Julia covered her mouth to stifle her laughter. Daniel was about to ask her if she planned to enjoy the show or assist in diffusing the war, when a pair of spindly legs in beat-up boots dangled from the tree and dropped to the ground.
A young girl sprawled in the dirt. Springing to her feet, she tugged down her skirts and her dust-covered apron. She straightened her mobcap, two black braids swinging beneath it. She appeared to be around seven or eight years old. “You sure you ain’t no good for nothin’, grotty Irish eejits here to nick our jobs and the food out of our bellies?” Her eyes blazed in dark fury, her small fists raised.
“Cor, she needs a tongue washing,” Jonathan giggled.
“Shh.” He squeezed Jonathan’s calf. The girl’s anger had been stoked by a parent’s bitter ire, voiced without censure.
Something was rotten in the state of Denmark. If the girl’s words were to be believed, it involved raised rents and the hiring of Irish laborers. Before he had left America, there were signs of Irish immigrants moving into the mills populating New England. Undoubtedly, they sought a warmer welcome across the Atlantic, for the roots of the animosity between the Irish and English were planted centuries ago and dug deep.
Julia stepped forward. “I assure you we are as English as you, and as Lord Bryant says, we come bearing food. I am Lady Julia Chandler, and you are?”
The girl gaped at Julia, her eyes midnight black and enormous. They roamed over them, until they pinned Jonathan in an accusatory glare.
“He is harmless. But should he get out of hand, I will tie him up with the horses,” Daniel promised, his expression solemn.
“Will not,” Jonathan squealed, kicking out.
“Will, too,” Daniel shot back, trapping his legs with a gloved hand and winking at the girl.
A giggle escaped. “Blimey, you don’t sound like no Irish eejits. You be a lord, like yonder damn duke?”
Jonathan hooted. “Now she’s done it! She’ll be swallowing soapsuds for sure.”
“Beatrice. Beatrice Alice Mabry!” a voice thundered, causing the girl to freeze and hunch her shoulders.
The deep baritone belonged to a large man with lined, weatherworn features, who hastened over. His hair and eyes were as black as his daughter’s and just as cold as they leveled on their group. He carried a large spade and wore dirt-stained overalls. He planted a protective hand over the girl’s shoulders.
“Your Grace.” A tic vibrated in his cheek, a telltale sign he struggled to cap the anger the young girl could not. “I apologize for my daughter. Beatrice can be outspoken.” He cleared his throat, but forged on. “Can I assist you with anything? Your bailiff was down here last week and spoke to us about the vacant houses.” He jerked his head down the street.
While curious to hear what the man had to say, Daniel had learned from Julia that people did not like to be deceived. “I am sorry, I am His Grace’s twin, Lord Bryant, and I have recently returned after years abroad.”
The man scrutinized Daniel’s features, and his grip on his daughter’s shoulder relaxed. Something flared in his eyes, a recognition. The tension gripping him eased, and his smile was tentative. “Lord Bryant, welcome home.”
Daniel caught the hint of warmth coloring his tone. He had always been on friendlier terms with the tenants, Edmund keeping his ducal distance. From their polar opposite welcomes, it was clear that some things had not changed.
“Lady Julia, my brother’s lovely fiancée; her sister, Lady Emily; along with their younger brother, Lord Jonathan, have graciously accompanied me on this visit, because Bedford is in Kent on a hunting trip.” He tried to look apologetic. “I am afraid, my impatience got the better of me, and I could not wait for his return. Is your offer of assistance still open?”
“Of course.” Worry darkened his eyes. “But my wife be sick. I can’t leave her for long. She—”
“Please, Mr. . . . ?” Julia interceded, stepping forward, her expression concerned.
“Mabry, Tim Mabry, and this here is my Beatrice.”
“I’m just Bea,” his daughter corrected. “’Cause I can sting like a bee,” she proclaimed.
Having weathered her sting, Daniel’s lips twitched at the apt name.
“I’m Jonathan ’cause . . . ’cause that’s what my father named me. Can I get down?” He bounced excitedly on Daniel’s shoulders. “I want to climb Just Bea’s tree, scout for Irish eejits, and fire apples at them.”
Daniel ducked his head to hide his snicker as he lifted Jonathan and set him onto his feet.
“There will be absolutely no firing apples at anyone,” Julia spoke firmly, not as amused as he. “Not one, Jonathan. But if you stay on the lowest branches, and Bea keeps an eye on you, you may climb the tree,” Julia relented.