Shadow among Sheaves

by Naomi Stephens

  Barely even noting Rena’s unease, Nell rummaged through the crate, pulling out her shawl and slipping it over her bony shoulders. Following Nell’s cue, William grabbed the crate off the table.

  “If you will follow me,” he mumbled over his shoulder, “my cottage is not far.”

  “What?” Rena scoffed. “We are to live with you?”

  “I live with my sister,” William explained. “I have a small cottage out back. My parents lived there before the larger steward’s home was completed, and my mother preferred to stay there after I became steward. She died earlier this year, and so the building is now vacant.”

  “You see?” Nell’s eyes seemed rather peaceful. “It’s all quite settled.”

  Rena still faltered. “But—”

  William set the crate back down with a thump and turned to Nell. “May I have a word with your daughter-in-law?” He flashed a tight smile. “It’ll take but a moment, and I’ll bring your things out when it’s time to go.”

  Rena didn’t really expect Nell to leave her alone with William, not after how upset the woman was when she’d found Rena alone with Lord Barric. But then, surprisingly, Nell crossed the room, placed a hand on Rena’s cheek, and softly murmured, “An answer to prayer.”

  Then she calmly strode out of the room, leaving the door wide open as she exited.

  Rena’s eyes shot back over to William, who crossed his arms.

  “Don’t be a ridiculous fool,” he warned. “You ought to accept my offer.”

  It couldn’t be that simple. Rena had been in England long enough to know it couldn’t be that simple. “And what do you want…as payment?”

  Eyes narrowing, William put a mocking hand to his chest as if she’d struck at a chink of invisible armor.

  “Perhaps I merely like to help my fellow man,” he challenged. “Or women, as the case may be.”

  But William’s eyes did not seem as generous or pitying as they were the first day she had met him, when he told her to keep her head down and gather whatever fallen grain she could. That had felt genuine. Kind. But now his eyes felt distant. His voice was harsher, more in line with how he addressed the field hands when they were giving him grief. Honor clearly had nothing to do with it.

  Rena stared him down, waiting for the truth, until at last William sighed, his voice grudging as he reluctantly admitted, “Lord Barric did not exactly give me a choice.”

  Which meant William was offering his cottage to her out of obligation. Not kindness. Not even pity. Shaking her head, Rena mused bitterly, “You advised your master otherwise, I take it?”

  Sighing, William spoke more candidly.

  “Come, now, Mrs. Hawley. My motivation for coming to you is of no bearing on what’s to be done. You’ll want a warm cabin when winter arrives, might even find your death in this hovel if that window isn’t fixed up proper. Offended or not, I think you’re far too sensible to turn down a rope when you’re clearly drowning.”

  Rena frowned. “I’m not drowning.”

  “No,” he volleyed. “You’re living in a whorehouse.”

  Wincing at the bluntness of that particular remark, Rena pivoted and imagined seeing her room through Lord Barric’s eyes. The man lived in a sprawling manor, perched high above his toilsome fields. He probably had more rooms than he had workers, and marble halls decked with paintings, and shelves lined deep with books, their spines as colorful and varied as her father’s own robust collection. Now that she lived in poverty, her previous life in India clung to her like a tattered robe.

  She should be grateful for William’s offer. Nell could keep warm in the evenings, in a room with a stove and a comfortable bed. To turn down William’s offer because her pride had been wounded would be incredibly selfish. Rena had once stood in a crowded train and vowed to take care of Nell—here was the perfect opportunity to fulfill her promise, offered at no cost.

  William was right. She had swallowed her pride once already, to beg for Lord Barric’s grain. Just one more gulp, and Nell could have a home.

  Reading Rena’s defeat well before she spoke it, William hoisted the crate up into his arms and nodded.

  “Wise choice, little thief.”

  Rena awakened from a slumber so deep and secure she barely remembered her own name when she finally opened her eyes. The sun was low in the sky, thick shafts of dwindling daylight pouring through the casement. It must have been nearly five.

  Realizing she had fallen asleep, Rena sat up abruptly, nearly spilling out of her rocking chair. Miss Wilmot had extended an invitation to her and Nell, welcoming them for tea between the hours of four and five. Nell had pleaded a headache after lunch and lain down for a nap while Rena settled in the rocking chair to tend to some necessary sewing. She glanced down at the quilt she’d pulled up to warm herself. All she’d wanted was to be comfortable, and instead had fallen asleep. Groaning at the idea of arriving late to her first social call, Rena clambered to her feet, nearly yelping as she moved against a sudden crick in her neck.

  She crossed the room in two quick strides, about to jostle Nell’s arm to wake her, but could not bring herself to do so. Nell slept soundly on the bed, the heavy quilts pulled all the way over her shoulders so only a few wisps of silver hair poked through. After all the evenings they’d spent sleeping in barns, and then that drafty closet, Rena could not bear to wake her mother-in-law. She wanted the lady to sleep, snug and safe, until the exhaustion of destitution seemed nothing more than another passing dream.

  Leaving Nell beneath the blankets, Rena padded soundlessly across the room. Compared to the closet at the Gilded Crown, the cottage was a palace, twice as nice as William had described. The plaster walls were freshly painted, and the dark wooden floors were smooth and spotless, even in the corners. Nell and Rena now had a cozy kitchen table, surrounded by four sturdy, high-backed chairs. They’d traded their drafty window for a charming little casement, uncracked, with flouncy needlepoint curtains draped on either side. In the corner, two mismatched rocking chairs were angled toward the coal range. The room was well stocked too, with thick blankets piled inside a traveler’s trunk at the foot of the bed, and a wooden hutch beside the oven, which was full of various kitchen essentials.

  Rena washed her face and hands with brisk water from a basin, then changed into the stiff dress Nell had washed in the creek the evening before. She kissed Nell on the shoulder through the quilt before leaving, hoping she would not be too cross with her for calling on Alice alone.

  As Rena opened the front door she swallowed a dagger-sharp thrust of air. The afternoons had been unusually brisk for mid-September, and the workers tore faster through the fields as the diminishing harvest growled at them to finish. Everything would be done by week’s end, William had announced the night before. And then the harvest celebration, in which all the farms would join together for a night of reveling to usher in the winter and shutter closed the barn doors.

  Rena made her way across the yard to the steward’s private house. William and his sister lived in a sturdy stone structure, which was connected by a wooden fence to a small outbuilding. A cluster of chickens loitered in the yard, watched by a prowling rooster. At the far corner of the property was a sty cluttered with fat, fly-pestered pigs, who watched Rena’s approach with expressions of dumb boredom.

  Holding her breath, Rena knocked on the front door. She did not have to wait long. A young girl with honey-red curls pulled the door wide, bobbing a quick curtsy as she said, “Oh, you have come to see Miss Alice.”

  “Yes.” Rena slipped her shawl from her shoulders and smiled. “Hello.”

  Without another word, the maid ushered Rena through a narrow hallway, leading her into a snug but cheerful parlor. Several chairs flanked a lovely fireplace, which was already lit and crackling. “I’ll tell her you’ve come,” the maid said with a curious glance, and vanished back into the hall.

  Rena paced the room as she waited for Miss Wilmot. All was orderly and well detailed, manicured to perfection
. The tabletops gleamed, scattered with brimming vases and various knickknacks. She touched her fingertips to the mantel, where not a speck of dust was to be found, then made her way to a bookshelf in the corner, where a menagerie of volumes was tucked together in no obvious order. There were several novels with cracked spines, a newer volume of Dickens, and one three-volume set titled The Book of the Farm, which she presumed belonged to William.

  Rena dropped her fingers from the shelf as the parlor door opened and her hostess swept into the room wearing a high-necked dress with lace cuffs. As Miss Wilmot moved, her magenta skirts billowed and shifted over the bell-shaped crinoline, and Rena became even more aware of her own simple dress—utterly black—which was shaped only by a layering of petticoats beneath.

  “Mrs. Hawley, forgive me for keeping you waiting. I was seeing to something in the kitchen.”

  “I was not kept long,” Rena replied with a gracious nod. “My mother-in-law begs your pardon for declining your kind invitation.”

  Miss Wilmot closed the door behind her, then gestured Rena toward the fireplace.

  “I hope she is not unwell?” she asked, genuine worry crinkling her brow.

  As Miss Wilmot drew closer, Rena caught a scent which had clung to many of the officers’ wives in India—bergamot and lemon oil—a sharp, clean scent. Not unpleasant, but distinct.

  “She is quite well,” Rena assured her. “Merely tired.”

  Miss Wilmot nodded, but she still seemed stiff, her smile forced as her eyes briefly trailed the ground between them. Rena almost regretted not waking Nell. Perhaps the older woman’s company would have made this meeting a touch more comfortable, if only for Miss Wilmot’s English sensibilities.

  “I’ve already asked Betsy to bring us our tea.” Miss Wilmot nodded to the two chairs with emphasis. “Please, do be seated.”

  Rena obeyed, lowering herself into the one nearest the fire. “You have a charming home,” she remarked. “Have you lived here very long?”

  “Nearly all my life,” Miss Wilmot admitted, perching on the edge of the plush blue chair that was angled toward Rena’s. “For several years, we actually lived in your cottage, while this one was being built. Our father was steward to Lord Barric’s father when we were children.”

  “Really?” Rena was surprised. “But that means you’ve known Lord Barric—”

  Miss Wilmot smirked and straightened her skirts. “Since he was a child. Yes.”

  Rena had a hard time imagining Lord Barric as a boy of seven or eight—racing through his father’s fields with a tumble of red hair or sitting down begrudgingly to learn his letters with a stiff governess. At first she thought he might have been an ornery child, as serious in his younger years as he was now as an adult, but perhaps this was not the case. Perhaps he had followed closely at his father’s heels, or was mischievous, or rather loved to play with wooden swords with the brother she had heard so much about.

  Miss Wilmot smiled, angling back slightly in her chair. “You are wondering what Lord Barric was like as a boy.”

  Glad to see her hostess suddenly more at ease, Rena cracked a sheepish smile of agreement. “It is rather difficult to imagine, isn’t it?”

  Miss Wilmot nodded, her eyes drifting to the corner as if imaging the younger Lord Barric playing there, just on the other side of her sitting room. “In truth, he was much the same as he is now, though he smiled more freely.”

  Yes, Rena thought, the past certainly did that to people. Most days she found her own past too painful in its vastness. Too often she felt as though her smile had been left in her father’s study, misplaced, or perhaps stolen away entirely by Edric’s smile and carried with him into his grave.

  As if sensing Rena’s thoughts, Miss Wilmot leaned forward and lowered her voice. “His hair was redder too,” she confided. “If you can imagine that.”

  Miss Wilmot’s smile coaxed one out of Rena, until both women laughed a bit shyly.

  With a faint clatter of dishes, Betsy pushed through the door, balancing a silver tray with kettle, pot, and various floral cups. The maid crossed the room, set the tray on the table between the two women, and tipped another quick, though awkward, curtsy. Did it strike the maid as strange, Rena mused, to be bowing to a beggar?

  “She seems a good sort of girl,” Rena commented after Betsy had left.

  “Yes, Betsy does enough work to shame any of Lord Barric’s field hands.” These words were barely finished when a second tray was carried into the room, laden with warm scones, clotted cream, and a selection of paper-thin sandwiches.

  As Betsy bowed and took her final leave, slipping the door soundlessly closed behind her, Rena watched Miss Wilmot’s methodic hands work an intricate process which had likely been known to her since girlhood. She poured scalding water from the kettle into the finer, earthenware teapot to properly warm the vessel, then discarded this water and replaced it with a fresh batch. She measured out the tea leaves—three teaspoons—and added these to the teapot to brew. When all was at last quite ready, Miss Wilmot asked how Rena took hers, but Rena hesitated. It had been so long since she had taken her tea in any way, let alone with cream or sugar.

  Miss Wilmot touched her fingertips lightly to the sugar bowl and raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “Please.” Rena nodded, trying not to sound too eager.

  As Miss Wilmot at last handed Rena her cup, she said, rather quickly, “I’m sorry if I was suspicious of you when we first met. I do hope I did not hurt you.”

  Rena might have wondered how a woman like Miss Wilmot, so pretty and kind, had not yet been married. The answer, Rena knew, was not so far below the surface of this very conversation. Miss Wilmot had known Lord Barric since he’d been a boy with redder hair and a more eager smile. Had she been hoping on him all this time?

  “It is all right,” Rena murmured. “It is in the past.”

  “It cannot be easy for you here.”

  “I survive,” Rena answered, but Miss Wilmot’s look of curious concern was not altogether unfounded. Every time Rena braved a glance in the mirror, her own bleak eyes stared back at her, rimmed with exhaustion.

  “I saw you eyeing the books when I came in,” Miss Wilmot said. “You enjoy reading?”

  “My father was an academic,” Rena replied. “It was my joy to sit and read with him in the afternoons.” She smiled, remembering. “At one of our first meetings, Edric told me my skin smelled of ink and paper…”

  She broke off, realizing she had spoken far too openly, and dropped regretful eyes to her cup. She hated herself for speaking of Edric so candidly to a woman she barely knew. As the clock on the mantel counted the seconds, Rena become increasingly frightened to look at Miss Wilmot or to say anything else. Miss Wilmot was a kind woman, if a bit forceful at times, and had extended a hand of courtesy by welcoming Rena into her parlor. But that did not mean Miss Wilmot wished for friendship. It did not mean the woman even liked her.

  “You are welcome to our shelves,” Miss Wilmot offered at last, setting down her teacup. “They are sparse, I’m sure, compared to your father’s, but they have often helped me pass the tedium of winter.”

  Rena’s eyes lifted. She was grateful for the change in conversation and, when she met Miss Wilmot’s gaze, grateful also for the quiet sympathy in the woman’s eyes. Rena glanced at the bookshelf in the corner.

  “You are sure you and your brother will not miss them?”

  Miss Wilmot’s mouth curved. “My brother has not held a book in years,” she said. “He is kept very busy with his work. He often leaves early or returns rather late, either seeing to the fields or meeting with Lord Barric.”

  “They must have a good deal to talk about.”

  Miss Wilmot’s smile tightened at the corners. “Yes, Mrs. Hawley. I would imagine they do.”

  After everything that had happened, Rena still couldn’t bear to be called Mrs. Hawley. That life, Edric’s life, was never again to be hers. The name now felt like a mockery of her heart, though
she was certain Miss Wilmot had not intended it to sound that way. Rena sighed, knowing she was about to cross yet another line of propriety.

  “Please,” she said. “My husband’s name feels heavy at times. Won’t you call me Rena?”

  Miss Wilmot fiddled with their teacups, setting them straighter on the table between them. Of course, Rena and Miss Wilmot were hardly close enough for a first-name friendship. Miss Wilmot glanced from the teacups to Rena’s work-worn hands, and perhaps she was imagining a time when Rena had smelled of paper and ink, when she’d had a husband who said such things, but now he was dead.

  “I will,” Miss Wilmot promised, then met her eyes. “And you may call me Alice.”

  Barric’s coat had been discarded hours ago, strewn in a heap beneath a row of trees. His back was now drenched in sweat, shoulders blasted by late September wind. He was used to the unpleasant contradiction of sweat and ice on his skin. Scythe in hand and sleeves bunched to the elbows, he swooped through the rows in perfect rhythm with his workers, their comrade in arms as much as their lord, and for once a man with similar interests. He always worked his own fields the last week of the harvest, despite the derision of his peers.

  In truth, he welcomed the labor. He enjoyed the aching in his muscles, the smell of the earth on his hands, the crisp taste of the air as he breathed sharply through his work. The fields of Misthold had once been a sprawling maze to him as a child, a place to run and explore, until his father had commanded him to learn its workings. Now he owned that land, pushed himself in the interest of its upkeep, usually in the form of figures and ledgers. But for now he enjoyed the way his heart beat faster as he worked those fields, the way he felt his whole body focus toward the single task of persisting.

  Rena moved somewhere down the lane, into Barric’s line of vision, circled by some of the other women. Barric trained his eyes to avoid her. According to William, she had moved into the new house two nights ago, though she seemed no different that morning for having slept in an actual bed. Her eyes were still tired, rarely ever lifting from her work, and she avoided Barric as if nothing at all had changed between them.