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“Then... was Matthew ever married?”
Ezekiel backed away. “I can’t talk about her. Master needs to say her name, not I. But the pie, it was like the one she made.”
“Who?”
Ezekiel ran off.
She returned to the cottage. Inside, Matthew was poking the fire with a stick. His plate of food was barely touched. He hated it. She slumped into a chair, too angry to cry. He had ruined a perfectly good meal, embarrassed her, and given no reason why.
He sighed heavily. “Where did you find the recipe?”
“On some scraps of paper in a drawer.” She pointed to the cupboard.
He rummaged around and pulled them out. “I thought...” He crumpled them into his fist and walked to the fire.
“No, please don’t burn them. They’re helpful. I don’t know what to cook. Please, Matthew. Don’t.”
His expression was sombre and wary, and she detected a shade of sadness in his dark eyes.
He looked at the notes. “Very well. Keep them.” He thrust them into her hand and walked out of the cottage.
Dara smoothed the pieces out and returned them to the drawer. What else was he keeping from her? It was apparent that she was not the first woman to live in the cottage. He probably had been married, but for some reason he could not speak of it. Had she left him or had he lost her to a worse fate? Unless he was prepared to explain to Dara, she dare not ask.
* * *
“All this land is his,” said Ezekiel, pointing from one spot on the horizon to another.
Dara had brought the labourer bread and cheese for his lunch. He was standing by the pigsty. She was used to the stink now, the grunting of the hungry pigs, and the squeals of the piglets. Truth was, she found the smaller ones sweet and amusing, and she often joined Ezekiel and threw them leftovers. She and Ezekiel were alone on the farm. The other two men had gone with Matthew to the market to buy and sell.
“That is many acres,” she agreed. “A large tenancy for one man.”
Ezekiel removed the half-chewed piece of bread from his mouth. “Oh, he’s no tenant, miss. He’s the master of his own land.”
“Owns it? He’s a landowner?” If the acreage was substantial enough, Matthew had more authority than she had realised.
“How came he by the land?” she asked.
“From his parents, I assume. He didn’t buy it. He’s never built upon it, or taken tenants.” Ezekiel shrugged. “He’s his own man.”
“What’s his family name?”
“Denzel.”
She pursed her lips. Unlike Barraclough, this name meant nothing to her.
“What’s yours?” Ezekiel asked.
“Er... Smith.” The lie came easily but the name was a stupid choice.
He grinned and tapped his nose. “Secret’s safe with me, Dara. I’ll not tell anyone you’re hiding here.”
She opened her mouth, then shut it. Lie upon lie was never a good idea. Instead, she smiled sweetly. “Thank you.”
Ezekiel accepted her anonymity with a surprising lack of curiosity. He showed the same disinterest in Matthew’s affairs, too. She understood why Matthew employed the brothers, even with their lazy tendencies. They did not care who he was, and what better way to hide secrets than employ young men with limited imagination.
Matthew returned in time for supper, his pockets jangling with coins.
