Abbie's Child. Linda Castle
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.
Willem sipped his coffee slowly and watched her. She was chewing her food as if it was made of sand. He found it ironic that he should bother her, when all she had to do was look at him with those aqua eyes and he felt the foundation shift beneath his feet. Willem chided himself for thinking foolish thoughts and forced himself to leave her company.
“Please tell Matthew goodbye for me and thank him again for the pie—and the good company.”
“Yes-yes, I will.”
From her chair she met his gaze, and he felt something powerful leap to life inside his chest. It was similar to the feeling he’d had when Matthew had come to his room last night, only this was primal and strong in a hot, dark way.
“Are you looking for work, Mr. Tremain?” she asked softly while he stared at her over the half-empty platters of food.
“No, I’ve already got a job. They’re not expecting me until tomorrow but I think I’ll let Otto know I made it.” He frowned and wondered why he was telling her his whole life’s story.
“Otto Mears?” Her eyes followed him when he rose from the table. He didn’t want to leave her, even though he found her company confusing and almost painful.
“Yes. I worked for him some years back when he was putting through the toll road to Silverton.” Willem felt the darkness rolling forward from the edge of his memories. That had been before Moira left, before sadness claimed their lives.
“You must be very good at what you do if you work for Mr. Mears.”
Willem shrugged. He never considered himself to be any great hand at anything special. His expertise with dynamite and powder was more an act of God and his Welsh mining heritage than any degree of skill on his part. “I never thought much about it.”
Mrs. Cooprel frowned before she looked away. He could feel the tension in the room. “I’ll give Matthew your message, Mr. Tremain. Have a pleasant day.”
Willem dodged the mule train and jumped out of the way as a twelve-foot length of rail iron