Shadow among Sheaves

by Naomi Stephens

  “Alice,” Rena whispered, leaning closer to her friend as Nell and William fussed with the turkey. “Are you well?”

  Alice nodded as she tipped back a bit more wine. “Merely tired,” she sighed, setting her half-empty glass down. “I will feel better once I have a full stomach.”

  And so they dug into the hearty meal, doling out large portions of each dish, relishing the rich flavors in silence. At one point, Rena saw Nell’s eyes mist in the candlelight.

  Perhaps William noticed as well. Taking a bite of warm bread, he sighed heavily at Nell. “Lady Hawley, you must have used witchcraft to conjure up such a lovely feast.”

  “No witchcraft needed when you’re as old and crafty as I am,” Nell responded between bites of chutney. This was the only dish that even remotely resembled something Rena was familiar with, as the pickled fruits were seasoned heavily with turmeric and cayenne.

  “I think it is the finest feast I’ve ever seen,” Rena decided, and took another large spoonful of the spiced fruit.

  “Surely not nearly as lovely as what you had at Lord Barric’s party,” Alice disagreed, and gestured for William to refill her now empty wine glass.

  William’s jaw tightened slightly at her request, but he obeyed, forcing a smile for Rena’s sake. “True,” he said. “Barric’s feast would likely have put our small turkey quite to shame. Still, I’d not trade tables with him if it meant losing this charming company.”

  Rena returned his smile, grateful to William for turning the topic away from the disastrous party.

  “Betsy heard from maids at Misthold that he hardly said a word to you through the entire dinner,” Alice remarked, lowering her glass again. “That he was rather cold toward you when you arrived.”

  This time William didn’t even try to mask his disapproval. “Alice.”

  She avoided her brother’s gaze, staring instead at her empty glass. “Did he dance with you after dinner?”

  “No,” Rena answered honestly. “I danced twice with Mr. Fairfax. Once with Parson Richardson.”

  She certainly didn’t mention her argument with Lord Barric on the terrace, or how she had challenged him to cast her off, or how she had refused to dance with him. She still couldn’t believe she had said such things in the presence of an earl.

  “What did you think he would do?” Alice scoffed, her voice tight as she at last met Rena’s eyes. “What did you think would happen?”

  “Alice!” William stood up. “Stop.”

  “It’s fine,” Rena said, shaking her head as she realized Alice was well past the point of stopping, and maybe it was for the best. Maybe they all needed to hear the truth, even if they had to forsake their lovely Christmas feast to do it.

  “Did you really think he would take one look at you in my dress and forget you are a penniless beggar?” Alice fought a laugh of disbelief. “As if you aren’t here, eating off our own charity. He may want you, Mrs. Hawley, but he can’t have you. Not in the way you want. He’ll use you, true enough, and then he’ll throw you away, and what else did you expect?”

  Mrs. Hawley—Rena’s throat constricted at the name. It was a cutting insult, a severing of friendship. She felt her fingers tremble slightly, losing their grip on her fork.

  William rounded the table and grabbed ahold of Alice’s arm. “Lady Hawley. Mrs. Hawley. I beg you to please forgive my sister. She is a bit foxed tonight and is unfortunately not at all herself.”

  “I am not foxed,” Alice said in complaint as William pulled her to her feet. But the girl’s cheeks were tellingly flushed, her eyes glossed with tightly held tears.

  “The way you are speaking at this table,” William warned. “You had better be foxed.” He bowed deeply to Nell. “We are so thankful for your hospitality, Lady Hawley, and we bid you a good night and a very merry Christmas.”

  Nell nodded, her hand pressed hard to her chest. “Of course,” she replied vaguely. “We understand.”

  William steered Alice halfway to the door before his sister halted, pulling a thin package from beneath her shawl. Crossing back, she dropped it heavily on the table, right beside Rena’s plate, making all the cutlery clatter. “Merry Christmas,” Alice said, her voice empty. Then she turned and let William usher her the rest of the way outside.

  As soon as the door had shut behind them, Rena pulled Alice’s package into her lap. She already knew, from the shape and weight of the present, so familiar, that it was a book. Nell leaned forward, smoothing a motherly hand over Rena’s hair. “Open it, child,” she whispered.

  Did Rena dare open it, after everything Alice had said? She turned the package over in her hands several times, weighing the volume before at last shredding the golden paper aside. Nestled within was a thin volume, a collection of colorful paintings of India. With reverent fingers, Rena shuffled through the pictures—some of barren deserts and tangling forests, others of the liquid horizon as it was swallowed by the setting sun. There was even a painting of the Hawa Mahal in Jaipur, its pink sandstone walls built as an elaborate screen to conceal the royal women in the zenana as they gazed upon the city. Fanning the book pages lightly, Rena stopped only once more to brush her fingertips over a depiction of an exotic garden, much like her family’s, with braided vines spreading like fingers toward the page’s edge.

  Rena struggled for several moments to find even one word to say. Nell said nothing either, granting her daughter-in-law enough time to face her own grief. But no matter how many times Rena’s grief stared at her, she could never seem to return its waiting gaze.

  “Did you really think he would take one look at you in my dress and forget you are a penniless beggar?”

  “She didn’t mean it,” Nell said softly. “You know that. You know her. The girl is only hurting.”

  Rena winced and slipped the cover shut with a small thud. Thud, like the battering of her heart beneath Edric’s touch. Thud, like the pounding of feet against hard ground or the closing of a door—or the shutting of a tomb.

  Rena knew Alice had spoken from a place of grief, but this knowledge did not ebb Rena’s own pain. She needed someone she could depend on, someone who wouldn’t call her nothing just because they feared her. She needed to feel like her feet weren’t always shifting with the sand. But all of Alice’s hard words, even when stacked together with Barric’s, could not compare with the hole that still ached the deepest inside of her.

  Edric was gone.

  Setting the book carefully on the table, Rena covered her eyes with her hands, turned into Nell’s waiting embrace, and wept.

  The next morning, when Rena awakened, a large package sat beside her on the bed in Nell’s usual spot. The box had been wrapped in bright flowered paper with a pile of crimson ribbon knotted prettily on top. Rena frowned over at the gift, shamed by the feel of her own empty hands. She had not even thought to get Nell a present.

  “Well, I’ve never seen anyone look so miserable about a present,” Nell remarked, plopping down on the bed beside the package. “Open it. It’s yours.”

  “But I have nothing for you,” Rena admitted, feeling wretched. If she’d racked her brain, surely she could have thought of something. “I’m…not used to Christmas.”

  “Oh pish,” said Nell, waving a hand. “What does an old lady really need, anyway? Open it. And act excited, won’t you? I’ve been planning this surprise for months.”

  Rena obeyed, sitting up and pulling the ribbon. The ornate wrapping was thick, shredding away into a heap at the foot of the bed. When all that was left was a crisp white box, Rena lifted the lid, shuffled aside a few leaves of paper, and knew at once that Nell had done something extravagant.

  With an astonished sigh, Rena folded aside layers of rich indigo silk. She knew from an experienced hand, quick to measure, the bolt of fabric was seven yards long. It would wrap her waist entirely, fit over her shoulder, and drape her body in the traditional way—with one shoulder covered, the other kept free. The fabric’s outer edge was woven with whorls of gold an
d ruby, tiny flowers so intricate that Rena wondered at the pattern’s cost.

  Setting the sari gently aside, she found a ghagra billowed beneath—a voluminous skirt, deep plum in color—then the choli, a tightly fitted blouse, embroidered with golden flowers, which would hug her chest and bare her midriff. A loose veil had been folded into a square at the bottom of the box. It too was lined in gold and embroidered with flecks of silver that resembled the stars.

  “Do you…like it?” At Nell’s question, Rena’s fingers tightened their hold on the veil, sinking deep wrinkles into the fabric. The gift was costly beyond comprehension, more exotic than what she would have worn even in her father’s household. It felt rich to the touch, and it smelled like India, like spices and fruit, as if the fabric had been patterned by hands which had just been out picking citrus blossoms that morning.

  “Oh Nell…” Rena shook her head, swallowing away tears as her throat tightened. She already knew how the fabric would feel against her skin, a loose layer that wrapped her up and left her bare all at once, so unlike a corset. She could already imagine the silk rustling like autumn leaves as she moved from room to room. Just from weighing the fabric between her hands, her heart was charmed into thinking she was home, even though she wasn’t. Even though she was.

  Rena could not understand how such a gift had even been managed, not until she glanced at Nell’s left hand and realized the woman’s wedding ring was missing.

  The veil fell from Rena’s hands to the floor in a wilting coil. “No,” Rena rasped, stepping up from the bed and away from the bundle of cloth as if it might burn her if she touched another stitch. “Say that you didn’t,” she begged, her voice breaking. “Tell me there was another way.”

  “I wanted you to have it. I wanted it for you.”

  “Where is your ring?”

  Nell’s eyebrow dipped stubbornly. “Sold.”

  Rena pressed her fingers against her mouth, remembering her own frantic search when she’d thought she’d lost Edric’s ring. She had nearly struck Lord Barric that night for standing in her way. Now Nell’s ring was gone, and for what? For a marvelous dress Rena could never bear to put on, because to wear it would feel like standing in two worlds at the same time; it would feel like splitting straight down the middle. “Can you get it back?”

  “Alistair wouldn’t have minded.” Nell almost never spoke her husband’s name. To hear it now felt like an omen, like he was sitting in their room hunched over a chessboard.

  Rena began piling the fabric haphazardly back into the box. “You must take the dress back,” she commanded, fumbling to get the top on right, but the veil had come unwound and was blocking the corner from closing.

  Nell came beside her and braced a hand against the lid, barring Rena from moving it another inch. “Do you think I have not thought this through? Do you think I do not see everything you have surrendered to come to this place? Your family. Your people. Your home. You’ve come here, become nothing, so you could take care of me. You have allowed yourself to be hated for me, endured beggary for me.” She cupped Rena’s face, stilling her even more. “That is your gift to me. And I am grateful for you, Daughter.”

  Rena met Nell’s eyes and laid her hand gently over hers. “I cannot wear it,” she confessed in a whisper. “That world, it’s gone to me.”

  “You can, and you will,” Nell disagreed, dropping her hands. “Not for Sunday service, of course, but you must save it. Save it until the time is right, until you are ready.”

  “Ready for what?” Rena tried to sound cynical, but her throat cut the words early, and she choked on her own question.

  Nell smiled faintly. “You will know the answer to that question when you see it.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Charlie folded his cards and scattered them on the table with an aggravated sigh. “I’m starting to think the only reason you come over here is to cheat me at cards.”

  “Don’t pretend to be moody about it,” William chided, raking in his winnings. “If you’re very nice to me, I might let you win the next round.”

  Charlie shook his head, but he was already shuffling the deck with rapid fingers. The cards brushed against each other, well paced and rhythmic, like fingertips fanning the pages of an old book.

  “I’m curious,” Charlie mused as he shuffled. “Does my brother also let you take him for all he’s worth?”

  William’s voice turned smug. “Yes,” he said, not untruthfully. “Often.”

  Barric heard their conversation in the background as he rifled through his plans for spring. William and Charlie had already invited him several times to abandon his papers long enough to join in the next hand, but drinking and gambling never distracted Barric quite so well as his work. And after what happened at his Christmas party, followed so closely by the death of the prince, he wanted to be distracted.

  “We can hire more men from the village,” he finally decided out loud. “We made good money off last year’s crop, and finances are finally strong again.”

  Charlie’s hands didn’t falter as he shuffled the deck, but Barric glanced up in time to see his brother’s mouth press into a thin line. They both knew finances were only strong because Barric was no longer making last-minute trips to Paris to funnel money into Charlie’s sizable debts. To the world outside of Misthold, Charlie had returned from France generally unchanged. He still carried on the occasional flirtation, wore his usual French fashion, lolled around like an insufferable dandy. But Charlie’s outward carelessness was far too conscious of itself to be real. For months Charlie had been sending sums of money to Celeste, and though they hadn’t spoken of it, Barric suspected his brother had heard nothing in response.

  “What about Matthew Sloan?” William suggested as Charlie finished dealing their cards. “He found work at the mill, but he might want to return. He was a hard worker.”

  As soon as Charlie glimpsed his own cards, he swore in dismay and threw down a crown. The silver coin spun on its thin edge for a spiraling second before clanging down onto the table. “I’ve had a few others asking for work,” Barric said, watching the coin fall. “I’m curious to know what you both think of the names.”

  “What about the girl?” Charlie threw out the question lazily, as if tossing away a card he didn’t particularly like. When Barric didn’t answer right away, Charlie needlessly clarified. “What about Mrs. Hawley?”

  Hearing her name set Barric back on his guard. He snapped his file shut. “What about her?”

  Charlie lifted his eyes from his cards and spoke more pointedly. “Might you offer her one of these positions?”

  “She is already provided for,” Barric said, his eyes shifting to William. For weeks William and Alice had been leaving food for Rena and Nell; Barric only knew this because he had explicitly ordered them to do it. He’d made sure there was a little extra in William’s pockets to help them all weather through the winter months together.

  “Yes,” Charlie agreed slowly. “But might she want an arrangement a bit less—”

  As Charlie trailed off, William supplied the final word, “Beggarly?”

  “I understand your concern,” Barric replied at length. “But I fired two Englishmen last fall; I ought to hire two Englishmen back. I have no interest in sparking a mutiny of my own. In the meantime, the Hawleys will not starve.”

  “Christmas is barely over, and here you are, already planning for spring?” Barric straightened as Uncle George appeared in the doorway. The man hadn’t dared surface since the Christmas party, and Barric felt weary as soon as he set eyes on him. One after another, all of his old frustrations sunk into his chest like arrows. He was far too easy a target.

  “Stop trying to think up ways to get rid of me.” His uncle brandished a squat bottle of port, angling it slightly so Barric could read its expensive label. “As you can see, I’ve brought a peace offering.”

  Barric felt Charlie’s gaze and knew without looking that his brother’s eyebrows had risen incredulously. “
I don’t know about you,” Charlie snapped. “But anything less than whiskey seems a pretty pathetic apology to me.”

  Uncle George shot Charlie a look of mild irritation. “You want me to grovel, is that it? Say the word, Charlie, and I’ll gladly take a knee. But don’t act like you’ve never had to make reparations for poor behavior. Isn’t that the whole reason you’re here?”

  Charlie opened his mouth to argue, but Barric took his uncle’s point and cut in gloomily. “Come in. Leave the port.”

  Uncle George placed a hand to his chest in a show of gratefulness, then crossed the room. He thumped the bottle on the middle of the card table, pinning down a few strewn-aside cards. Glancing briefly over William’s shoulder, he grimaced at the steward’s cards as he advised, half apologetically, “I’d wager low, Charlie. As low as you can.”

  Charlie screwed up his eyes at William, who cracked an agreeing smile. “You’re cheating,” Charlie accused, stabbing a finger in his direction. “I’d bet my life on it.”

  “I wouldn’t bet at all if I were you,” William advised, shaking his head. “You don’t seem particularly good at it.”

  Uncle George looked to Barric next. “Mind if I have a word?” he asked, nodding toward the door. “In the other room?”

  Barric remembered how cornered Rena had looked at his dinner table, straight-backed as she had answered his guests’ questions one after another. Barric crossed his arms in front of his chest and let the moment drag.

  His uncle sighed. “Barric, don’t look at me like that. Will you let me speak with you or not?”

  “Very well,” Barric agreed. “Speak.”

  His uncle glanced back at the table, where cards and money were once again changing hands. “I’d prefer this stay between us,” he said cautiously.

  “Say what you wish to say, or don’t.” Barric made an offhand gesture. “It makes no difference to me.”

  “Really? Even though it concerns Mrs. Hawley?” His uncle waited. Barric sensed no flicker of amusement in his uncle’s eyes as he dangled her name in front of him.