Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1) Page 8

  By the fourth row, she’d learned to lean her weight to counterbalance enough to keep the rows passably straight. She’d needed to add two more stones to the bucket to create enough drag for the plow to bite into the soil. Each row was an accomplishment. Each row was a victory. Each row took more out of her.

  “Didn’t you hear me calling you for dinner?”

  “What? Oh! Velma!”

  “Put down that plow and come on in and eat. You’re getting a good job done, but I don’t want you starving yourself.”

  Sydney beamed at that praise and hobbled off to lunch. Tim didn’t arrive. Velma mentioned something about him doing work in a far pasture. The absence of tension at the table felt strange. Nice, but strange. Sydney ate more than she’d ever dared before.

  “Honey, you’re eating like a field hand.” Velma ladled more stew into her bowl. “Then again, Tim’s making you into one, ain’t he?”

  “It certainly appears so.”

  “Bet those uppity folks back in England would have a fit over this sight.”

  “Indeed.” Sydney smiled wearily and finished every mouthful before dragging herself upright. “Thank you, Velma.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll take a couple of pitchers of water upstairs so you can clean up pretty good tonight. We’ve got to work out something about baths. Mostly I just stick a tub in the kitchen and we’ve all taken turns, but that’s not going to work.”

  “Why not?”

  “Fuller and Tim think nothing about wandering through on each other.”

  “Oh, merciful saints!”

  “Yeah, well, men don’t possess a scrap of modesty among the whole herd of them. Let me think on it. I’ll come up with something. You get out there and get busy. Tim won’t take kindly to a half-done job at sunset.”

  It took every scrap of gumption Sydney could summon to go finish the job. She completed the final row by the last streaks of sunlight, then fought the urge to curl up right there in the dirt and sob. Or sleep. Most likely, sob herself to sleep. She’d never been so tired or sore. Or had such a sense of accomplishment.

  “Take the plow into the barn. A man honors his tools with good care, and they take care of him right back,” Tim quoted from his horse.

  “For a man who doesn’t much appreciate poetry, you sure do like to spout wisdoms and platitudes.”

  “Son, I never said I didn’t cotton to poetry. It’s just that I prioritize. Being able to keep food on the table ranks higher than talking in rhyming words.”

  “So you do like poetry?” As soon as she asked the question, Sydney grimaced. That wasn’t a question a man would have asked.

  “Haven’t had much of an opportunity to read gobs of it. What little I’ve read spans from the nauseatingly flowery to the awe-inspiring religious.”

  Relieved he hadn’t cornered her on that slip, she took advantage of his response and segued to a different topic. “So are you one of those churchgoing Christians?”

  “I don’t pray at mealtimes for show.”

  Sydney backpedaled. “I meant no offense.”

  “Look around you, son.” He waved his arm in a broad, sweeping gesture. “How could any man see all of this nature and not think God made it?”

  “I’ve read Darwin’s Origin of Species.” Sydney shrugged. “When you prayed, I presumed you didn’t accept his theory of evolution. But from what the hands say, you work on Sundays. I didn’t know exactly where you stand.”

  “We attend worship on the Lord’s Day. As for work—it’s limited to the essentials on that day. I pledged my heart to God, and I do my best to honor His ways. What about you?”

  “We always attended church back home. After all, it’s a good example.” The minute the words left her mouth, Sydney knew she’d said something wrong. She just didn’t know what. “Of course, we attended all of the special functions, too—holidays, weddings, baptisms, and the like.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I see.”

  “Mr. Creighton, you aren’t an easy man to figure out.”

  “Kid, believe me, I feel that way about you, too. Now get things put up. Velma kicks up a fuss if you don’t get to the supper table on time.”

  As she turned away with the plow, Juan appeared. “Boss, that kid’s a real boot in the seat of the pants. Didja see what he did to that plow?”

  “He’s so skinny and short, he’d have never gotten the job done if he hadn’t rigged that up.”

  Sydney didn’t tarry. Hearing Big Tim complain about her stature instead of her accomplishment made her despair of ever pleasing him.

  Moments later, Velma met Sydney at the door and pointed to the pump. “You’re not stepping foot in here till you sluice some of that dirt off. Roll up the sleeves and get your hands and face. I put a cake of soap there, too. Duck your head and shampoo that greasy mess. Here’s a towel.”

  Mortified, Sydney accepted the towel. No one had ever found her hygiene lacking. Indeed, it certainly was now. She smelled awful. She felt sticky, and her hair felt itchy. What I wouldn’t give for a nice, long bath, she sighed to herself. Resolving not to complain, she headed for the water pump.

  Though shockingly cold, the cascading water felt good against the scrapes in her palms and pain in her muscles. Her hands grew muddy before enough dirt was washed off to even let her see the flesh beneath. She knew her face couldn’t be much cleaner, so she cupped one hand and thought about a kitten washing his face as she repeatedly splashed and rubbed at her cheeks and chin. Her hand even slipped back to get the nape of her neck. The cool water felt especially good there.

  Sydney tipped her head so her hair fell forward. Soon she got the rhythm of pumping and rinsing it. The soap lathered quickly, and she was almost done rinsing out the last of the bubbles when a deep voice behind her urged, “Go on ahead and peel off that filthy shirt, too. You can wash to the waist.”

  Sydney jerked up so quickly, she hit her head on the spigot. “Never!”

  “Suit yourself, kid. Velma’s seen bare chests before.”

  “A gentleman wouldn’t put her in such a compromising position.” She grabbed the towel and began to rub at her hair.

  “Kid, Velma’s mama ran a cat house down in New Orleans. She’s seen it all. Fuller decided the kid deserved something better than what her mama had in store for her on her comin’-out night, so he grabbed her by the hand and yanked her on outta there.”

  “Coming-out night?” Sydney echoed with a sense of dread.

  “You got it. Her own mama set up a special auction to sell off her daughter’s virginity. Those events draw good money.”

  “Her own mother!” Sydney couldn’t keep her voice from rising at her disbelief.

  “You got it. Fuller shared your outrage. He’d heard word on the street and went in to give the girl a chance to get away. To hear Velma’s version, he used his pistol to convince everyone to stay put while he led her out of that place. He could have gotten into deep trouble for it, too. Kidnapping.”

  “Kidnapping?”

  “It was her fourteenth birthday.”

  “Oh, dear goodness!”

  “She’s worked here ever since. Believe me, though—the woman’s seen more than you’ll ever think to imagine.”

  “It doesn’t mean she appreciated the view,” Sydney snapped.

  “You’re right. That’s why Fuller brought her here.”

  “And that’s why I’m not going to parade about unclad in her presence!” Sydney stalked off and waited until she made it up the stairs before letting out a shivering sigh of relief. Had she stayed there much longer, Tim might have noticed the bulkiness under her wet shirt.

  True to her word, Velma left three pitchers of water. Sydney poured herself a glass to drink and used two pitchers for bathing. The last would take care of her morning needs; then she wouldn’t have to carry water up the stairs tonight. Truthfully, there wasn’t one chance in ten thousand that she’d make it up the stairs carrying anything heavier than a slice of bread.

  W
hen Velma hollered that the meal was on the table, Sydney opened her door and stepped out. Tim practically bowled her over. He scowled at the room behind her. “Son, why in tarnation did you choose that room?”

  Turning around, Sydney glanced back inside, then gave him a bewildered look. “Why not? It’s a perfectly lovely bedchamber.”

  He groaned. “You just put your finger on it, kid. It’s lovely. Decorated for a woman. Flowers. Just looking at that paper makes me want to break out in a rash.”

  “I um . . . just took the first one I happened by.”

  “Then ask Velma to move your gear tomorrow while you work. Take the one next to mine. It has a single bed. The other one, next to Fuller’s chamber, has a double bed, so you probably ought to leave that for when we have married folks spend the night.”

  “Very well.”

  “Fine. Not ‘very well.’ You’ve gotta stop sounding starchy.” He headed down the stairs beside her and added, “And you walk funny, too.”

  Freezing on the spot, Sydney kept her gaze trained straight ahead and gritted, “Then get me the holster.”

  “I’ll do that day after tomorrow. Until then, start using your legs instead of your rear. Here.” He stood two steps below her and reached around to plant his large hand squarely on her backside. Ignoring her splutters, he gave her a few friendly pats and chuckled, “Yep. That’s right. Pull tight and don’t let it swish from side to side. Just use your thighs. Come on. I’m hungry.”

  This indignity was beyond all expectation. Sydney felt hotter than a July noon. She stayed completely still.

  “Supper’s getting cold, kid.”

  Velma came to the foot of the stairs. “Will the pair of you stop this nonsense? Skunks and possums, Tim! The kid’s muscles are sore. If you want to do that kind of teaching, choose a night when he can move.”

  Pursing his lips as though it were a novel thought, Tim asked, “Are you sore?”

  “Me? Sore?” Her tone dripped with sarcasm. “Whyever would I be sore? Just because I hauled enough stones to build a second Newgate prison and plowed enough land to sustain a tribe of wild savages, why would I be sore?”

  “The two of you stop scrapping and get to the table. If you think I’ll stand by and let a good pot roast go cold while you snarl and spit at one another, guess again.”

  Not long after supper was over, Sydney pulled on her nightshirt and decided that bed must be a foretaste of heaven. Getting into bed proved to be an exercise in pain, but she succeeded. A heavy knock sounded on her door. “Yes?”

  “Syd,” Tim said as he carelessly flung the door open, “I brought you some liniment. Stretch out on your belly, and I’ll rub it into your shoulders.”

  “Liniment?”

  Looking at the bottle, Tim shrugged. “It says it’s good for folks, too. Can’t say as I’ve ever tried it, personally.”

  “You want to put horse liniment on me?” She laughed in disbelief. “You’re worse than the quacks and charlatans in London!”

  “Son, from what I’ve seen, anything coming from England is as bad as it gets.” His eyes widened, then narrowed. They were trained on her chest. Stepping closer, he continued to stare.

  Sydney cringed back even more.

  “What are you doing with those?”

  Cold dread surged through her.

  Chapter Six

  “What?” Sydney glanced downward and prayed that her breasts weren’t poking out too far.

  Tim’s hand shot out and batted at the chain she wore. “A woman’s locket? My sainted aunt, why would any man in his right mind wear a heart locket? And a ring?”

  Her chin jutted forward. “The locket and the wedding ring belonged to my mother. I’m simply keeping them safe.”

  “Kid, put them in a drawer someplace. They’ll be safe enough. We don’t keep men I can’t trust, so there isn’t a thief or light-fingered hand anywhere around. You’ll get your teeth knocked clean out of your head if anyone sees those dangling around your scrawny neck.”

  Sydney pulled the chain off over her head and dumped it onto the bedside table. “Fine.”

  Tim’s mouth quirked, and he nodded. “You learn quick. Won’t be long before you walk, talk, and work like a man.” He studied the bottle in his hand and wrinkled his nose. “Stinks, doesn’t it?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re to return the plow tomorrow. Better not put this on you since you’ll see the Richardson girls.” Tim spun around and chuckled as he yanked the door shut.

  “The Richardson girls,” she moaned as she rolled over.

  When she met the farmer’s daughters, Sydney knew exactly what Tim meant. She’d been reared in London where girls were very aware of the marriage market. They knew the pedigree of every single male and could even closely approximate his wealth. Within a few minutes of dancing with a man, the debutantes were even able to guess, within a shilling, just what the man’s cravat cost.

  A few moments after Sydney stepped onto the Richardson farm, it became exceedingly clear the Richardson girls would have handled themselves admirably in London.

  “So you must be Sydney Hathwell,” Marcella cooed as she claimed “his” right arm.

  “Lord Sydney Hathwell.” Sulynn clung to Sydney’s left side like a limpet.

  Katherine stood so close, her toes bumped Sydney’s boots.

  “I hear you ride divinely.”

  Apparently they’d planned upon this visit and wanted to extend it far beyond an introduction and a quick “Thank you for letting Forsaken borrow the plow, good-bye.” Each girl wore her best dress. Ribbons perched atop hair that had been subjected to a curling iron. The eldest, Linette, sported suspiciously pink cheeks and lips. Sydney caught a whiff of cherry and knew the girl had resorted to boosting nature’s lot.

  Faced with enduring the simpering Richardson gaggle or returning to Forsaken and being put to hard work, Sydney chose the former. She turned on her upper-crust British accent, employed every flattering line she’d ever heard come from a man’s mouth, and happily let herself be led into a parlor where she was fed any number of sticky, sweet items.

  She silently wondered how she could diplomatically teach these creatures to brew a proper cup of tea. The brown liquid in her cup looked like the bilge water on the ship she’d voyaged upon to come to the States, and it probably tasted similar, too. Still, sipping it kept her from hauling rocks, so sip it she did. Slowly.

  That night Tim sat on the porch and stretched out his legs. Crossing them at the ankle and studying the toes of his boots, he rasped to the housekeeper in a confidential tone, “Velma, I’m worried about that boy.”

  “Oh?”

  “He’s odd.”

  “In what way?”

  “He squawks like a girl when he’s surprised. His hips sway, and a peach has more fuzz than his chin.”

  “So?” She shrugged. “He’s young.”

  “It’s more than that. He chose a bedchamber with roses on the wall.”

  “Big deal.”

  “I caught him wearing his mama’s locket.”

  Velma traced a spot on the skirt of her apron. “Don’t be so hard on the kid, Tim. Both of his folks up and died in the past year and a half. If anyone in the world understands how painful that is, you should.”

  “I was three years younger and took care of myself.”

  “And you were the sorriest sight I ever did see when you eventually linked up with Fuller. Face it. You and me—we’re strays he picked up. So’s the kid.”

  Unwilling to think about that, Tim pressed on. “Well, get this, Velma: When I went to the Richardson farm to see what was holding him up, sonny boy was sitting in the middle of their parlor couch, surrounded by those girls.”

  “And that worried you? I’d think after everything you just said, that would thrill your gizzard!”

  Wiping his hand down his face as if the act might erase the terrible memory, Tim shook his head and groaned. “Syd was talking about stitch work and poems. He actually ra
ttled off one about a gal making a wedding gown, if you can stomach that!”

  “How . . . interesting.”

  Tim didn’t want to be spreading tales, but he desperately needed a second opinion. Velma wouldn’t go gossiping, and she’d be forthright about her impressions. Tim decided to fill her in completely.

  “That’s not all. Fancy Pants actually suggested a combination of flowers to make a sachet. A sachet!” He shuddered at the memory. Walking in and seeing Syd with his legs crossed like an old maid and waxing poetic about female things almost had Tim gagging. He’d wanted to haul Sydney out of there, but Sydney proceeded to spout off a dissertation on the admirable qualities of lavender and lilac on a woman’s delicate nervous system. Tim had wheeled around and stomped out onto the porch because Sydney’s speech made him want to puke. “Velma, there’s not another man alive who could tell the difference between lilac and lavender!”

  “Now, Tim, Englishmen are educated differently. It isn’t fair to compare, you know. Over there, rich men are trained in the fine art of conversation.”

  “Men, however rich or poor, don’t get that involved. Not real men, anyway.”

  The housekeeper tilted her head to the side and gave him a searching look. “Tim Creighton, are you implying what I think you are?”

  “Yup. I’m not going to stand for it. Fuller ought to be back in three to five days. Between now and then, I’m going to get that kid straightened out and toughened up.”

  Velma took one long look at him, burst out into hysterical laughter, and walked away.

  “It isn’t funny in the least,” he groused.

  The very next day, Tim pulled Sydney into the parlor and carefully shut the door. Sydney’s eyes grew to enormous size. When Tim barked, “Sit!” Sydney did so at once.