Free The Betrayal by R.L. Stine Page B

hand.”
    He gestured to his heavy sling. “You have lost my services for a while,” Edward continued. “I believe this boy’s timing is perfect. He can take some of my tasks—until my arm is healed.”
    Matthew rubbed his chins thoughtfully, his eyes trained on Jeremy. “Maybe …” he muttered reluctantly. “Where do you come from, boy?”
    â€œFrom the village,” Jeremy replied, eyeing Edward’s sling. “My father and I settled here recently. My father is ill, sir. I am our sole support.”

    â€œNo sad stories, please,” Matthew cut him off, still rubbing his many chins. Matthew studied him. “You look strong enough.”
    Jeremy raised himself to his full height, throwing back his broad, muscular shoulders. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly.
    Mary stood stiffly, watching them all. She wanted to urge her father to hire Jeremy, but she knew better than to utter a word. It was not her place.
    Matthew nodded. “All right, Jeremy Thorne. You may begin by cleaning out that toolhouse.” He pointed to the low wooden structure behind the garden. “Pull all of the equipment out. We plan to build a bigger one.”
    â€œThank you, sir!” Jeremy exclaimed happily. “I am very grateful. And my pay?”
    â€œTen shillings a week,” Matthew replied quickly. “But let us see what kind of worker you are before we begin to think of you as more than temporary help.”
    â€œVery good, sir,” Jeremy said. He glanced quickly at Mary.
    She felt a shiver at the back of her neck.
    He’s so good-looking, she thought, lowering her eyes to the ground.
    All kinds of thoughts raced through her mind, surprising thoughts, exciting thoughts.
    But of course Father would never approve of anything between a mere farmhand and me, she realized, stopping the flow of wild thoughts in midstream.
    Jeremy Thorne.
    Jeremy. Jeremy. Jeremy.

    She couldn’t stop his name from repeating in her mind.
    Her heart pounding, Mary took the egg basket from Jeremy and hurried to the house.
    The talk at lunch was of the dreadful mishaps of the night before. Poor Edward. Poor Constance.
    They all lowered their heads in prayer before starting their soup.
    Mary couldn’t stop thinking about Jeremy.
    All morning long as she’d done her many kitchen chores, she had sneaked peeks at him from the door. She saw that he was proving to be as hard a worker as he had claimed.
    At the back of the garden she could see the pile of tools and heavy equipment he had dragged out of the toolhouse. She watched him working alone back there, lowering his head to enter the structure, then appearing again with another handful of items.
    â€œMary—what are you daydreaming about?” her mother demanded, breaking into Mary’s thoughts after lunch as they began washing the dishes.
    â€œNothing at all, really,” Mary lied, blushing.
    â€œYou barely said a word at lunch. I watched you,” Constance said. “You hardly touched your soup.”
    â€œI wasn’t hungry, I guess, Mother,” Mary replied dreamily.
    â€œPlease stop gazing out into the garden and help me with the dishes,” Constance ordered. “You see I have only one hand.”
    â€œGo rest, Mother,” Mary insisted. “I will clean the dishes by myself.”

    After the dishes were washed and put away, Mary picked up a basket and headed out to the garden to pick vegetables for the evening meal.
    The sun blazed down. Mary could see waves of heat rising off the near pasture.
    As she bent to pull up some turnips, a movement at the back of the garden caught her eye. Jeremy was emerging, drenched with sweat, pulling out several heavy iron hoes and rakes.
    On an impulse Mary dropped her vegetable basket to the dirt and hurried to the well at the side of the house.
    A few seconds later she was standing in front of Jeremy, a tall pewter mug of cold well water in her