“I’d prefer to spend our wedding night somewhere other than this lean-to or the spare bedroom at the Greedy Vicar.”
She chewed her lip.
“What is it?”
“Have you thought about Small Cailean? He will miss you—he’s become so attached. And his aunt, well…”
“What are you saying, Martha?”
“His aunt takes care of him, but she doesn’t—”
“She doesn’t treat him like he is a person,” Hugo finished for her. More like a dog. Or a draft animal.
“She does her best, but I don’t think he is happy here.”
Hugo groaned. “God, Martha. Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”
“Is your house in London too small?”
He laughed before he could stop himself. Solange’s was enormous, with plenty of rooms.
Martha frowned. “Why is that funny?”
“Having enough room isn’t the issue,” he said. “Why are you saying this? Did Cailean tell you about Lily?”
“Cailean doesn’t really communicate with me—or anyone—like he does with you.”
Hugo pushed down a surge of pride.
“Why, what did he say about Lily?” she asked.
“She’s got a family and wasn’t too friendly about including Cailean.”
“Ah, well, that was bound to happen eventually. I thought she would have gone off long ago.”
“I can’t imagine Cailean would be happy in London, Martha.”
“Why not?”
“It’s noisy, crowded, and there aren’t the sort of places he seems to like—beaches, the sea, plenty of countryside to explore.”
“I think he spends so much time wandering because he doesn’t like to go to his aunt’s house.”
Hugo suspected she was right.
Still, when he tried to imagine the shy, gentle young man in London, he just couldn’t envision it.
Yet when he tried to imagine Cailean on Stroma without Lily or Martha or Hugo, he didn’t want to think about it.
“Good Lord, Martha. What are we going to do about Cailean?”
Chapter 23
Hugo hadn’t expected that he’d have to face any questions about Martha until after work—when he’d agreed to meet her at the Greedy Vicar.
But the people of Stroma once again surprised him.
“You’re a good lad,” Mr. Stogden said once his last day was finally over. “If you ever need a job, you’re welcome back here.”
Hugo was humbled by the compliment “Er, thank you, sir.”
“I understand you’re to marry Martha Pringle.”
Hugo gawked.
Mr. Stogden chuckled. “Even a hermit like me gets news like this quickly.” His face became stern. “I know the vicar regarded you highly, Hugo. He would be pleased with this,” Stogden said, adding to Hugo’s surprise. “Clark is a solid man, but Mr. Pringle wanted the best for Martha. And life on Stroma—well, let’s just say that I encouraged my children to find work elsewhere.” He paused, his eyes suddenly as flinty and hard as the stone in his quarry. “You make sure you do well by her, Hugo Buckingham.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
Stogden handed him a small stack of coins. “Here is your pay.” He smiled and winked. “I hope to see you down at the Vicar later so I can buy you a congratulatory pint.”
“I’d like that, sir.”
It didn’t take Hugo long to clean up and change into his better set of clothing, and he was soon on his way down to the tiny pub. While he wasn’t looking forward to the grilling he’d likely face, he could hardly leave Martha to answer all the questions alone.
“Evenin’, ’Yougo.”
He turned to find Jem Packard ambling toward him.
“Hello, Mr. Packard.”
“I gather I’ll not be takin’ you over quite so early tomorrow?”
Hugo snorted and resumed his trek. “Does everyone on the island know?”
“Aye, and probably on the mainland, too.” Jem fell into step beside him. “Martha says that you’ll get married when the curate comes tomorrow.”
Hugo didn’t hear any judgment in his tone.
“Yes, that’s right. I’ll still need you to take us over after the wedding breakfast—weather permitting, of course.”
Jem didn’t answer immediately
They trudged in silence.
“Aye, reckon I can do that. You talked to Clark?”
Hugo glanced at the older man; Jem had never been this chatty with him before. “No. Why should I have?”
Jem shrugged. “No reason.”
Hugo suspected there was one but that he was too dense to have guessed it.
“I need to stop by Mrs. Fergusson’s,” Hugo said as they neared the small stone cottage where Cailean lived with his aunt and cousin. “Are you going to the Vicar?” That was a stupid question, where else would he be going?
“Aye.”
“Tell Martha I’ll be along shortly.”
Jem looked like he wanted to say something, but just nodded and continued down the path.
Hugo took a deep breath and then knocked on Mrs. Fergusson’s door. He heard the woman yell inside the house and a moment later the door opened.
He grinned up at Cailean. “Ah, just the man I was looking for.” Cailean stepped back into the house without looking at him.
“What’s wrong?” Hugo asked. “Cailean?” But the boy shuffled into the little kitchen with his eyes downcast, leaving Hugo to follow.
“Who was it?” Mrs. Fergusson snapped rudely, not turning from the cookstove where she was cutting potatoes into a pot.
Hugo bristled at her tone; why did she have to speak to her nephew so harshly? “Good evening, Mrs. Fergusson.”
She yelped and spun around, flustered. “Oh, Mester Yougo, er, I didn’t—”
“I want to take Cailean with me,” Hugo blurted, spurred by anger into speaking bluntly. Hugo turned to the lad. “I’m sorry, I should have asked you before—”
Cailean flung his arms around him.
“Cailean,” Hugo wheezed, pounding on the other man’s back when he couldn’t force any words out.
“Let ’im go, Cailean,” the old woman scolded.
Cailean’s vise-like grasp fell away and Hugo sucked in a lungful of air. Yes, one of his ribs definitely felt bruised.
“You awright, Mester Yougo?”
He met Cailean’s worried stare first. “I’m fine.” He smiled to show he meant it. “I take it that’s a yes?”
Cailean nodded vigorously.
Hugo looked at his aunt. “Mrs. Fergusson?”
She swallowed under his harsh stare and glanced at her nephew. Hugo saw regret flicker across her face and knew that she would miss the lad, even though she viewed him as a burden. “You’ll take care of ’im, aye?”
“I will.”
Mrs. Fergusson said something
