notion. The fury of jealousy over Mzwamadoda dripped away as his palms dampened. Could his unconscious mind have settled into loving her?

Now wasn't the time to figure it out, particularly since she didn't want him. She'd refused his offer and blamed it on Eliza. Long since gone, how could Eliza's hold be stronger than any thing the feisty governess felt for him?
 

Unwilling to measure the depths of his feelings or admit defeat, he stomped the rest of the way to the blacksmith, kicking an occasional rock that dared lie in his path.

Dennis leaned against the doorframe with his arms folded across his dark leather vest. "Whoa there, Welling. What has you chewing dirt?"

Gareth didn't need homespun wisdom or some assertion about God solving all his problems from the colony's makeshift pastor. He looked at the ground. "Nothing of consequence."

"I saw you tearing up that road for at least a half of a mile back. Something's eating at you."
 

"I need sturdy shoes on my horse. I've some hard riding to do to locate some of the Dutch settlements."

The old man didn't move. He forced Gareth to look in his face. "I can't dawdle."

"Seems an odd time to take off. That will take you three days round trip. With Narvel's widows about to pop, and the Xhosa problem, I'd reckon you should stay."
 

"This expedition might just stop the hostilities. As for the former, she will keep and my boy's governess will take care of things until I return."

Dennis shook his head, still not moving from his position. "You trying to convince me or yourself? Nothing ever quite follows man's timing. At some point, a fellow needs to think beyond his own notions."

"I'm sacrificing for Port Elizabeth. It's bigger than Narvel's widow or a feisty governess."

"Speaking of her."
Dennis pivoted and went into his shop.

Gareth should've headed straight for the stable around back, but curiosity over what the man was going to say about Precious made him follow.

Dennis swung his blackened tongs from a hook and plunged it into the water. "This shoe is about done."

The thick char on the tool showed its age, the passing down of the implement through the generations. Oh, how Gareth wanted this place and his leadership to be something Jonas and Precious could hold onto with pride.

"You've been sweet on the negress. I hear talk of her being more than just the help."

Unprepared for the interrogation, Gareth folded his arms. "What does my household arrangements have to do with anything?"

"Proximity can make things seem right. Close quarters have led to all types of hasty decisions, unchristian behavior. Miss Jewell's from the Carolina's right? The slave trade is very big there." Dennis popped out the shoe and felt the edges. "Yes, this will do. "

Gall flooded Gareth. "I'm not one of those men. I don't order employees to my bedchamber. My late wife's family enslaved her. But she's not as the American's say, a fancy. She is free. She has her own mind and does as she pleases."

Taking a big file with ridges, Dennis rubbed at a short corner. "We have too many women who lose their means and end up selling their bodies to survive. I'd hate to see the colony's leader make the same mistakes."

He wasn't going to admit to the man Precious had refused to marry him or that he'd ended her indentured service with the paperwork on his desk. It had to be to done prior to asking her to consent to wed. He couldn't risk telling Precious and have her walk out his door and his life. No, he couldn't share his lack of trust, so he just stared at the shine forming upon the shoe as Dennis polished it.

"Perhaps you are correct, Welling. A self-focused mind makes our wants and desires both seem like the true path. But desires can just be selfishness in disguise."

He wanted to say he wasn't selfish, but Gareth knew that he was. Deep down, he wanted Precious to love him without him ever having to utter those words again. Eliza had married him for the prestige of his name. Why couldn't that be enough for Precious? Or why couldn't she succumb to the desire arcing between them like sweet lightning and wed for that alone? He snorted a quick breath, attempting to cool the heat coursing in his veins. "Yes, but sometimes desire is right."

"Is it now?" Dennis scrubbed at his chin and started toward the rear of the building, exiting to the stables. "I don't think it works like that."

Gareth followed close. He wanted with each step to be on his horse riding as far and as fast as he could. "Things just need to keep for a little while longer. I'll be back before trouble."

The man opened up the door to the hut like structure where Gareth's grey horse stood with its bushy silver mane. "If you hadn't noticed, there's already trouble. Folks are short on tempers. The small service we had last Sunday ended in a brawl."

"Open in the road? Your parishioners fighting?"

Just out front of the shop. If we make it, this place should have a fine chapel built.
 

Gareth swung his leg over the gelding's strong back. "Well, with a bit of luck, we'll be able to break ground on it next year."

Dennis handed him the reins. "Some things take more than luck. And it's fine to admit the truth too. You don't have all the answers, but God does, Lord Welling. You're trying to do this all on your own. Don't you think others want to help? Don't you think if you asked, help would come?"

Gareth rolled the leather strap of the horse's harness betwixt his fingers. Asking didn't suit him. The possibility of no was too great. Telling others what to do felt comfortable. Hadn't he asked Precious to marry him, only for her to say no? Yes, asking wasn't for him. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Keep everyone in order. Ralston is prepared to evacuate the colonists if…"

"If you don't return?"

No, he'd be back. Regardless of Precious's refusal, she still needed protecting. His son and Mrs. Narvel all needed protecting. "I'll see you in three days."
 

Dennis blocked his path. He reached into his vest and pulled out a folded up parchment. "This was something your uncle wrote to me. He gave it to me the last time he was here before setting off to London. I think you might need it more."

Taking the paper, he traced the edge of the worn foolscap. It was his uncle's private stationery and from the depth of the creases, something Dennis must've studied from time to and time.

"Read it, Lord Welling. It may bring you peace."

Gareth started his mount but then slowed him at the door. "You haven't struggled with my title today.
 

"Haven't needed to. This colony is yours to lead. I'm praying that like your uncle, you find the way to do right."

 
Thinking of his beloved mentor and how close Gareth was to losing Port Elizabeth hit deep and hard. But he made his face like stone, unmoved from the weight of the angst growing inside. He urged the horse forward. "I'll be back in three days with news of the missing chief. I'll stop the Xhosa aggression."

A mile or two on the open trail, Gareth let his veneer slip. His confidence in his own abilities waned. What did one do when one realized for the hundredth time they weren't enough? His will and desires weren't enough for Precious or Port Elizabeth. He turned his face up to the low clouds. A soft mumble fell from his lips. He cleared his throat and said in a loud commanding voice. "I understand. I can't do any of this alone. Make things right anytime You're ready."

The cabin boy dragged the last big pot of water into the hall for Precious to inspect. "Ma'am, that's the last one. If you don't need anything else, I'll be on my way."

She handed him a glass of cooled tea. "Thank you. Your captain would be proud."

A small smile popped onto his face as he swatted his brow of sweat. The fifteen or sixteen year-old guzzled the liquid. Hopefully it was a good reward for hauling eight jars of freshwater from the bay to the house.
 

He yawned and rubbed his reddish blonde mop. "I'll sleep good tonight at the fort."

"You've done good. Go on and get your supper. I've packed you up some stew in the kitchen."
 

The lad's face brightened as he bounced down the hall toward the back kitchen. Mid stride, he stopped, rotated, and sprinted out the front door.

What in the world could he be doing? So far, everyone loved her cooking. Even Ralston, Gareth's first mate came off his post twice yesterday for another dip of her fresh bread and fish. The first time, he probably nosed around on Gareth's behalf. But the second time had been pure gluttony.
 

Maybe when Gareth restored the peace, he could let her open the house for a Sunday meal, sort of like the field hands coming to Grandmama's. It was one of the memories of Charleston she liked. The only one.

She rubbed at her temples, chastising her mind for stumbling back to Gareth. She tried not to fret about him, but failed every minute. He should be here, not out there facing who knows what all alone.
 

Oh, she really needed to push harder on her skull to keep from seeing his sea blue eyes everywhere. She missed him too much.
 

Scraping noises made her look up from the barrels.

The lad dragged a wide flat crate inside. She hoped he hadn't scratched up the floorboards. "This was on the ship. The last in the hold. It had your name on it." He set it down, nodded his head and almost tripped over himself as he lunged toward the kitchen.
 

A smile wanted to force its way onto her lips but the curiosity of something having her name on it kept them tight. How many times had she seen her name written out? Three, maybe four. She plodded over and pulled it past her jugs to the light at the bottom of the steps.

She ran her fingers over the stamped letters. P-R-E-C-I-O-U-S—J-E-W-E-L-L. What could it be? She'd brought all her possessions in her bag from the Margeaux herself.

The need to know made her pulse race. She pulled at the boards and pried at a corner until she got the slat of wood moving. With a final tug, the lid flipped free. The scent of lavender hit her. Her heart almost stopped as she pushed the folds of tissue paper aside. With the last piece of paper out of the way, her breath caught.
 

The emerald dress.

Eliza's emerald striped gown with the low bodice, that clung to her curves. The silk that was to be given away.

Why was it here?

And why did it have Precious's name?

Swallowing, she lifted her gaze to her late mistress's portrait. Her mind filled with the sounds of Eliza's laughter and memories of that one day she let Precious try on this dress. Slipping the silk over her palm, she remembered Eliza saying she looked well in it. She said no one could see her scars. For a moment, Precious believed her.

Then time passed. The butler and others took every opportunity to remind her that the scars, the stains would never go away. Maybe their words like the scars, where right. For what other than a wh-- she couldn't bring herself to even think the word. What kind of person would want their friend's husband?

Guilt wrapped about Precious. It strangled her in the shadow of the portrait. It was bad enough Eliza's son clung to Precious's bosom as if he was her own. Now she'd drawn in Gareth. She was no better than those words. Her scars ran too deep.

Sweating, she tossed the dress to the floor and backed up to the largest urn of the eight she had the boy fill. She stuck her hands in the cold water and drew up some to drink. The water refreshed her, taking the stiffness from her body. It was just a dress. A nice gesture. Something that if not saved would've been given away.

That last week in Firelynn, Gareth offered it to her while staring at Eliza's picture. Precious's forehead crinkled with new suspicions. Was this a ploy, another trick to sway her? He'd teased her about being a tentative rodent playing with a fast thinking Tomcat.

She shuffled her hands against her apron. There would be no way Gareth would know that they, that she would come to care for him. Could he? Had all the tenderness been some build up to confuse her? Had he been planning a new bargain of some sort? Was it is his mind to give that fancy silk gown to his fancy, his new bed chamber mistress?

She closed her eyes and relived every kiss. She recalled the tone of his deep voice has he asked her to marry him. He didn't want a fancy. He wanted a wife. Heat ran up her limbs. Her heart pounded as if he stood before her. No, Gareth wasn't playing games anymore. He'd caught his mouse.

"What are you doing down here?" Clara's voice floated from behind.

Precious jerked as if she'd been caught doing something naughty. She swallowed and tugged at her collar, making sure the scars on her neck didn't show. "Now, Miss Clara." She slowed her tone and steadied her voice. "You shouldn't be out of bed. And you shouldn't be walking down these steps. What if you fell?"

"Precious," The woman tugged at her woolen robe and cupped her swollen abdomen.
 

She leaned against the rail of the steps. "I can't lay about, not when I hear doors slamming and other noises. I had to see what was happening. Maybe I can help."

Precious understood not wanting to be idle, but the woman shouldn't be risking her health. She wiped her palms on her apron. "Lord Welling's cabin boy, he helped me fetch water. You must've heard the front and back doors opening and closing."

Clara lifted her index finger and pointed, moving her mouth as she counted. "Seven. Eight. Eight jugs of water. Precious, are you expecting a drought?"

Precious wiped her hands on her apron. "I am getting ready for you to birth little Narvel. Clean water is necessary."

"And did the cabin boy bring that dress, too? Is that dress for you? Oh, it will look lovely on you. Go—"