“Aye, I am here to observe and learn from ye, after all.”
He clicked his tongue at Mr. Bennion’s horse, but it didn’t move any faster. “Well, this is what I would say. Don’t wonder where your work comes from. Just be grateful you have it.”
A strange sentiment from an entitled baron-to-be. Grateful for work?
“Still, as a farmer, he must have a cart and a horse.”
He raised an eyebrow in her direction and she stopped. She was still doing it. Wondering. The exact thing he told her not to do. She shook her head. It seemed a strange request to deliver a goose. If Mr. Johnson were a grocer who needed to stay in his shop while the goose was delivered, that would make sense. She had to think a farm would stand just fine on its own for the half hour it would take to deliver the goose to town. “It does seem to be an extravagance though.”
Mr. Harrison simply shrugged.
A day earlier, when she offered to pay Mr. Bennion to stay in his home and allow her to accompany Mr. Harrison on his deliveries, he had seemed hesitant. But he admitted thatMr. Scarperended up with more deliveries than he ever had. He had even hinted that it had something to do with Mr. Harrison being young and unattached. Perhaps the farmer had a daughter that wanted to spend time with Mr. Harrison. Lucy eyed the back of the cart again. Each package was sorted nicely into a pile. The milliner’s pile was quite small. It couldn’t be more than a few spools of thread or a few bundles of ribbon.
There was another pile of soaps and papers, but again, not a large enough bundle that it couldn’t have been carried by whomever needed it.
Nothing in the cart was for any sort of hard labor or large job.
What was going on? Was every woman in town creating extra work for him?
“Is Mr. Johnson’s daughter married?”
“Which one?”
So there were more than the one in town. “Any of them.”
“The one we are delivering to—yes. But he has five unmarried daughters at home.”
Five. Lucy let out a puff of air. So that was it, then. Mr. Johnson was one of the men from town using the delivery of his goose to encourage his daughters to spend time with Mr.Harrison. Was there such a shortage of bachelors in Fenswallow that a delivery man would be such a commodity?
She looked at the back of the cart again. There were six small piles, all small enough for a person to easily carry. Only one large pile—a stack of four large logs—sat in the middle of the cart.
“What are all of our deliveries to be today?”
“We have Mr. Johnson’s goose, the millinery, some medicine headed for Dr. Hill, new teacups for Mrs. Goodfellow, which she ordered yesterday. Actually, a few of our deliveries are from the haberdashery—some letter writing paper for Miss Fellows, a new knitting basket for Miss Hampton, Miss Bringhurst ordered some new hatpins, Miss?—”
Lucy put her hands to her hips. “Do no married women shop at the haberdashery?”
Mr. Harrison blinked. He turned to look at her and blinked again. His mouth opened as if he might say something, but she had no idea what. Somehow she doubted he would tell her she was being a loggerhead, even if he thought it.
“I…believe married women shop there.”
“But they manage to carry their own goods home?”
He tipped his head to one side as if he were considering her strange line of thinking. “Or perhaps their husbands do.”
“Have none of these misses a father or brother who could do that for them?”
“I don’t wonder where my work comes from?—”
“Ye are simply grateful you have it. Aye, I know.” She grunted. What was wrong with her? She didn’t even know if she liked Mr. Harrison, and here she was becoming jealous. Still, he washerfiancé. She should be the only woman purposely making him run around town. “Are we almost to this farm I’ve heard so much about?”
“I haven’t told you?—”
“Are we almost there, Mr. Scarper?” Her accent slipped a bit on that one. Mr. Harrison was going to think he was marrying a woman quite out of her head when they finally did marry. She needed to start acting a bit more rationally.
“It is a farm. We’ve a ways to go yet.”
A ways to go. The best thing for her to do would be to sit in silence. She had already made enough of a fool of herself. Not speaking, however, was a chore better suited to the man beside her.
