At first she’d thought he was making fun of her, but the look on his face said otherwise. He was serious. He really wanted to know if she could talk to her chickens.
Chris regrettedthe words the minute they slipped from his mouth. He was asking a woman he barely knew if she could talk to chickens. He had to get hold of himself. Every encounter with Miss Berry seemed to turn into an out-of-control event where he could not for the life of him think straight. He was afraid the blue eyes peeking out beneath the brim of her bonnet might have something to do with his discomfiture.
Rachel chewed for a moment on her plump lower lip. “I think she hears comforting words and feels the vibrations of my voice when I hold her close.” She paused for a long minute and he would have given a year’s prize money to know what she was thinking.
Finally, she spoke again. “And she does know her name when I call her.”
He must have flashed a look of skepticism, because she put the hen down on the ground and shooed her back into the encroaching flock. Then she called out softly, “Abile,” and made a slight tsking sound with her tongue against her teeth.
When the hen did not re-appear immediately, she turned to him. “She knows I don’t have any more seeds, so she’s going to make me wait.”
Chris waited silently, almost afraid to breathe and tried not to smile at the young woman’s fantastical ideas about farm yard creatures. Suddenly, out of the swirl of hens and roosters, a smug little reddish hen waddled and pecked her way back toward Miss Berry. When she stooped, extended her arms, and intensified the sounds she was making, the hen suddenly leapt, airborne for a few seconds, and landed in her arms.
She made cooing sounds at the bird nestled in her arms, almost as if she were soothing a child. The thought of Rachel Berry cradling a child in her arms hit him like a sharp punch to the gut, a feeling he did not wish to examine too closely.
“Bravo, Miss Berry.” He affected a light clapping motion. “You seem to be some sort of chicken entrancer.”
When she frowned and gave him a piercing stare, he hastened to add, “I’ve come bearing tools and carpenters.” He pointed to a black sailor waiting in the street outside the parsonage gate with a wooden carrying case. A second man carried a load of bits and pieces of various sized lengths of wood. He motioned to the men to join them. “May I present Jonas Holden, my ship’s carpenter, and his assistant, Asah?”
When the two men gave her respectful nods, she acknowledged them with a suspicious look. “What exactly are you going to build?”
Chris answered for all of them. “We’re going to repair that gate and reinforce your fence to keep your, ah, feathery friends, safely inside.
“You mean my chickens?”
“Yes.”
“Captain Halloren, I hope you do not take offense, but you do not look like a carpenter. What exactly areyougoing to do?”
“None taken. I’m here, ah, to supervise these highly skilled carpenters.” He paused for a moment and raised a bundle of more bits of wood. “And I’m good at carrying things and taking orders when on dry land and engaged in work I know nothing about.”
She gave him a long, narrow look and turned on her heel. “I’ll leave you to it then,” she said over her shoulder on her way to the outdoor kitchen. “I have plenty of other things begging my attention.”
When she disappeared into the dark, soot-blackened cook house, Chris felt deflated for the most foolish of reasons. He’d somehow expected she’d keep him company while they repaired the fence.
But repairing the fence to save her chickens was the whole point of the morning’s expedition. Wasn’t it? Heaven help him. He was behaving like a school boy who’d just discovered girls were good for far more than pinching and pulling their hair.
Once inside thecool dark of the stone and mud-straw kitchen, Rachel collapsed with a thump onto a stool in the corner. Both Mrs Chelly and Tenneh whipped their heads around, away from the stew they were preparing.
“What happened you?” Tenneh’s mouth gaped open in a small “O.”
“What happenedtoyou?” Rachel corrected her.
“Nothingme.” Tenneh’s smile in the half-darkened kitchen seemed sly.
“We worry, we do, about you, Miss.” Mrs Chelly came over and offered her an oat cake with a cup of water from a clay jug. “That captain is back again and I don’t see any rescued slaves. What does he want now?” At that, she exchanged a knowing glance with Tenneh.
“He’s here to fix the gate and fence. Father must have asked for his help. We…we should prepare something for him and his men to eat when they’ve finished the repairs.” Rachel’s voice carried the same hint of doubt as that of Mrs Chelly and Tenneh. The were right, of course. Not even she believed her own flimflam tale.
Carpentry was notsomething at which Chris excelled, but he was good at grasping the concepts of anything requiring dexterity.
Since he’d lost his arm at such a young age, he’d spent his life since that time perfecting ways to do any task as well as, or better, than any other man. He excelled at analyzing the steps needed and breaking them down into simpler ways to do anything one-handed. And, after all, fence repair required more than one set of hands anyway. His men seemed pleasantly surprised at how quickly he picked up the skills required of a carpenter’s assistant.
When the three women approached from the kitchen with jugs of lemonade and a plate of fritters, Chris looked at his pocket watch and was amazed at how many hours had passed. He sneaked a proud look at the newly fortified fence and caught Rachel looking as well. He had the strangest urge to jump up and yell “Huzzah!” but he didn’t. Just in time, he realized he and Rachel were being watched closely by both his men and her mission workers.
She was a vicar’s daughter under a lot of public scrutiny. He would never do anything to provoke gossip in the small Freetown community. He refused to besmirch Rachel’s reputation. God help him, he cared too much now.
4
