World Enough and Time

[Lizzie B]

It was so easy, to let him take care of things. To sit at the table and watch him with her tired eyes, feeling more and more exhausted by the minute. He had a strange way of talking, more cheerful than she'd ever heard. He truly seemed...happy. Genuinely, truly, happy. What would she have given for that kind of happiness? Anything. Just about anything.

He sang too, like an angel. Strong, rich, deep voice echoing around inside her head in the most pleasant sort of way. She leaned her cheek into her good hand, listening and watching, breathing in the heavenly smell of the food he was making. It would no doubt be the best omelet she'd ever had. Partly because she was starving, and partly because he'd made it...and he had something. Something special. Maybe she could catch it, like the flu or the chicken pox. If only joy was as contagious.

When he set the plate down in front of her, making excuses, she shook her head and smiled up at him. "No, this is perfect." And it was. It looked perfect, smelled perfect, tasted...well, she didn't get to taste it. Clara was just reaching for her fork, as he started the Lord's prayer. Her family had prayed before dinner, back when they still ate together. Or rather, whenever they could eat together. Still, living on her own with no idea when she would just disappear? Praying often seemed like a waste of time, and a danger to her health. She needed to eat, as quickly as humanly possible.

And yet, she paused, listening to his words and returning his smile when he was finished. He looked embarrassed, but she wanted to tell him not to be. Her prayers weren't nearly as beautiful. They came in times of distress, silent and panicked in her head. And, while often answered, she rarely remembered to thank him. And so, she added her own bit at the end. I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry. "Amen."

They dug into the food, and Clara moaned. Yes, that's right, moaned. She realized what she'd just just after she'd done it, still mid chew, face turning a flaming red. "It's really good." she choked, after she'd swallowed, stuffing another bite in before she could humiliate herself even further.

[Justric]

I"It's really good." she choked, after she'd swallowed, stuffing another bite in before she could humiliate herself even further.

Michael laughed openly, a huge smile on his face. "Greater praise than I've heard before, Miss Clara! My Da, he just shoveled it in without a word, he did." He took another bite off his own plate. "In the morning, you can show me what all needs to be done. If I can get that there steamer in the barn up and running, you'll soon to have a farm you'll be proud to call your own! " He took another bite, nearly polishing off his plate in the doing.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, he stood to clear off the table. "And you should take things slow for the next few days, if you catch my meaning. I know this is your castle, so to speak, and I'll do as you say, don't worry about that. You have a job for me, and I'll have it done. The boss may be right and the boss may be wrong, but the boss is still the boss. You're a proud woman, I can tell, and I'd be a damn fool not to let you have your say." Michael opened the stove door to bank the fire, his muscled back towards Clara.

"But you're hiring me to take care of the place. By my reckoning, that means taking care of you as well, leastwise til you're one your feet. And working yourself to death when you have a hired hand... well, that's just stubbon, so tis." He turned back around and coughed uncomfortably. "There... now that that's said..." He coughed again.

"If you want to write up a list of whatever you need for the house, I'll see if I can find a way to town later this week."

[Lizzie B]

She was truly exhausted, and it started to take over as she listened to him talk excitedly, finishing off her food. He cleared the plates and went off talking, though Clara did little but stare at him in shock. He started going on about fixing up the farm, taking orders from her, taking care of her. The whole thing was a blurr, far more than she'd been expecting. But, this was his life now, wasn't it?

Yes. He lived here, he worked here. There was no reason why they shouldn't talk about things, get it all sorted out. Still, Clara's brain was a foggy mess of pain and exhaustion. Couldn't she just turn him loose? No, the poor man didn't even know where everything was. She'd have to give him some sort of instruction. In fact, she would have been happy to work along side him...but the pain in her wrist was intense and he had made one thing clear. She needed to take it easy.

"Uhm...ok. Yeah, I'll write that." she ran a hand through her mess of curls, thinking hard, glancing around the room. What had he needed? "The tub is in there." she said, pointing to a supply closet. "You can drag it into the living room, there's a fireplace, if you want to try to warm it. You'll have to haul the water in from outside though. Uhm...I could show you to your room? Maybe find you some clean clothes? I can try to do laundry tomorrow..." with one hand. "I mean, might need your help with it." Might. Well, wasn't she feeling confident.

[Justric]

Micheal took a breath to keep from sighing in relief. He had been afraid she would fight him, tell him off for being presumptuous. Last thing he wanted was to be shown the door. And not just for the fear of losing work, he realized. The words were not there, but he had the sensation that being spurned would be a... a sad thing, should he never see her again.

At the mention of the room, Michael nodded. "I'll stow my haversack and the like and then bring in water for the bathing." He grinned and pulled at the neck of his shirt. "This thing is fair glued on, I tell you, miss!"

He could feel the shirt pull and strain as he moved. Being damp with sweat and well-water didn't help, but the cloth was old and worn to begin with. Miss Clara had mentioned something about her father's old clothes earlier; hopefully he and Michael would have been of a size.

As he followed her, he wondered. Did she understand? As terrible a turn as this young woman's life may have followed, she was offering him a paradise. Had she never seen the slums? The crowding, the disease, the rot, the crime? The city ground you up and spit you out unless you either managed to run or fight back. Those who fought didn't last long.

And here she was, offering him a bed of his own- No, a room of his own. She offered clothing, used to be sure, but clothing was clothing, you learned not to be too discerning. A kitchen to cook in and a tub to clean in. Plus she had mentioned getting paid for all of this! Not that he'd turn the coin down, but should she be late in paying he shouldn't mind too dreadfully. And all he had to do was work hard, and hadn't he done that all his lift anyway? What was work compared to all that she was offering.

A flash of a vision appeared in his mind. The two of them, sipping.... what do country-folk drink, lemonade? Lemonade. Sitting on the porch watching children run about the front garden, chasing chickens. The two of them holding hands....

Michael blushed again at his private thoughts. Don't go seeing heaven just yet, there, boy-o. She's being kind to a poor traveler and she needs the help. Playing the fool can make for a foolish end.

[Lizzie B]

Did he have to talk about bathing? And point out how tightly his shirt clung to his skin? Wasn't it hard enough to keep her eyes from wandering over his torso, wondering what it would feel like to slip her hands underneath that shirt. She tried to keep her thoughts clean, honestly, she did. But...

No, no. She was lonely, that was all. She was lonely, and ill acquainted with men. How many years had she been hauled up in that house, with no one but her parents? And then...no one at all. Even when she had gone to town, none of the boys liked her. Why would they? She was strange, rumored to be sick. No one wanted a sick wife. Besides, they would have never accepted the truth anyways. She was a freak, an abnormality. Lonely as being alone was, maybe that was the way things were supposed to be.

But what she wouldn't give, to press her lips against his for a moment. For him to lean down and kiss her, rough or gentle, and to not push him away. She'd been kissed before, often even. That's what men did, when they found a naked woman in an abandoned ally way. Not all men, but plenty of them. Then again, they tried to do a lot more than kiss.

It would be a lie, to say she hadn't let a few of them press their mouths to hers. The nice ones, who gave her a jacket and accepted the fact that she didn't want to call the police. Sometimes she'd even enticed them, desperate and lonely, hoping they'd take her home rather than leave her stranded. Sin. Yes, she'd comity plenty of sins in her life...and not all of them were for survival.

He was staring at her too, she realized suddenly. Her cheeks flamed red, eyes trying to find something else worth looking at. Her wrist. But it was ugly, covered in dark bruises, swelling steadily. It would heal, but setting bones was nasty bussiness. What she really needed was a good nights sleep. "I'll show you your room then." Clara said nervously, taking him upstairs. It had been her parents room, but that seemed an eternity ago. A distant memory, and yet, yesterday all at the same time. Sometimes she traveled back, ate breakfast with the two of them and herself, tried desperately not to let onto the fact that they had died. She remembered looking at her future self, how tired and thin she had gotten, the way she stared at her parents with longing and spoke in a soft voice. It had been her first hint...and she'd tried desperately not to take it.

The bed was large, made with a dark quilt. Yellow curtains framed the small window, looking over the garden and the fields. In the corner stood a dresser and an amoire, which she gestured to. "You should find clothes in there. Wear anything you like, you and my father were about the same size." It was true, though her father had a slight beer gut and stooped shoulders. Oh, and a bald head. Michael definitely wasn't bald.

His hair actually looked great, despite the fact that it was still damp and a little wild. She would have liked to run her hands through it. She would have liked to stay there with him, share the bed for warmth if not for comfort. But of course, he was a stranger...and she was...not for him. Not for anyone. "Do you, uhm, do you need anything else?"

[Justric]

Michael whistled as he took in the size of the room and bed. He couldn't get over how... how clean it all looked, how soft and inviting, even in the flickering light of the lantern. His haversack and coat he set on the floor. Walking to the dresser, he reverently began to finger through the various garments, at last pulling forth a linen night shirt. While far from silk, it was like the room, clean and soft. He laid it on the bed with an odd care and looked at it. He almost felt like crying.

"No, no. I think that'll do, Miss Clara. Oh, if you have a stub of a candle that I might see by, twould be a mighty help." His voice was hoarse all of a sudden.

You don't deserve this, Michael Doyle, whispered his conscience.

"I'll be taking a proper wash now, Miss Clara. I'll have fresh water waiting for you when I'm done. And then I'm to bed." He looked up and sniffed. "There's a lot to be done, and best done tis done soonest."

"And... thank you. For giving me a chance."

[Lizzie B]

Clara watched him, leaning in the doorway, broken wrist pressed against her chest, the other cradling it's elbow. Her expression was somewhat sober, and as he asked for a candle she would do little but nod strolling forward and opening one of the drawers on the dresser, searching about. She could hear him talking behind her, informing her that he would leave water for her to bathe when he was finished. Kind, generous. These seemed to be qualities that were engraved in Michael, like ridges on a coin. For her, they were more of a polish. Strong when they first came about, but fading slowly with time, until there was nothing left.

He seemed to think her a saint. She could hear it in his voice, wrought with emotion as he thanked her. Back to him, she winced, the words filling her very core with agony. She was using him. Using him to clean up her mess, to deal with the aftermath of her problems.

Finding a candle and a box of matches, she stood, closing the drawer and placing the candle in his hands. As she struck a match, she was illuminated for a moment. Full lips slightly parted, face nearly colorless, wild curls tumbling over her shoulders. She pressed the flame to the wick, and it lit. Only then, did she meet Michael's gaze.

"Don't thank me just yet." she told him softly, before walking slowly out of the room.

[Justric]

The next morning, Michael found himself up early. He had no idea of the time, but glancing out the window told him it had be getting on near dawn.

His nerves sang and for the first time that he could recall, he was looking forward to a good day's work. Raiding the dresser once more, he found everything he might need: men's shorts, a pair of sturdy denim overalls, a work shirt that fit so well it might have been tailors for him... He moved downstairs quietly, sensing that Miss Clara may still be sleeping. And he went to work.

Carrying water back and forth dampened his enthusiasm a little, but once the kitchen was cleaned of its gore and blood his spirits were lifted again. The icebox had definitely needed some scrubbing, but by the time he was done it was emptied of mildew and detritus. The cleaning also gave him a chance to find where everything was kept, including the pantry cupboard. Michael tried to keep a running inventory in his head of what he found. A small wrinkled apple and stale bread were meal enough to fill his belly, and with some of the left over boiled water from cleaning, he made himself some weak coffee.

Miss Clara had still not come down by the time he finished his meager breakfast. With a shrug, he set off to find something else to do.

The sun had finally cleared the horizon by the time he stepped on the front porch. Knowing the animals had to be fed, he repeated the routine from yesterday: horses, cows, chickens. As he went about his duties, he made a careful mental note of things that had to be done and tried to prioritize them: chicken wire that had to be spliced, fence sections that required mending, some boards that would need replacing... He was just about to head into the barn to see if he could find some tools when he heard the sound of a truck coming down the road.

Michael frowned. There were a ways from town. Who'd be on the road this early? Secretly, part of him was annoyed. He had never liked automobiles, the idea of one disturbing his quiet interlude repugnant. Besides, he had rather liked the idea of no one else in the world but him and Miss Clara. The more he thought on it, the more he liked the idea of just the two of them.

His annoyance shifted somewhat by the realization that it was the iceman.

Michael ran out to the front of the yard and waved the truck down. The driver slowed the vehicle down, its exhaust bellowing noxious fumes. He was a little older than Michael, perhaps in his late twenties to Michael's 2o some years. He had the muscle's you'd expect of a man who shaved ice and carted the blocks about by hand. He looked down at Michael with some suspicion. "Can I help you, friend?"

"Sure, and you are a sight for eyes!" Michael's voice was cheery. "Miss Clara'll be needed some fresh ice, sure as there's dew on the ground."

The driver opened the door and slipped out. "Who are you? And where's Clara?" The iceman's voice had taken a mistrusting tone, one that sent warnings all along Michael's nerves. He had heard that surly sound before from bigger, more dangerous men, and he knew where it could lead.

"Ah, well, tis feeling poorly she is. Name's Michael Doyle, from New York. She's hired to help with the place." He tried to keep his voice light. "And she'll be needing some ice. Let me get my wallet for your paying-"

The iceman folded his arms in stubbornness. "Ain't doing nothing til I see Miss Clara. This is her farm and I don't know you. We don't trust strangers here abouts, certainly not some Paddy-boy from back east."

The man went backwards, slamming into his truck. Michael's fist had flown fast and hard, a straight jab to the man's jaw.

"Say that again! Come on, then!" Michael roared. Rage clouded his reason. The charming Irishman became the raging Celt. "Better men than you have called me a Paddy! And they suffered just as much for it, they have!" He reached down and grabbed by the man the collar, hauling him up. That was a mistake. The iceman kicked hard against Michael's ribs, sending him flying the other way.

Michael laid in the dust of the road for a moment, glaring at the man. The man glared back, rubbing his jaw. Wincing as he slowly stood again, Michael spat and nodded. "You know, I tried being nice. All I wanted was a little ice for Miss Clara. And there you had to go, throwing such a nasty word around."

"What? You mean Paddy-boy?"

Michael tackled him.

[Lizzie B]

The pain kept her awake for a long while, despite the lukewarm bath she'd taken after Michael. It relaxed her, soothed her, washed the grime from her skin and the knots from her hair. But, despite lying in a clean, cool bed, she was on fire. Her wrist ached, and she could not help but try to fight off the agony. It was exhausting, and pointless, but she lay awake for hours, gritting her teeth against the pain. Sometimes she'd picture Michael, to try and take her mind off it. But that never went anywhere good. Or, at least, anywhere free of sin.

It was a comfort, to know he'd be there in the morning. Maybe that was what finally helped her drift off to sleep. When she awoke, it was far past the time it should have been. She could tell, simply by the light streaming through the window. Her knee was sore and stiff, and her wrist was still swollen, but somehow...she felt better. As if, just maybe, today would not be quite so terrible.

She climbed out of bed and dressed. Simply, as always, with half her hair pulled away from her face in a clip. It was the best she could manage at the moment, and she avoided looking in the mirror. Jamie looked fantastic covered in dirt, she could hardly imagine what he would look like clean. And she...well, she didn't look or feel fantastic, clean or not. Still, she forced herself to make her way downstairs, stunned to find the kitchen cleaner than it had been since...since her parents died.

The moment hit her hard, nostalgia coming on full force as she stared at the pristine kitchen. He'd done it, she knew that. He'd taken it upon himself to clean, women's work, while she lay in bed like an invalid. Shame crept up into her cheeks, but he was no where in sight to witness it. Perhaps he was out working? There was plenty to be done, but surely the animals had all been fed by now. She had assumed he would come back after that was finished, looking for more directions. But no, he had taken on a life of his own.

And then she heard the truck.

Clara rushed outside, walking around the house quickly, wondering why the preacher would chose to stop by so early in the morning. However, that wasn't the preacher's car in a cloud of dust at the end of the drive. No, that particular vehicle belonged to his son. Barney Richards, one of the few boys in town that had ever taken an interest in her. They'd been partners in Sunday school, and soon enough he was coming to talk to her every chance he got. As they grew older he'd stop by for dinner with his father every now and then. Quieter, but still with an eye that roamed over her whenever it got the chance. He'd asked her to a dance once, and she'd been forced to accept. Luckily, she'd gotten the 'flu' that very night. Or, rather, got lost somewhere in the country and wound up sleeping in a barn twenty years before. He seemed to have given up, though he stopped by every now and then to deliver ice.

And beat up her far hands, apparently.

"Barney." she didn't even have to shout it. The single word as she approached the tangled mess of brawling man, surrounded in a cloud of dust, was enough to make him look up. He pulled himself out of Michael's grasp, using the door of his truck for support, brushing the dirt off his pants and removing his cap. His lip was bleeding, his breathing was labored. "Hello, Clara." Her eyes moved quickly over to Michael, checking to make sure he was still breathing.

"What are you doing here?"
"I...I thought you might need some ice. I haven't seen you in three months."
Three months. She tried not to flinch at the words, though she was silent for a moment. "Are you in a habit of beating up strangers now?"
"He attacked me."
"Did he?"
"Yeah, he did."
"That's funny, Michael's not particularly violent." Honestly, she didn't know that.
"What do you mean? He's a Paddy-boy. They're all violent." He seemed exasperated, as if he was trying to explain. The dark look that came over her face though, that sent him into a panic. "I'm sor-,"
"You should watch your language."
"Clara-,"
"Get off my land, Barney."
"Let me get you some ice."
"I don't want any."
"It's on me. Come on, let me get you some ice." He moved to the back of his truck, pulling out a slab of ice wrapped in wet burlap. "I'll take it in for you."
"Michael can do that. That is, if he hasn't broken his fist on your thick skull." she glanced toward Michael to see if he was ok, hoping desperately that he was.
"Clara..."
"Your father visits often. He said you'd grown into quite a gentleman. You must have fooled him well, considering Preacher's aren't known for lying."
"Would you just...what happened to your wrist?"
She tucked it behind her back casually. "An accident. It isn't really any concern."
"You should see a doctor."
"I can take care of things myself."
"Really? That's not what my Pa said." His words were not meant to be harsh, but they struck a nerve in her. Clara glared at him with a fiery hatred, and he looked on sadly, trying to hold her gaze. She turned away from him, to Michael. "Are you alright?"

[Justric]

Michael watched the exchange, panting, His knuckles were bloody and his ribs sore, but he was ready to give again as good as he got. The man could fight, but Michael was sure he'd be the victor. He was raised gutter fighting, eye gouging and kidney raps second nature to him in a brawl. Part of him remained ready to pounce again, and almost did so when the slur was thrown at his face again.

"Are you alright?"

Nodding, he straightened. "My pride's hurt worse than my ribs, Miss Clara. And I'll not lie about it, sure I will not. The first punch was mine, but stung me sore with that rude tongue. He refused me ice for your box, even as I was offering to get my wallet, so he did."

He spat to the side of the road again, a hint of red in the gob. "Paddy-boy," he snorted at Barney, "Sure, and aren't we all violent drunks, thieves and lay abouts? Never seen an honest day's work, have we?"

He cracked his ruined knuckles. "I'm a man like any other, Mister Barney, and tis a man's pride I have, just as you. Miss Clara's taken me on, and tis right I will do by her, by Jesus. And if I don't, then as God as my witness, you can try to thrash me and you'd be right to do so."

A calloused finger shot towards the townie. "But so help me, if you call me a Paddy-boy, bog-Paddy, Mick or a Dogan I will kick your teeth through yer arse!"

If it's so worried you are about her, then where in God's name have you been? She's been beaten by some lout of a man, she hasn't been well, her farms gone to seed and where were you, so all fired worried for her?