repast. With the girls to help, it would not take long to clean the kitchen, and then perhaps she could get out to work in the garden for a little while. Weeding was something she truly enjoyed.
"Is there anything else you need me to do, Miss Susannah?" Ben came in through the back door, his arms full of sticks so that she could feed the fire. He'd not forgotten, and she had already praised him lavishly.
"You can feed the chickens."
"Yes'm."
He dropped the sticks into the basket by the hearth and went out. Craddock should be up, too, milking the cow, but Susannah had no expectation of seeing him until she sent Ben to rouse him. He liked his sleep almost as much as he liked strong drink, which was another reason he had never been able to keep a job before.
Craddock was next to useless, and Ben was a flighty boy. They added to, rather than alleviated, the burden that rested on her shoulders. That burden had grown increasingly heavy over the past few months, until she had feared she might crumple under its weight. So what had she done? She'd bought a bound man to make her life easier. That was selfishness, pure and simple, and, as her father had always said, selfishness carried a high price tag. Now she was having to pay that price.
Connelly. She could not think of him without wanting to cringe. It was almost impossible to believe that she, who had never so much as exchanged a flirtatious glance with a man in her life, had found herself half-naked in bed with her bound man just the night before. When she remembered his hands on her breasts and his knee between her legs—to say nothing of the rapacious way he had kissed her!—she felt physically ill.
When she remembered how her body had responded, she felt sick to her soul.
What had passed between her and Connelly made her feel so guilty, angry, and ashamed that she could scarcely face herself in the mirror. How could she, her father's daughter, supposed paragon of righteousness whose virtue was admired and praised by all, harbor such dark yearnings? Her father, did he know what she had done (please God that he never learned of it!), would blame the Devil for tempting her. Susannah knew better; she blamed herself.
Almost worse than the memory was the prospect of dealing with Connelly when he should awaken. Whenever she thought of facing him again, she wavered between blushing with shame and sizzling with fury.
One thing she couldn't do was sell him. At the thought of his blabbing his version of what had happened between them to so much as another living soul, her blood ran cold.
How had she gotten into such a fix? By being mule- obstinate, that's how. Everyone from Sarah Jane to Hiram Greer had tried to tell her that she was making a mistake in buying the man, but she had been too stubborn to listen.
Were it anyone save herself, Susannah would have said that such a comeuppance was richly deserved. As she made the admission, Susannah kneaded and slapped the pasty mass that had swelled almost to her elbows as if it were her new bound man's leering face.
A sound from the parlor stiffened her spine into ramrod erectness. Or, rather, not so much a sound as the cessation of sound. She had not realized how attuned she had been to the harsh rasp of Connelly's breathing. Was he awake so early? Her stomach tightened at the thought.
Folding the dough over one last time, Susannah covered it with a cloth and left it to rise. She walked with measured steps across the wide plank floor of the kitchen through the front hall. In the open doorway that led into the parlor she stopped, wiping her hands on her apron, and then, because there was no help for it, looked toward the bed.
Connelly was raised up on one elbow, looking right back at her. The one long window was situated to catch the morning sun. Bright rays illuminated every comer of the room. Caught in a wash of shimmering daylight, Connelly looked more brutish than ever. He would have been right at home on the deck of a
"Is there anything else you need me to do, Miss Susannah?" Ben came in through the back door, his arms full of sticks so that she could feed the fire. He'd not forgotten, and she had already praised him lavishly.
"You can feed the chickens."
"Yes'm."
He dropped the sticks into the basket by the hearth and went out. Craddock should be up, too, milking the cow, but Susannah had no expectation of seeing him until she sent Ben to rouse him. He liked his sleep almost as much as he liked strong drink, which was another reason he had never been able to keep a job before.
Craddock was next to useless, and Ben was a flighty boy. They added to, rather than alleviated, the burden that rested on her shoulders. That burden had grown increasingly heavy over the past few months, until she had feared she might crumple under its weight. So what had she done? She'd bought a bound man to make her life easier. That was selfishness, pure and simple, and, as her father had always said, selfishness carried a high price tag. Now she was having to pay that price.
Connelly. She could not think of him without wanting to cringe. It was almost impossible to believe that she, who had never so much as exchanged a flirtatious glance with a man in her life, had found herself half-naked in bed with her bound man just the night before. When she remembered his hands on her breasts and his knee between her legs—to say nothing of the rapacious way he had kissed her!—she felt physically ill.
When she remembered how her body had responded, she felt sick to her soul.
What had passed between her and Connelly made her feel so guilty, angry, and ashamed that she could scarcely face herself in the mirror. How could she, her father's daughter, supposed paragon of righteousness whose virtue was admired and praised by all, harbor such dark yearnings? Her father, did he know what she had done (please God that he never learned of it!), would blame the Devil for tempting her. Susannah knew better; she blamed herself.
Almost worse than the memory was the prospect of dealing with Connelly when he should awaken. Whenever she thought of facing him again, she wavered between blushing with shame and sizzling with fury.
One thing she couldn't do was sell him. At the thought of his blabbing his version of what had happened between them to so much as another living soul, her blood ran cold.
How had she gotten into such a fix? By being mule- obstinate, that's how. Everyone from Sarah Jane to Hiram Greer had tried to tell her that she was making a mistake in buying the man, but she had been too stubborn to listen.
Were it anyone save herself, Susannah would have said that such a comeuppance was richly deserved. As she made the admission, Susannah kneaded and slapped the pasty mass that had swelled almost to her elbows as if it were her new bound man's leering face.
A sound from the parlor stiffened her spine into ramrod erectness. Or, rather, not so much a sound as the cessation of sound. She had not realized how attuned she had been to the harsh rasp of Connelly's breathing. Was he awake so early? Her stomach tightened at the thought.
Folding the dough over one last time, Susannah covered it with a cloth and left it to rise. She walked with measured steps across the wide plank floor of the kitchen through the front hall. In the open doorway that led into the parlor she stopped, wiping her hands on her apron, and then, because there was no help for it, looked toward the bed.
Connelly was raised up on one elbow, looking right back at her. The one long window was situated to catch the morning sun. Bright rays illuminated every comer of the room. Caught in a wash of shimmering daylight, Connelly looked more brutish than ever. He would have been right at home on the deck of a
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