Whitney Bailey - A Mistaken Match

Ann’s stomach knotted as it so often did when she grew nervous or upset. She chided herself. James McCann occupied far too many of her thoughts already, despite being no more than a begrudging temporary landlord and she his unwelcome houseguest. She needed a distraction. Polishing and scrubbing were good for that, but she’d already depleted the meager supply of soap and polish she’d found in the cabinet. Her needle lace had always been a comfort to her, so she fetched some from her room and set to work.

The simple piece—a square of linen on which she built up needle-lace scallops and flower petals one stitch at a time—didn’t require enough attention to prevent her mind from drifting back to her situation. Despite James’s beliefs, she knew no one waited for her. She would soon be alone in a strange country. Basic necessities to buy. Room and board to pay. The very thought of each expense made Ann’s stomach go cold.

Embroidery proved a very poor distraction. Her hands trembled over the stitching as she contemplated her future, and after she ruined the third petal with her carelessness, she tucked the lace away in her apron pocket.

The creak of floorboards snapped her attention to the back porch. The wooden screen door swung open and James entered in his stocking feet. He’d walked through the kitchen with his dusty shoes on this morning. Did this mean he’d taken note of the markedly cleaner floor?

“Is lunch ready?”

Ann’s throat constricted. A glance at the clock proved the day approached noon. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you wanted me to prepare something.”

“That’s alright. I don’t think I could stomach another meal like breakfast.”

Heat rose up the back of Ann’s neck, and her fingers itched to snatch a plate from the table and launch it at his head. James smiled and teasingly winked. The angry heat receded a little.

“I’ve cooked my own meals for years. I think I can manage a little longer in exchange for a house this clean,” he added.

He had noticed!

Before she could respond, James stepped abruptly from the kitchen into the hall. His footsteps moved from the dining room to the parlor. He returned, his lips pulled down into a frown. “The other rooms haven’t been cleaned. What have you been doing all this time?”

His accusation warmed her blood again. She rose from her chair and drew a deep breath to calm her temper. “I am not lazy, James McCann.”

He gestured about the room. “No lunch and a dirty house. What do you call that in England?”

“I’ll have you know it would have been my pleasure to clean your filthy house. You would have walked in the door and lost your senses at the great beauty of clean floors and windows not covered in grime. But you’re out of supplies.” Ann bit her lip to keep from saying more, though she feared the damage was done.

James’s eyes widened and the taut muscles of his jaw relaxed. His voice grew soft. “I’m out of supplies?”

Ann stood up straight and clasped her hands submissively behind her back out of habit. She’d assumed this same stance whenever her employers addressed her while in service. She realized this immediately and let her hands fall to her sides.

“I used all of what you had cleaning the kitchen. I should have told you earlier.” If you hadn’t stomped out of the house before I could.

James dipped his sandy head and his cheeks colored. “Figures. I paid a woman from town to clean the house but she obviously cheated me. House is still dirty and she took the extra soap and polish with her.”

He ran a hand through his hair and glanced at Ann. He looked...sheepish? Like a schoolboy caught with candy in his desk. “I’m sorry I accused you of being lazy. What have you been doing this morning?”

“I made Uncle Mac breakfast, though he didn’t come to the door when I knocked. I left the food on the landing.”

“It’s my fault for not making proper introductions. We’ll right that this afternoon. What else did you do?”

Her heart raced as she dipped her hand into her apron pocket. James would likely think her time better spent staring at the wall than working on needle lace. She withdrew the piece from her pocket. “I worked on this.” She held out the handkerchief and cringed when he took it from her with dirty fingers.

She gestured to the cloth. “I’m sure you think such work is worthless, but I had nothing else to fill the time. I would have cleaned had I found more supplies,” she repeated.

James examined the handkerchief as she spoke. Over and over, he turned it in his calloused hands. The more he studied it, the lighter his touch became, as if he handled a fragile porcelain cup. “You did all of this? The lace?”

She nodded.

His eyebrows raised and Ann saw a flicker of what appeared to be admiration. “No one helped you?”

Ann laughed at the absurd question. “Do you see anyone else here?”

James chuckled softly. “I meant—did someone help you with this before you arrived in America?”

“No. I began the work a week ago.”

“After lunch we’ll go into town for cleaning supplies. You’ll take this.” He gently folded the handkerchief into quarters and set it in her hand. His fingertips brushed her palm. The touch sent a warmth through her hand. She set her jaw and shook off the feeling.

James cobbled together a stew for lunch. “For Uncle Mac,” he explained as he ladled the first steaming bowlful. He paired the stew with a mug of milk and they took the meal upstairs together. They hadn’t even reached the top step before Ann spotted the breakfast tray. The spotless plate and empty mug suggested at least someone had enjoyed his meal that morning.

James rapped on the door. “Uncle Mac? Lunch is ready.” Bedsprings creaked, but still the door didn’t open.

“Best leave these here. There’ll be plenty of time for introductions when we get back from town.”

After lunch James retreated upstairs and returned wearing a clean shirt. His freshly scrubbed cheeks shone pink and water droplets clung to his tousled hair. Ann made a mental note to refill the pitcher in his room.

While James hitched the wagon, Ann stood outside and took in the expanse of land. Row after row of young green plants stretched in all directions. A small grove of oaks and maples, no more than five or six acres, anchored the east end of the field.

“May I ask what you did outside this morning?” Ann asked James as he helped her onto the wagon seat.

“Hoed the fields.”

The field nearest Ann seemed enormous as she imagined someone clearing the weeds row by row. “When will you be done?”

James laughed drily. “A job like that is never done. Not until the corn grows tall enough to shade out the weeds. I’ll be out here every morning until then.”

“And when might that be?”

“Well...” James paused and rubbed his chin. “We have a saying. ‘Knee-high by the Fourth of July.’ When the stalks are that tall, we should only have a week or two more of weeding.”

Weeks and weeks of hoeing this sweeping vista of green. Ann made a note to help him beginning tomorrow.

“What crops are you growing?”

James’s eyebrows rose and his shoulders drew back. “Corn in the big south field and some wheat in the north field. Most everyone around here grows either corn or wheat as their main crop.” He pointed to the next farm. “Hal Schneider has corn, too.”

The meandering rows of corn on Ann’s right weren’t planted with nearly the precision of James’s fields, and weeds were in abundance. In a few spots she couldn’t tell the crop from the intruders.

“It looks like Hal Schneider needs to weed,” she observed.

James glanced at the field. “Hal has a lot more than weeding to do.”