Linda Castle - Abbie's Child

“Nor am I Irish,” Will quipped dryly. He found himself smiling, even though he hated that name as much as he hated what it represented in his haunted past.

“Well, are you him? Why do they call you that?” The boy stared at Willem and frowned.

“Some fool gave me the name a long time ago. I don’t think he knew Welsh and Irish are not the same,” Willem mused.

“Couldn’t he see you weren’t black? Was something wrong with his eyes? Maybe he’d been hurt and couldn’t see real good.” The boy tilted his head and peered up at Willem for a long time. Then he crinkled his nose and bounced again. “Nope, you’re not black at all.”

Willem laughed aloud. The child’s logic followed a path straight as a lodestone to the truth.

“He called me black because of my black rages and devil’s temper, Matthew. I did terrible things when I was angry. I frightened people. I made a promise I would never raise my voice in anger again, but it was too late to change some bad things that had already happened.” Willem had never admitted that to anyone before. It was a strange feeling to say it aloud.

“Oh.” The boy accepted the answer without question. He sat quietly, fidgeting only every other minute while Willem finished the pie and drank the coffee. Then he bounded off the bed to pick up the empty plate and cup.

“I’ll take those to Mama,” the boy said. “Mama has a rule that nobody eats in their room, but she let me bring this up. I like you, Mr. Tremain. You are going to be my friend,” Matthew declared before he scampered out the door and down the stairs.

Willem found himself grasping the doorjamb for support for several minutes after Matthew left. He hadn’t been a friend to anyone—not even himself—for a very long while.

Willem woke to the heavy tread of work boots descending the stairs. He had slept fitfully, visited by his long-dead companions and the black dread that enveloped him each night. He dressed by the pale light of dawn and left his room.

Before he had passed the one-eared ginger tom stretched out on the second floor landing, the smell of home cooking had his mouth watering. When he entered the kitchen he found piles of fluffy flapjacks, small crocks of fresh butter and urns of syrup lined up on the enormous table. Stacks of steaming biscuits waited beside a huge blue crock bowl of thick, rich, cream gravy. Fat patties of fried sausage and thick slices of bacon covered a blue patterned platter. The smell of newly ground coffee beans lingered in the air. His empty belly growled like a roused bear.

“Good morning,” Mrs. Cooprel said. “How was your first night?” She was filling lunch tins with crocks and jars and gingham-cloth-covered things, which whetted Will’s appetite even more than the sight of her bountiful breakfast table.

“Passable.” He felt an odd tingle up his back.

She turned to him with her eyebrows pinched together. From her concerned expression he guessed he had not provided her with the answer she expected. He felt obliged to explain and irritated that her concern could have such a profound effect on him.

“Nothing’s wrong with the room, I’m just not much of a sleeper. I wanted to thank you for the pie and coffee last night.” Willem found it damned hard to spit out his thanks while her eyes probed his face.

“It was really Matthew’s idea,” she said tightly. “He seems to like you.” Willem heard undisguised disapproval in her voice before she turned and began to whisk around the room like a butterfly in a flower garden. She managed to juggle several tasks at once with no problem. The miners’ eyes followed her movements. It was plain they all thought Mrs. Cooprel sat somewhere near the left hand of God.

“Matthew is a bright boy,” Willem said for no reason he could think of.

“Yes, he is.” Mrs. Cooprel turned her full attention back to filling the lunch pails, so Will looked for an empty chair. The same chair he had occupied last night was vacant, so he settled into it and poured himself coffee. He saw the men filling their plates and wondered if the formality of grace would be repeated at breakfast. He helped himself to biscuits and gravy while he observed the group. Not wishing to embarrass himself with another social blunder, he waited until he saw Snap and Brawley each shove a forkful of syrup-covered flapjacks into their mouths before he picked up his own fork and began to eat.

Abigail rubbed her hands on her apron and sighed. “There they are, gentlemen.” She nodded toward the shiny tins lined up on a long plank against one wall. She poured herself a mug of coffee and sat down.

“Matthew is a slugabed this mornin’,” Brawley commented with a grunt.

Mrs. Cooprel’s face took on the same expressionless quality Willem had witnessed last night. He was curious about the woman and knew he shouldn’t be. His thoughts should be only of Moira and his child.

“He was worn out, Brawley,” she said tightly. “A growing boy needs his rest.”

“Missus.” Brawley’s voice cracked. He frowned at the sniggers erupting down the length of the table and gulped some coffee. Abigail ducked her head and Willem could’ve sworn she was giggling. Brawley cleared his throat and tried again. “I was wondering if you and the lad would consider sharin’ lunch with me at the picnic? I could partner up with the boy for the games—that way he’d be sure to win this year.” Brawley gulped more coffee when he finished, as if speaking had made his mouth go dry.

Willem saw the other men at the table look up. Each face was slack-jawed with suspense, or maybe it was alarm—he didn’t know which. Abigail flicked a quick glance over them from under her long fringe of lashes. Willem was sure he saw her frown when she looked back at Brawley.

“That’s very kind of you, Brawley, but I’ve already made other plans.”

If she had hit him with a skillet the man couldn’t have looked more stricken. His great, wide shoulders seemed to slump.

“I see,” Brawley said. A wash of red crept up his face from beneath his beard and climbed until it met his fiery hair.

“I’m expecting Lars to be back by then. You’ll have to ask Matthew about the games yourself, but I expect he’ll want to be Lars’s partner again this year.” Abigail smiled and began to fill a plate for herself. Willem saw the light twinkle in her aquamarine eyes. Every bearded face along the table flowered into a smug smile of satisfaction—except for Brawley.

Willem was beginning to figure out the widow. She made sure she kept herself surrounded by many men and no one single man. He could see it was a constant source of irritation to Brawley.

Willem frowned. He felt his curiosity whetted about the mysterious Lars. Matthew’s face had softened with affection when he’d spoken of his uncle the night before.

“The sun is climbing. I best be off to the Bonnet. Thanks for the grub, Missus.” Snap Jackson stood and pulled on his shapeless hat. One by one the men rose and trooped from the kitchen. Only Brawley and Will remained. After a few minutes Brawley shot Willem a dark glance before he, too, grabbed his hat.

“Some of us have a job to be at,” he snarled before he left the kitchen. Willem heard the front door close with a thud.

“It appears you and I are the only ones who don’t have to be someplace special, Mrs. Cooprel,” Willem said across the long expanse of table. He saw color creep into her cheeks and knew he’d found the right of it. She was a woman who could hold her own in a crowd of the roughest men, but alone with only one man she was shy and uncertain of herself.

“Yes—yes, we do,” she choked out. “But Matthew is upstairs.” A shadow of fear flitted through her eyes.