“I can give you a hand.”
They finished their coffee and then got up to sort out what they could serve for a hearty lunch. Mary checked the icebox and set a lump wrapped in paper firmly on the counter. “This should do. Salted beef.”
Belle got out some onions and began to peel them. They soon had the meat boiling and the vegetables readied to be added when needed. It would not be done until a little later than she usually had lunch, but she had the roast she was cooking to make up for it, Belle decided.
She and her aunt had just sat down to have some more coffee when Geordie walked in. He nodded toward the coffeepot and Belle nodded back, so he poured himself a cup and sat down.
“Something smells good,” he said. “What are ye making?”
“Corned beef. So, lunch might be a little late. Ever had it?”
“Aye. Mrs. O’Neal has made it at times. Salted beef, she called it.”
Belle nodded. “I have heard that name. Salted beef is what Auntie calls it. It certainly is more fitting. I have a weakness for whatever is left over. Chop it all up and fry it. Good for breakfast the next day.”
“Like that at our house, though there is rarely much left over. Lots of times Matthew and his family join us. Then there is the ever-growing crop of children. And the three orphans who were taken in, one being Iain’s wife’s nephew and the two Matthew’s wife collected from the war. Then there are the Powells and their growing families. Huh, ye were right when ye said we are building a wee village.”
Mary laughed. “Not so ‘wee,’ is it?”
“Nay”—Geordie grinned—“and I suspect it has more growing to do.”
Chapter Eleven
Geordie built a fire in the fireplace in the sitting room, hoping it would ease the damp in the house. Mehitabel sat on the well-cushioned settee in front of the fire and picked up some sewing out of a bag next to it. Geordie sat down beside her, looked at the badly torn small shirt she held in her hands.
“Abel is a little rough on his clothes, aye?” Geordie asked, and winced a little as he thought on what Mrs. O’Neal would have to say about that.
She smiled. “Very rough on his clothes. He got caught up in a tree when wearing this. He was climbing the tree and ended up hanging from a branch by this shirt. Auntie stood under him in case the shirt finished ripping while I climbed up to get him.” She shook her head. “And I hate heights. Fortunately, Abel is a skilled clinger, so once he had a good grip on my back there was no trouble getting him down.”
“How old is he?”
“Almost nine. Small for his age, but my father was short and slight of build.”
“He spends a lot of time with your auntie.”
“I know. At times like now, that is actually a help but it is mostly because the school he attends is nearer to her home than mine and, well, I think she is often too aware of how empty her house has become. Uncle died several years ago when his fishing boat went down, her youngest sons now work for Bennet, her daughter got married last summer, and her eldest son is at Harvard. She claims Abel gives her something to do other than sitting in a rocker and knitting.”
Geordie laughed. “I only talked with her for a few minutes, but I just cannae picture her doing that.”
“Neither can I, especially because she doesn’t knit. She does tat, make lace, though.” Belle pointed toward the long, low table in front of them with a lovely cream cover on it. “This cloth is some of her work.”
“Verra nice. My mither occasionally did some, but mostly before she had so many boys running around. Robbie did weaving before he got hurt. He made most of the carpets in our house. He loved doing it and he was verra good.”
Belle put her hand on his arm and, moved by the sadness in his voice, gently rubbed it. “I never make promises about healing, but I do believe his hand will be greatly improved. I did nothing to fix it as he was not wounded there, but my cream seems to be doing better than I ever expected.”
“Robbie actually thinks it is the way you have it rubbed into his hand, so I have been doing the same.”
“Huh.” She sat back and thought about that. “I will have to see to that tomorrow.”
He turned so that he faced her, and settled his arm along the back of the settee behind her. “What will ye have to see?”
“Just if massaging his hand really helps in some noticeable way. If it helps it regain its limberness and strength.”
“He says it does, and he would know.” He kissed her ear and felt her shiver.
She briefly eyed him with suspicion, which increased a lot when he just smiled. “He would know if it felt better, yes. But I want to see what I feel as I do the massage.”
“Ah, weel, it is true I dinnae ken what is what under the skin, but it felt more normal to me than it has since he got hurt. He also held his spoon and fork more firmly than he has since he was hurt.”
