A Noble Groom (Michigan Brides #2)(26)

But as the days in the stifling quarters turned into weeks, he realized he’d traded one dungeon for another—except lice the size of sheep roamed the ship. And no amount of protest had kept them from grazing on the fine pastures of his head.

“My vater would take a switch to my backside if he caught me loafing as much as you.”

Carl jumped at the voice of Uri behind him. He shoved his hat back over his unbearably itchy head and turned to face the boy.

Uri crossed the choppy ground through clumps of newly turned loam, a rich black that contrasted with the hard-packed brown of the earth still awaiting the plow and still snow-covered in places. A rifle was perched over one of the boy’s shoulders, and two squirrels dangled by their tails from his other.

Carl guessed him to be around twelve years old, though he had the air of a full-grown man. “Then it’s a good thing your father isn’t here to see how much loafing you’re doing this morning while spying on me.”

Uri drew closer so that Carl could see the anger flash across his young face. “And here I was thinking I might actually like you.”

“Don’t give up on me yet.” Carl wiped at the trail of sweat making its way down his cheek and turned his face to the west, letting the cold wind soothe his overheated skin. “I’ve been told, particularly by the women, that I’m quite likable.”

At that, Uri stumbled, and his eyes widened.

Carl winked. The boy needed to stop taking everything so seriously.

“I thought you wanted to help Annalisa.” Uri paused in front of Old Red and lifted a hand to rub the horse’s muzzle. “But you’ve made a mess of this field.”

Carl turned and surveyed the field—the patches of unplowed land mixed with uneven rows where he’d tried to lead the team. Uri was right. A blind and lame laborer could have done a better job.

Carl then looked toward the vegetable garden near the cabin, where Annalisa and Gretchen had been hoeing, getting the soil ready for planting just as he was doing. Annalisa straightened, arched her back, and her hand went instinctively toward her rounded abdomen.

“I do want to help her,” he said hesitantly. “But I’m not sure I’m the right man for the job.” In fact, he knew he wasn’t the right man. If he was dying after a few hours of work, how would he last the entire day? And the next day?

He was a nobleman, not a peasant farmer. He wasn’t born for a life of hard labor. He was far above such menial work. God had gifted him as a scholar and a learned man. And he should be somewhere else putting his talents to good effort, rather than languishing in a farm field.

But what else could he do for the time being? Where else could he go?

The truth was, as much as he wanted to leave, he couldn’t. Not until he had the chance to make other plans.

Annalisa caressed her stomach, as if she already loved the life growing inside her. Then she reached a hand toward Gretchen, gently combed the girl’s loose strands away from her face, and bent to plant a kiss on her head.

“Annalisa is a good mutter,” Uri said, following his gaze.

“Yes, she is. A very good mother.”

Gretchen lifted the wiggling bundle of puppy into the air toward Annalisa, and Carl was surprised when after a brief hesitation Annalisa lowered her head and gave the dog a peck on his furry forehead.

The little girl gave Annalisa a smile as wide as the ocean and hugged the puppy, dirty paws and all.

The March sunshine bathed both of their bare heads, turning their hair into golden silk and illuminating the sweet delicacy of their features and the helplessness of their situation—a young woman and her child, unable to shoulder the responsibilities of the farm, and very close to losing everything—unless he stayed to help.

As hard as the plowing was, he couldn’t let Annalisa down. If he didn’t plow her fields, no one would. He couldn’t be the cause of her losing her farm. How could he live with himself if he let that happen?

“If you like her,” Uri said, swinging his narrowed gaze back on Carl, “then why don’t you work harder?”

Carl met the boy’s eyes without flinching. “I would like to work harder, but I’m doing the best I can.”

“I’ve never met a man who worked as slow as you.”

Everything inside urged him to tell Uri the truth—to reveal that he was a nobleman, that he’d never stepped foot onto a farm field in his life, much less worked one. Instead he sighed, knowing he must come up with some semblance of an excuse for his bumbling efforts. “I must admit, I’m not accustomed to the hard labor.”

Uri cocked his head.



If they believed him to be a village schoolteacher, he would undoubtedly have some knowledge of farm life, the seasons, and likely even have experience as a laborer.

What could he possibly say that wasn’t an outright lie?

“I only pray that you will be patient with me, Uri,” he finally said, “and perhaps show compassion by teaching me all you know so that I can help your sister.”

Ahead of the horses, a flock of grackles fluttered about with their iridescent wings, landing upon the turned earth, searching the soil for a ready meal of bugs. Like everything else in this poor-man’s country, even the birds must scavenge for their food.

If only he’d never had to leave his homeland . . .

Familiar despair settled heavily within his chest—the same despair that had plagued him since he’d first received news of the bombing at the duke’s palace.