The headmaster bowed deeply, removing his hat and raising good-natured eyes to Aunt Edna’s face. “Good morning, Mrs. Slater. What a fine day it is. I trust that you are in good health?”
“I am well, thank you, sir. Let me introduce you to my niece, Miss Harriet Walters. Miss Walters lives with me now.”
Harriet curtsied as Mr. Harris bowed again. “Very happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Walters,” he said before returning his attention to her aunt. “Is there anything that I can do for you today? I trust that there has been no further interaction between my boys and your apple trees?”
“None that I know of, Mr. Harris. On the contrary, I have a little proposition for you that would benefit both of us.”
“Indeed? How very interesting.”
“Yes. You see, it’s time to harvest my apples, but we are short-staffed this year and the crop is particularly large. Normally, my gardener’s daughter and her husband come to help us, but the young man fell and broke his leg, so they cannot come. Since your boys are so good at scaling my trees, I thought that some of the older ones might help harvest the crop under my gardener’s supervision. In return, I will pay for their labour in cider. What do you say to that, Mr. Harris?”
“It’s a tempting proposition, Mrs. Slater, very tempting. Of course, the boys must not miss any of their lessons, but they could come by mid-afternoon and work until early evening.”
Aunt Edna sniffed. “The harvest will take longer if they cannot work full days, but I suppose that it will have to do. I can provide refreshments for them.”
“I will need one of the masters to accompany and supervise the boys. We take full responsibility for their safety while they are away from home, as you can no doubt appreciate. Perhaps our youngest and most athletic master, Mr. Ash, would be the best choice.” Mr. Harris pointed toward the schoolmaster, and Aunt Edna turned to consider him. “He is very good with the boys. Of course, I would have to obtain his approval to the scheme.”
“Hmm – I suppose another pair of adult hands would be useful. The harvest will be finished all the sooner. That would be agreeable, Mr. Harris.”
“Let me put it to Mr. Ash then, Mrs. Slater,” the headmaster said, turning away and beckoning to the young man to come and join him. Mr. Harris and Mr. Ash consulted some distance away from Harriet and her aunt, while they waited. The history master nodded, and Mr. Harris patted him on the shoulder before returning to Aunt Edna.
“Mr. Ash has generously consented to your plan, Mrs. Slater. They can come tomorrow afternoon, if that will suit?”
“That will suit me excellently. Have them call at the kitchen door, and Brown, my gardener, will escort them to the grove. A pleasure doing business with you, sir.”
“And with you, Mrs. Slater. Miss Walters, it was delightful meeting you,” he added, bowing with a smile. “Good day, ladies.”
The headmaster returned to his flock, and the grammar school company set off for home. Harriet looked over her shoulder and intercepted a glare from Mr. Ash as he turned to go.
“Poor man, I imagine he felt coerced into today's scheme,” she thought, accompanying her aunt to the carriage.
Chapter Seven
Mr. Ash and a crew of eight boys arrived promptly the following afternoon. Harriet caught sight of them from her aunt’s bedroom, where she was helping the elderly woman to unpack and air her winter clothing. She stared down wistfully at the little troop, wishing that she could join them rather than remaining cooped up in her aunt’s stuffy chamber.
Aunt Edna said, “Harriet, have you seen my muff? I’m sure that I packed it in the trunk with my fox tippet. Where has it gotten to?”
“Coming,” Harriet replied, tearing herself away from the window.
An hour later there was a rap at the door, and Grace entered the room. “Excuse me, Ma’am, but Cook was wondering about sending some buttermilk down to the gentleman and the boys from the school?”
“I already instructed her to send Sara down to the orchard with the buttermilk,” Aunt Edna said.
“Only, Cook was wondering if you want to wait until they come in for refreshments instead? With Mr. Brown, there are ten of them, and Sara would have to make two trips to carry enough buttermilk. Cook doesn’t want to part with her for so long.”
“I could carry a second bucket if you like,” Harriet offered. “Then Sara could return sooner to help with the refreshments.”
Aunt Edna considered her suggestion for a moment. “You make sense, Niece. Hurry down to Cook and tell her that you will help Sara. Grace, you stay here and help me finish unpacking my clothes.”
Harriet fairly burst from the room, delighted to make her escape. She ran down the back stairs to the kitchen to inform Cook of the change in plan. Cook filled a second bucket with buttermilk, and the two women left the house together, swinging the buckets by their rope handles. Sara seemed as happy to escape Cook as Harriet did her from aunt, and chatted on the way about the difficulties of making “proper” pastry.
By the time they reached the orchard, Harriet’s arm ached from carrying her load. She rested the bucket on the ground and looked around to see what the harvesters were doing. Mr. Brown, the gardener, knew how to work his crew efficiently. He had Mr. Ash and the four largest boys, wearing leather aprons with pockets, propped up in the trees picking apples while the younger boys collected and sorted the apples into baskets on a low wagon.
Brown looked happy to see the young women. “Ah, Miss Walters, I didn’t expect to see you here. It’s good of you to come along with the buttermilk and young Sara ‒ we were getting fair parched. Here, boys, come and sit down on the grass, and Sara will pour you a drink. Miss Walters, would you mind taking your buttermilk to our workers on the ladders?”
“Not at all, Mr. Brown."
The larger boys scurried down their ladders on Harriet’s arrival, and pressed around her. She passed a wooden cup amongst them, and they took turns drinking. They thanked her when they had finished and sat down to rest on the grass. Ash did not leave his labours to join them, however, so Harriet walked over to his ladder.
“Mr. Ash, may I offer you a cup of buttermilk?” she called up to him. He glanced at her, and climbed down. Taking the cup she offered, he said, “Thank you, Miss Walters,” before drinking deeply and turning to climb up the ladder again.
“Will you not rest for a moment? Mr. Brown and the boys all are,” Harriet said. Ash looked around at the others before taking a seat upon the grass, all the time not saying a word or looking at her. Harriet wondered at his silence.
“The boys are doing a fine job, Mr. Ash. The baskets are already half full,” she said.
“Yes, they are good workers.”
“It is very generous of you to help with the harvest. I know that my aunt would have been hard-pressed to get the apples in this year without the school’s assistance.”
“Generous, Miss Walters? Are you being ironic?”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Do you not consider this an appropriate punishment?”
“A punishment? For what?”
“For trespassing on your aunt’s property last week.”
“Why would you be punished for trespassing, sir?” Ash remained silent, staring at the ground. Suddenly, Harriet understood. “Do you think that I told my aunt about you and Oliver in her orchard last week? You assumed wrongly, sir!”
“Then what were your aunt and Mr. Harris discussing after service last Sunday, and why was I chosen to supervise the boys?”
“They were discussing my aunt’s concern over not having enough labourers this year, and her proposal that the school help with the harvest in exchange for cider. Mr. Harris suggested you as overseer because you are the youngest and most fit of the masters.”
Ash stared at her. “Really? Then this had nothing to do with our trespassing?”
“Of course not. I told you that I would not tell my aunt.” Harriet bent to pick up the bucket as Ash scrambled to his feet.
“Miss Walters, please allow me to apologize. I was wrong to assume that you had gone against your word and, once again, my behaviour was churlish. My only defence is that I do not know you well enough to recognize that such behaviour is beneath you.”
“No, sir, you do not know me at all,” Harriet retorted, stalking away. She strode over to Sara, who was sitting on the wagon talking with Brown. “Come, Sara, we are finished here.”
“Yes, Miss Walters,” the girl said, scrambling after her. Harriet marched through the garden and into the kitchen, where she returned her bucket with a curt nod to Cook. When Brown brought his workers to the kitchen later that day, Ash looked for Harriet, but she was nowhere to be found.
Harriet’s temper had cooled sufficiently by the following afternoon to accompany Sara with the buttermilk again. As she had done the day before, Harriet took refreshments to the boys on the ladders before striding over to Ash’s tree. This time the history master was waiting for her at the foot of his ladder.
“Here you are, sir,” Harriet said, proffering the cup without meeting his eyes.
“Thank you,” he said, taking it from her hand. “I wonder, Miss Walters, if you are aware that we have a lending library here in Rexton?”
“I was aware of it, but I have not visited it yet,” Harriet said in a frosty tone.
“I frequent it regularly myself. Reading is one of my great pleasures.” Ash reached into his pocket and withdrew a small book. “I borrowed this yesterday. It’s a history of the local churches, including a description of St. Michael’s. I found it interesting and thought that you might enjoy reading it.” He offered it to Harriet, who hesitated before taking it from his hand. “Are you interested in church histories, Miss Walters?”
“Yes I am – in old churches and old buildings in general,” she responded, opening the book to its frontispiece.
“Have you visited Wells Cathedral yet? It’s well worth seeing ‒ centuries old, and not very far from Rexton.”
“Yes, I once visited the cathedral with my parents. I have also seen the ruins of the Glastonbury Abbey and the Tor,” she said with growing enthusiasm.
“Ah, the seat of the legends concerning old King Arthur.”
“I know that is probably just folklore, Mr. Ash, but when one sees the mist shrouding the Tor, it is easy to imagine it surrounded by water.”
“The island of Avalon, you mean? King Arthur, Queen Guinevere, and the Holy Grail?”
“Yes, and do not forget the legend surrounding Joseph of Arimathea and the Glastonbury Thorn,” Harriet said, her eyes shining with the romance of the tales.
“Very poetic legends surrounding a venerable site. Of course I am aware of all these tales, but my professional interest lies in a very different direction, in the Roman occupation of England. That is one of the reasons I sought a teaching position here in Rexton – for its proximity to Bath. The Romans used Bath as a spa town, you know.”
“Yes, I had heard that. I have not yet had the opportunity to visit Bath.”
“I hope to spend some time there this summer to research the Roman occupation.”
“That sounds fascinating, Mr. Ash.” Harriet looked down at the book in her hand. “Thank you for the loan of this. I will read it tonight and return it to you tomorrow.”
“No need to hurry, Miss Walters. I don’t have to return it for another week.”
“Well, if you really do not mind, I’ll hold onto it until the end of the week.”
Harriet tucked the book into her pocket and bent to pick up the bucket. “I must get back to the house now. My aunt has an errand for me to run. If the weather continues fine and you and the boys return tomorrow, perhaps we can talk again.”
“Until tomorrow, Miss Walters,” Ash said, bowing. He watched Harriet walk away before remounting his ladder.
That evening, Harriet was leafing through the church history in the sitting room, her aunt at a nearby table writing a letter, when Mrs. Evans arrived.
“Please do not get up,” she said as Harriet was about to stand. “Cook made some praline hazelnut candy today and, as it was such a pleasant evening, I decided to deliver it myself.” She sat down beside Harriet and drew a round tin from her bag. Opening it, she offered her some candy.
Harriet drew out a slab of the hazelnut-studded, buttery confection, and tasted it. “Mmm, this is delicious,” she said, the butter and sugar melting in her mouth.
Mrs. Evans smiled and passed the tin to Aunt Edna, who helped herself to a generous slab. “Thank you, Mabel,” she said. “I’ll steal your cook away from you if ever she grows tired of catering to you and your guests. My cook has a deft hand with pies and pastries, but I would employ your cook just to make me candy.”
“That is why I always bring you a supply, Edna – to keep my servants safe from your poaching.” The two friends smiled at each other.
“Here, Harriet, ring for Grace and order us some coffee. I need something strong and hot to go with this candy.”
Mrs. Evans settled herself for a visit. “What are you reading, Miss Walters?” she asked.
“A history of St. Michael’s and the local churches, Mrs. Evans.”
“Really? I've never heard of such a book,” Aunt Edna remarked. “Where did it come from? Did Reverend Simons give it to you?”
“No, it’s from the lending library. Mr. Ash lent it to me.”
“Mr. Ash? Do you mean the man who has been harvesting my apples, Miss?”
“Yes, Aunt, the history master from the grammar school.”
“How did the two of you come to be on such friendly terms, that he would lend you a book?”
“He noticed me at service last Sunday, and thought that I might be interested in learning something of St. Michael’s history since I am new to Rexton. We discussed it when I helped to bring the buttermilk this afternoon.”
Aunt Edna leaned back in her chair, clearly not pleased. “Your mother will not thank me for encouraging an acquaintance between you and a grammar school teacher, Harriet,” she said.
“I do not think that Mother would have any objection to such an acquaintance, Aunt. Mr. Ash is a respectable person. Obviously, the headmaster thinks well of him.”
“That’s not much of a recommendation,” her aunt snorted.
“Come now, Edna, Mr. Ash is a history master at a reputable grammar school, not a chimney sweep. You owe him some gratitude for his willingness to help you with your harvest. He also shows a high moral sensibility in loaning Miss Walters a book on church histories,” Mrs. Evans said, smiling encouragement at Harriet.
“Just see that you do not converse with Mr. Ash too regularly, or show him too much attention. I would not like him to become overly-familiar with you.”
“Of course not,” Harriet replied. But her aunt’s admonition did not prevent Harriet from discussing other sites of historical interest with the schoolmaster over the next three days. Talks about local history led to talks about family history, and Harriet learned that Mr. Ash’s father had also been a school teacher. Now retired, Ash's father and mother were living in Bristol to be closer to their daughter and her young family.
“Was it your father who instilled a love of history in you, sir?” Harriet inquired.
“Indirectly. My father studied literature, including the Greek and Roman classics, and I grew enamoured with stories of ancient times while listening to him read aloud. Hence my interest in the Roman Empire.”
“I see. How fortunate that the Romans visited England. Otherwise, you would have had to have gone all the way to Italy to indulge your passion. Very convenient.” Harriet was rewarded with a smile that made her insides glow.
“I never considered it from that vantage point before, Miss Walters. You are quite right."
The harvest was completed by week’s end, and Harriet missed her talks with the schoolmaster. Meetings were infrequent after that. Sometimes she caught a glimpse of him walking with his pupils during the week, and she was usually able to ex
change a nod or a greeting with him at Sunday services.
“I wish that I had been born a man and could be a grammar school teacher like Mr. Ash,” Harriet reflected. “Teaching history would be a fascinating occupation, and I would enjoy the companionship of the other schoolmasters. My conversation these days is mostly with elderly widows, and their scope of interest is so narrow.”
Harriet did enjoy Mrs. Evans’ company, however, and pursued an acquaintance with her aunt’s friend. Mrs. Evans was comfortable and empathetic, possessing a lively curiosity about most things that Harriet found stimulating. Although Mrs. Evans had resided in Rexton for many years, she had also lived in London with her husband and had made a grand tour of the continent. Mrs. Evans also subscribed to a London newspaper and kept herself informed of politics and world events with a masculine voracity. One day, Harriet dropped by her house to deliver a dress pattern, and found herself confessing to an ambition to live in London, and to travel.
“I can understand your wish to travel, Miss Walters,” the lady said, “but what attracts you to London? It’s such a big city, and you have lived mostly in the country.”
“London has so many attractions. Cathedrals, the British Museum, royal homes, theatre, concerts, shops . . . . I have lived in the country for most of my life, it is true, and I do love it, but I long to experience the culture and variety of life in a big city.”
“I understand. I had lived in Rexton all of my life until Mr. Evans married me and whisked me away to London. I was not a young woman when I married – did Edna not tell you that?” she said, noting Harriet’s surprise. “Oh, yes, I was twenty-nine when I married. I had been engaged to another man when I was younger, but my intended died of influenza. I remained at home with Mother after that, and then she died, and Mr. Evans married me. He was my cousin, you see, and twelve years older than I. His family had grown impatient for him to marry and produce an heir. They were dismayed when we were betrothed, though. They wanted him to marry someone younger, I believe, not an old spinster like me. And, as it turned out, his family was right. I had difficulty bearing children, and Diane was the only child to survive to adulthood. Those were hard years for us, but Mr. Evans always stood by me, no matter what difficulties we encountered. He was a good man, Miss Walters, and practical too.” The lady laughed. “Do you know, he always maintained that a woman should keep a few good pieces of jewellery close at hand in case of financial disaster, and he did buy me some beautiful things. I don’t wear them very often – they are too grand for me – but I will pass his advice along to you.”
The Affairs of Harriet Walters, Spinster Page 4