Mr. Clark, Hugo couldn’t help noticing, was not among those celebrating Hugo and Albert’s liberation.
The three men enjoyed a pint of ale and slice of mutton pie, courtesy of Joe Cameron, while Martha drank a tiny cup of chocolate and nibbled a slab of bread slathered in butter and strawberry preserves. Hugo had never seen a person enjoy a thimble of chocolate so much. Orgasmic, that was the only word for her expression.
By the end of his meal—and not two hours after he’d exposed his bare arse to the citizens of Stroma—Hugo had received five offers of work. Either the islanders were impressed with what they saw, or—far more likely—they would support any person who got one over on the local constabulary.
The best offer, Hugo reckoned, was from Mr. Abel Stogden.
Stogden was a gruff old man who earned his crust cutting flagstone and selling it to a buyer on the mainland. Hugo thought his job sounded the most promising, but that might have been because he didn’t really understand most of the others.
He suspected Martha had listened to his conversations, although she’d remained unusually quiet, and he was hoping she might have some guidance when it came to translating the other offers.
Unfortunately, Martha was no longer giving him the yearning looks she’d shot his way when she’d believed that he headed off to the far side of the world. She was now regarding Hugo as if he were a problem that she wasn’t sure she was interested in solving.
In any event, Hugo was full of good food and ale and optimistic about the future for the first time in weeks as he followed the Pringles and Albert back to the meeting house
“You may stay at the meeting house as long as you need to,” Mr. Pringle said when they reached the stone cottage. He glanced at his daughter. “But you’ll need to arrange with Martha when it comes to food or laundry and whether she has time to provide such services.” Mr. Pringle patted his daughter’s shoulder before climbing the stone steps. “It’s been a taxing day, my dear. I’ll leave you young people to your own devices.”
Hugo almost asked if he could have a minute of his time, but the old man looked so exhausted that he decided to wait until tomorrow to ask about the mysterious favor he now owed him.
Once the door shut behind him, Albert turned to Miss Pringle. “Please, you must tell me what I can do to help—not for future bed and board as the Wilsons offered me a job with both—but for all that you’ve already done for me.”
Her smile was sweet and gentle and—Hugo couldn’t help noticing—not an expression that she ever turned in hisdirection. “It’s been a long day, Mr. Franks. Perhaps we can speak about the matter after church?”
“Of course, miss.” He smiled shyly. “And … thank you for everything.” He turned and disappeared into the meeting house.
Her eyes swiveled to Hugo. “And you, Mr. Buckingham.”
Hugo grinned. “In the flesh—but not as much as this morning.”
Her jaw sagged.
“I need to ask you something,” Hugo said hastily, before she slapped his face, stormed into the house, and slammed the door. “It’s not anything salacious,” he assured her, when she took a step back.
“Hmm.”
“Is that a yes?”
She crossed her arms. “Get on with it.”
“Did you hear my conversations with, er …” He racked his brain to recall the names he’d memorized when he couldn’t understand anything they said. “Mr. Craig, Mr. Donald, Mr. Smith, and, er, I think another Mr. Smith—Brian, maybe? And Mr. Stogden.”
“Oh, do you mean those conversations in which the islanders were all falling over themselves to give you work?”
Hugo chuckled. “They doseem inordinately fond of me, don’t they?”
“It’s more that they despise McCoy and all men like him.”
“How kind of you to keep me from getting a big head, Miss Pringle.”
“I’m far too late for that. Do you know what a wrecker is?”
Hugo blinked at the change in subject. “Er, somebody who wrecks things?”
She gave him a look that could strip the barnacles off a ship’s hull. “Wreckers are coastal folk who lure ships to their doom and then collect the cargo.”
“Ah. But surely not the people here?”
“I will cast no aspersions, Mr. Buckingham. Aside from wrecking there is also the issue of illegal spirits. A goodly number of the islanders brew to supplement their income. They are, quite understandably, wary of anyone who might be in league with the excisemen.”
“I see,” Hugo said, feeling rather stupid for not discerning that fact earlier. So that was why they were angry with Clark.
“Hmmph. But I believe you had a question.”
“Of those offers of work, which one do you advise me to accept?”
“Why are you asking me?” she asked with no little suspicion.
He scratched his head and grimaced; he was determined to wash his hair tonight even if he had to do it in freezing saltwater. “Er, mainly because the only one I could understand even a little was Mr. Stogden.” He thought that might have been a smile tugging at her lips.
“Mr. Craig offered you work on his yole—it is his boat,” she said when she saw his perplexed expression. “Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith, and Mr. Donald are fishermen and crofters, and need help around their farms.”
“Thank you.” Hugo hesitated, “You know I am city born and bred. Could you tell me a little about what these jobs entail?”
“Mr. Craig’s work will probably be the least physically strenuous, although your days will be long. Crofter work is non-stop and you would labor from dawn to dusk, it will require a certain facility with animals—sheep, pigs, fowl, perhaps a mule. Lots of cleaning out of animal enclosures and such. As for cutting flagstone, well…” She let her gaze flicker over him and then swallowed, the flush he loved so well creeping up her neck. “I’m sure you can guess it is excessively hard work, but Mr. Stogden pays almost twice as much as the
