Flustered by the wicked gleam in his eyes, Bea tried to think of some clever repartee.
Luckily, Jim Ellerby cut in. “Now me, I don’t mind repeating things, but I really don’t mind ’aving an extra pair o’ ’ands when I’m doing it.” The brawny farmer clapped Murray on the shoulder as if they were long-lost cronies. “Smith, I ’ad my doubts ’bout you, on account o’ you being a toff, but you’re a fine worker. Ne’er seen a fellow pitch hay as quick as you did back there.”
“Maybe you ’ave the makings o’ a farmer after all,” Mr. Gable said with a guffaw.
This was no small compliment from Mr. Gable, who was burly and strong as an ox. Grunts of agreement rose from the other men as well. A few of them buffeted Murray on the arm, and he returned the masculine gestures with good-natured punches of his own.
Bea watched on in amazement. By all rights, as a wealthy gent amongst the laboring class, Murray ought to stick out like a sore thumb. Instead, he was like a dashed chameleon, able to fit in wherever he happened to be.
“The winner o’ the contest deserves a drink,” Mr. Ellerby declared.
Mrs. Gable handed her son a tray of cups and nudged him forward. “Go on, Billy, and bring the gent some lemonade.”
Billy shuffled a few steps over to Murray, his gaze averted. Silently and abruptly, he shoved the tray in Murray’s direction, almost hitting the other in the midsection. The action would seem rude to anyone who didn’t know the boy; Bea saw the worried looks exchanged between Billy’s parents.
Before she could intervene, Murray took one of the tin cups.
“Thank you…Billy, is it?” When no reply came, he smiled and sampled his beverage. “Nothing like lemonade on a hot day. I’m sure the others would like one of those drinks too, lad.”
Without looking up or replying, Billy made the rounds to the others.
Mrs. Gable hurried over to Murray. “I’m sorry, sir. Billy’s just learning—”
“He’s a good lad,” Murray said. “A helpful one, too.”
“He tries.” Mrs. Gable bit her lip. “He’s just different, see, from the others—”
“Every flower blooms in its own time, ma’am, and in its own way.”
Murray’s gentle words struck a chord in Bea, surprise and some deeper feeling reverberating through her. He was the mostconfoundingman. How could a tenacious industrialist and reputed rake be…caring? For there was no doubting his sincerity, nor its effect on Mrs. Gable who looked as if he’d given her a gift.
Which he had, by not treating Billy like a pariah. For seeing beyond the boy’s oddities to his positive qualities.For being a man who can see beneath the surface.
With a desperate shiver, Bea shut out the thought.
“You’re very wise, sir,” Mrs. Gable said.
“I can’t take credit for the saying. I stole it from my sister-in-law. She uses it to console my nephew.”
“Console him, sir?”
“He has the double misfortune of being the youngest of three boysandmy namesake.”
As his rueful words drew laughter from the others, Bea told herself that she wasnotinterested in Murray’s family and background. At all. Yet she couldn’t stop the image from forming: of him playing with his nephews, who, if they had the Murray blood, must be altogether too charming.
Family, children…Her throat cinched.Things that can never be mine.
In a flash, she saw the worst of the dangers Murray posed: he resurrected her old dreams.
Shehadto talk to him. Seeing him with Billy and her other friends convinced her that he wasn’t entirely a bad sort, surely not the cold-hearted railway tycoon the papers made him out to be. She would give him a final refusal of both his offers—for her hand and her property—and hopefully, that would be that.
“The hay won’t collect itself, lads,” Mr. Ellerby declared. “We best get back while the sun is still a-shining.”
“The sooner we finish, the sooner we can celebrate,” another of the men added.
Mr. Gable sauntered over, a half-eaten sandwich in hand, and thumped Murray on the back.
“Think you’ll be up to another wager, Smith?” he asked between large bites.
