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“You didn’t think I looked after all this on my own?” He waved at the expanse of fields. “Ezekiel is the oldest. He looks after the pigs, mucks out their pen. Lemuel is my shepherd lad. Shears the sheep for wool, which I sell in the market, and does the lambing. Bullies the goats when he’s in a bad mood. And Kurt, he’s a strong back. Ploughs the fields. We grow cabbage and barley to make beer. Now they’re ‘ere I can deal with other matters. There’s a wall that needs mending and a roof repairing and...” He nudged her arm.
She was watching Lemuel stroll across the field, Barnaby chasing after him. “Lass,” growled Matthew. “You’ll keep them pretty eyes off my hands. They know their place. They sleep in the barn, and go home on Sundays. They don’t come into the house without my permission. You feed
them in the barn, they keep it homey enough. Make sure there’s a pail of water for them and wrap some bread and cheese, leave it in the basket. If they come into the house, they knock and wait outside, rain or shine. But you keep out of their way.”
She rolled her eyes. “What do you take me for? I don’t dally with servants.”
He slapped her rump and she jumped. “They’re good lads. Don’t corrupt them. One day, they’ll marry good girls and settle down. Go get those eggs.”
* * *
He treated them sometimes like sons. Laughing and joking with them. When he wanted their company, he called them to help him in a task, usually something that required brawn. She quickly learnt that Lemuel was a talker, jabbering away; Ezekiel was the trio’s spokesman—they sent him to the cottage door when they needed more food or returned the empty basket; Kurt was softly spoken with hooded eyes and huge hands, even bigger than Matthew’s. He whispered in the ears of Bert, the Suffolk Punch who pulled the plough, and the horse neighed in reply. He spoke English but with a clipped accent. When he muttered to himself, it was in German.
Matthew only let them near her when he was present. She was not sure if his possessive nature pleased or offended her. When he was not happy with them, he lashed them with his tongue. On one occasion, he caught Lemuel napping in the haystack. Lemuel was dragged about by his ankles and castigated so loudly, Dara heard it all from the yard where she was feeding the hens.
“Who owns this land?” Matthew bellowed.
“You does, Master,” said Lemuel, twirling the cap around in his hands.
“Who owns the sheep?”
“You does, Master.”
“And who owns that lazy arse of yours?”
“I does, Master.” He bowed his head.
“Do I tell your beloved ma that you’re a lazy curd?”
The lad blushed crimson. “Please don’t, Master. She’ll have me guts. She’ll sent me to Black Daniel.”
Matthew patted Lemuel’s face. “Then don’t fall asleep. Off with you.”
He wandered over to join Dara.
“Who’s Black Daniel?” she asked.
“His uncle. A brute. Beats them. Broke Ezekiel’s arm with a staff.”
Given Matthew had spanked her, threatened her with a strapping, she was surprised that he considered this other man a brute. “You brought them here instead?”
“Aye. Their ma begged me to take them and turn them into men. Black Daniel is rumoured to have killed one of his labourers. As for Kurt, he wandered in, picked up the plough as if it weighed nought, and asked for employment. Never quibbled what I pay him. I think he ran away from the army.”
“I guess they’re fortunate.”
“Aye. But don’t go telling them about the begging part. As far as the brothers are concerned they belong to Black Daniel if I let them go. Their mother, bless her soul, would be horrified to send them to him.”
Dara smiled. “They’re nice boys.”
Matthew stepped closer and whispered in her ear, “If they lay a finger on you... you say. I’ll not let them touch you.”
She swallowed. “I’m sure they wouldn’t dare.”
“Aye.” He left her to the chickens.
They called him Master, a title sometimes given to the youngest son of a noble house, and it suited Matthew to have a title. There was something about his manner, if she ignored the rough words and brevity of his speech, that made the hairs on the back of her head stand up. Perhaps he had been a junior officer in a regiment... no. Matthew was not one for following orders. He certainly was not the son of a clergyman. In the end she concluded the title was born out of respect. He treated them fairly, although sternly. He was a natural born leader.
Later that day, when the sun had dipped lower and sent its golden rays bouncing off the grass, Matthew came into the cottage. He kicked off his boots, which she collected and cleaned, and accepted the tankard of ale she’d poured from the pitcher. He sat on the rocker and stretched out his long legs. From out of his pocket he fetched his pipe and he knocked the ash out. The tobacco he kept in a little pouch in his breast pocket.
