But then, what other choice had she? “Show me the house, Danielle.”
Chapter Three
Jean Paul yawned as he surveyed his beans, the green plants leafy and tall as they wove their way up the trellis. Though it was only the beginning of July, within another week or two his first batch of the tender pods would be ready to harvest.
He paused to pluck a weed, then went on to his tomatoes, squash, carrots and potatoes. The leaf lettuce and kale needed to be cut yet again, radishes waited to be picked and the summer squash would be ready about the same time as the beans and cucumbers. More food than he’d ever be able to consume, and just in the vegetable garden. His fields stretched beyond, filled with a mixture of wheat, turnips, barely and clover that he rotated yearly.
He drew in a breath of fresh morning air and looked out over his work. His land. His fields. Today he needed to weed the lower field and check the—
“Bonjour?” A voice called from up near the house.
He glanced at the sun, barely risen above the trees in the east, and hastened through the rows of radishes and tomatoes. Was there an emergency in town? A task for which the mayor needed him? Someone must have good reason for calling before the sun had been up an hour.
“Bonjour?” The voice echoed again, its light, feminine cadence accompanied by a pounding sound.
Who could it be? He frowned as he trudged around the side of the house.
And there she was, standing beside his cottage door as though she’d appeared from the mist. She wore the same threadbare dress and apron as yesterday, and her hair was once again tucked sloppily under her mobcap with stray auburn tresses hanging down to frame her cheeks. Her skin was paler than milk from a cow, and the features of her thin face sunken with weariness.
And yet she seemed beautiful somehow, in the delicate way only a woman could be beautiful when tired and hungry. He took a step forward, the urge to aid her twining through him. He’d hustle her inside where he could give her food and let her sleep. Offer her—
His movement must have given himself away because she turned to face him, then bit her lip.
“Citizen, forgive me. I thought you were...” Her eyes slid back to the door.
“Inside, hiding from you?”
Her cheeks pinked, a truly lovely shade, and a much better color than the deathly white that had stolen over her when last they’d spoken.
“Non, Citizen. I don’t have a need to hide from women—or men. Farmers start their days early.” He surveyed her again, her thin, willowy body and slender shoulders, the hollowness in her cheeks and her bonelike fingers. “As do you.”
Her cheeks turned from soft pink to bright red, and she dipped her gaze to the ground. “I came to see about the post again. Perhaps you’ve changed your mind and are willing to hire me?”
“You need food, not a post.”
“Non. I—”
“Wait here. I’ve soup you can take.” He headed toward the well along the side of the yard and reeled the bucket up, his leftover food from yesterday’s evening meal cool and fresh thanks to the water.
Footsteps padded on the earth behind him. “I didn’t come for food. I came for a post.”
He hefted the bucket out of the well and headed for the house. “And I told you yesterday, I’ve no need of a maid.”
“The deplorable taste of your bread convinced me otherwise.”
The side of his mouth twitched into that foreign feeling of a smile. The woman might be slight of body, but it took a speck of courage to tell him his food tasted horrid while he prepared yet another meal for her. “’Tis true, I’ve no knack for making bread. Though on days when I head to town, as I did yesterday, I purchase some.”
He opened the door to his cottage, and rather than try to force her inside as he had yesterday, he left the door open and set the soup on the table. He ladled the thickened liquid from his bucket into a second pail, then reached for the loaf of bread from the baker’s, tore it in half and wrapped it. The meal should suffice her for today, mayhap even tomorrow if she rationed it.
“I don’t need your charity.” She stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her slender chest.
He moved to her and held out the food. “You look as though you’ve not eaten for a month.”
“I don’t claim to eat well, but that’s a situation I can remedy myself. If you hire me.”
Having a woman in his home would be like salt on memories that were far too raw. Corinne’s smile when he made her laugh, the shine of her hair in the lamplight, the taste of her lips beneath his and feel of her face in his hands. How many days had they toiled together, working side by side in the fields? How many nights had they spent in each others’ arms in the little house at the back of his property? How many times had he come through the door, tired and dirty, to find a fresh meal and smiling wife awaiting his return...
“Citizen?” The woman in the doorway cleared her throat.
“Non. I can’t hire you.” He dipped his head toward the food he still held. “Now take this and make haste.”
Her vulnerable gaze trapped him. She was so much like Corinne. Oh, her hair might be tinted with red and russet rather than blond, and her eyes might be a soft brown rather than blue. But she held herself the same—with strength and dignity.
Nothing good would come of having her about this house. Besides, if he did offer work, he hadn’t any place to put the woman except for the cottage at the back of the property. The one he’d shared with Corinne.
He’d not darkened the door of that building since his wife’s death, and he had no intentions to start now. The structure could sit and rot until it fell down for all he cared. Mayhap it already had fallen down. He didn’t know, and he didn’t plan to check.
“What about for bread?” the woman asked.
“What mean you, ‘for bread’?”
“You could hire me to make your bread.” She swallowed, her throat working too hard for such a simple action. “And I’ll bring you a fresh loaf every morn.”
He ran his eyes slowly down her. “How do I know you’re not a worse baker than I?”
Her chin came up a defiant notch. “I assure you, Citizen, a slug could mix together some mud, bake it and create a more tasteful loaf than that which you shared yesterday.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Tell me, did you compare your previous employer to a slug? It might explain why you’re in need of a post.”
Her face flushed, as though she hadn’t fully realized what she’d been saying until he drew attention to her words. “Pardon me, but I’d best be on my way.”
She turned, leaving the food in his hands.
“Wait.”
She stopped just outside the door, the sun’s tinted rays bouncing off the back of her mobcap and turning her skin a silky gold.
He thrust the food forward. “You’re forgetting something.”
“I told you I don’t take charity.” She kept her back to him. “I work for my food.”
She wasn’t like the other widows he offered food to, the ones with little mouths to feed and run-down cottages to keep. The ones that would burst into tears if he dared ask compensation for the goods he offered.
“Do you live near enough to bring me bread every morn? I’ll not hire you if it means you must walk to and from town.”
“I live quite close, merci.”
His mind ran through