works.”
“You’ll drop with exhaustion afore then.”
“Probably,” she replied.
“Then you’d best na’ do it. I doona’ mind a bit of scarring, especially on my back. Might make me appear a bit rakish, now that I mull it.”
“Rakish?”
“Aside from which, who sees a man’s back?”
“Your wife, for one.”
“I doona’ have one,” he said between bites.
“You don’t? That is not good.”
“Actually, to my way of thinking, it’s verra good.”
“A man your age should have a wife. He should have a few babes, too. He shouldn’t be unwed, naked beneath a cloak of tar and feathers, being tended by a young, unmarried woman. He shouldn’t.”
“A man my age?” he replied. “ My age? I think I’m offended, Constant. Truly offended. And that’s difficult to comprehend.”
“Why haven’t you wed?”
“I doona’ ken for certain. Limited selection. Na’ enough pressure,” he answered.
“Pressure?”
“It’s a long story. Canna’ we talk of something else?”
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Twenty-eight. Almost twenty-nine.”
“Twenty-eight? Good heavens! You’re almost old enough to be a grandfather.”
“Oh. Please,” he said, in a sarcastic fashion.
“You have a problem with marriage?”
“Nae.”
“You have a problem with responsibility?”
“Nae,” he replied again, in the same tone.
“Then, why aren’t you wed?”
“I already told you. The selection is too broad, and at the same time, too blasted narrow. And I doona’ wish to speak more on it. Agreed?”
She thought about that for a few moments. “I’m sorry I asked,” she finally replied.
“So am I.”
“I’m going to start on your feathers now.”
“Well, doona’ let me delay you.”
The answer was flippant and accompanied by another slurping sound as he took a bite of stew. Constant pulled the tub of lard over to her side. If she worked through the night she might be able to get most of the tar from him. And if she did that, he’d be leaving sooner.
“Do you have the care of the animals, too?”
“What?” she asked.
“I’m attempting a change of subject.”
“We don’t have a subject.”
“Verra well, then, I’m attempting to find a subject. One that does na’ include talk of marriage and all the chains that accompany it. And one that veers away from my present state of undress and incapacity. So . . . do you? Take care of the horses, goats, pigs, cows, cats, dogs, and whatever else you have on this farm?”
“Chickens,” she said, thinning her lips.
“Chickens?”
“You asked what else we have. The answer is chickens.”
“Oh. And do you take care of them all?”
“Most of the time.”
“You’re verra humble, Constant. It’s odd. I’m eating the results of your culinary skills, I’m on the receiving end of your compassion, and I heard Henry talking and playing all day. He does na’ seem to have a bone devoted to responsibility.”
“He’s the long-awaited heir in a household of eight sisters. And he was a sickly baby.”
“Oh. I see. He’s God’s gift, then?”
She sighed and looked from his feet to his head and back. “I’m afraid this is going to be a bit difficult. You may not want to do much talking.”
“On the contrary, I’m speaking for a reason.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“So, Constant, tell me, doona’ you have sisters to help you? What’s this Stream do?”
“You’re not going to tell me the reason?”
“Uh . . . nae. I’m invoking patient’s privilege. So, tell me about this Stream. She is na’ much help to you. Why?”
“She’s an invalid.”
“Oh.” He was silent for a bit. She heard him slurp more of her stew. For some reason, his appreciation of it made her warm all over. She wondered what that meant. “I’m sorry,” he said finally.
“Don’t be. She was born that way. We accept it.”
“I can still be sorry.”
Constant sat on her heels and looked over the length of man at her knees.