It arrived today in an envelope far nicer than ordinary ones. The paper is three times as thick as I’m used to with beautiful red fibers in it. It was handwritten and addressed to me inviting Dad, William and I for tea at the Doran home next Saturday. It was signed Melinda Doran, who is Jonathon and Marion’s mother. I don’t know if I was most shocked at the invitation or that she addressed herself by her first name instead of something more proper. But then, the world is modernising so quickly. Many of the farmers have tractors now and it’s not uncommon to see planes cross the sky even in our lonely hills. But if I am to go to a great house with grand people once in my life a bit of ceremony would be nice. My only fear is her dying husband will be there and I will not know what to say. Once I thank them profusely for their baskets I have nothing to discuss other than sheep and typewriters.
I wish Jonathon would be there but she said nothing of him and he is likely running himself mad trying to get into the fool Army. I could never get Dad into a rich man’s house if I dragged him by his ear and William would make an idiot of me. The letter said to telephone the house with my answer instead of reply by post so I ran twice around the yard until I was quite breathless and had worked all the nerves out of my legs before I picked up the earpiece. I assume it was the maid that answered and I tried to sound dignified despite hollering over the crackles.
“This is Eve Brannon replying to Mrs. Doran. I would be delighted to come to tea. My father and brother regret they will be working. I am accepting for one, Eve Brannon.” I shouted my name once more very slowly just to be certain.
“Mrs. Doran will expect you at 1:00,” she said in a voice that managed to be disinterested and irritated all at once.
I’ve been crying all week over the terrible bills and my dreadful behavior with the Wellers, but now I am blazing with curiosity so hot it burns out most of the sadness. What if she should offer to give us the loan just out of goodness? Perhaps Jonathon convinced her and then I would stop being so embarrassed for our kiss. I would only regret I didn’t kiss him twice. And what would Alan care? He’d kiss him himself if the farm got saved. I have to sleep. My arms ache from typing and my back aches from carrying around a sheep that I call Dally. She thinks I am her mother and has one black smudge on her muzzle that makes it impossible to refuse her. The only downside is I can hear her bleat for me all the way from the barn even though she doesn’t need bottles at all anymore.
I realise the letters paint all our futures bleak. With the farm in dire straights, even our closest friends unable to help, and Alan away for years, I’ve nothing really to hope for, and yet the tea invitation smells of hope. Or rosewater. Or perhaps just richness. I imagine a great house has a smell that comes from being full of things from fine shops full of scents. Didn’t Fitzgerald say there was a smell to money? No. That was a sound. Daisy’s voice sounded like money. Mine must sound like ryegrass and wool.
3RD JUNE 1939
It is past ten on a moonless night so starry the sky is alive with light. I wish I owned a silk gown so I can look mysterious and beautiful as I tuck my legs under me and type for all I’m worth. Dad told me yesterday my “machine” has come to be his lullaby at night. He likes to hear me tap away through our thin walls even when he knows I need to sleep. It sounds a trivial thing, but for him it was a tender conversation. Life upended and uncertain can make you hard in soft places and soft in the hard ones.
Instead of a silk gown I sit in a tattered old night shirt of my father’s with zero romance to it, which is fine because one shouldn’t play at romance until one knows what she is doing. That is what I have learned.
There are so many important things to tell, but the first one, at least chronologically, was Holton’s surprise visit to our farm last Thursday.
Dad and I were forking out feed when he sped down our lane, showering the drive in flying gravel from his speed. He jumped out with no greeting at all. “Epsom salts!” he shouted, making me drop my load. “I’ve a boot full of them to be getting on with.” He puffed and smiled all at once.
“Come again?” my father asked.
Holton held onto his mischievous smile for a moment before he couldn’t bear it any longer. “It’s lead poisoning. Confirmed on my slide just this morning. I came straight out with the salts.”
“What th’ ‘eck. We’ve no lead about,” Dad protested.
Holton pulled a heavy bag of salt from his car. “I don’t know how in the world they got it, but that’s it. No more guessing.”
We raced to keep up with him as he hurried for the barn. “How did you figure it?” I asked.
He hitched up the bag on his shoulder and squinted. “It were a rum one. An article arrived from a colleague at the Royal Veterinary College about the severe and sudden lead poisoning. He only scribbled a brief note that said I might be interested. Could not have been more timely. I kept getting sidetracked by the fluke and the worms and the feed sample test, but the blindness gave it away.” His troubled expression gathered up some pride. “I took a sample from the kidney cortex of the last one we lost and sure as I’m standing… I said all along it looked like poisoning, didn’ I?”
I made a breathless gasp of joy. “So we can save them with only salts?” I asked, hope dawning over me.
Holton halted his fast steps and looked to me, his eyes suddenly grave under his white hair. “Eve, we can only treat them. The damage already done will be permanent.”
My father dropped his head to hide his face and a ringing silence enveloped the yard.
My voice broke it. “So it doesn’t matter that we know? It’s still all over for us?” Anger leaked into every word. How dare he come bounding in as if he had good news?
“We can keep them from getting worse. The salts will absorb the excess lead before it gets to their brains and we can find the source and keep the unaffected ones well.” His searching gaze begged us to see the bright parts. “Where there’s life, there’s hope.”
Dad finally eyed the bag on Holton’s shoulder. “Least it be a cheap fix,” he muttered.
I bit down against the sour disappointment and did what Dad did, threw myself into the work of gathering sheep for dosing. The three of us spent the rest of the day administering salts and ransacking the barn and fields for anything with lead. We didn’t find so much as a loose flake of old paint. Holton took a water sample but that wasn’t it. So while the source remains a terrible mystery, there is comfort in knowing what we are fighting. I’ve never spared a thought for professors at the Royal Veterinary College before, but I have a great fondness for them now.
Three days after the lead discovery was my tea with Mrs. Doran. To prepare I scoured myself nearly down to the bone, scrubbed at my callouses with baking soda and salt, and poured milk into my hair for extra shine. I didn’t deserve to borrow a bottle of scent from Theo since I haven’t made my penitent appearance at her door yet, but I rubbed some vanilla extract behind my ears, careful to not leave brown streaks. I even combed a bit into my hair. As I adjusted Mother’s pearl earrings at the hall mirror I endured some teasing from William about cheating on Alan. I reminded him I was having tea with a matronly lady, in which case I think Alan needn’t worry. My only pair of unstained white gloves went carefully into my pocket.
The car refuses to crank again so my cycle was my only choice. I used twine and an old kitchen towel to rig the seat so the rusty metal wouldn’t streak my dress. The effect was horrible to look at, but surprisingly pleasant to sit on. I knew I would arrive all creased in the back, but figured it shouldn’t be so very hard to keep my front to those who mattered. My arms trembled as I set out, all from nerves, but the clear sky helped distract me. Whenever I fought my way up a terrible hill my reward was to fly down. My dress fluttered like a flag and the speed made a cool wind on the overwarm morning. Though I tried not to perspire, the Big House is four miles away and the sun was blazing. I blew down my collar and blotted with my handkerchief, hoping the damp didn’t reach my hair and spoil the curls.
I hadn’t been to the Big House since primary school where we recited the St. Crispin's speech because Mr. Doran loved it, sang a few Scottish ballads because Mrs. Doran requested them, and accepted their thanks in the form of lemonade and biscuits. I always loved outing days, though I do remember being bitterly disappointed there was no great chandelier and none of the furniture was gilt.
When I turned onto the lane of Buchanan Estate, my memories overtook me as soon as I saw the yew trees. My recollections had completely omitted the twisted, reddened trunks winding up to the ceiling of leaves. It smelled of shade and earth. I stopped my cycle and lifted my head nearly parallel to the sky, the light skipping through the leaves whenever they shifted. I decided to leave my cycle hidden behind one of the large trees and propped it there. A grasshopper watched my every move from the bark. I brushed down my dress, fluffing it until the lace edge of my petticoat showed. My clothing choice was a bit childish, but since I will not outgrow looking like a child anytime soon I decided to lean on the charms I do have. A pinch to my cheeks (probably unnecessary after such a journey) and a smoothing of my hair and then I decided to stop worrying about my appearance. The trees were too beautiful and the prospect of tea too delicious to waste it on things I couldn’t help.
I slipped on my gloves as I strolled beneath the yews, wondering how many generations of people had walked this lane and if any had been as excited and nervous as I was at that moment. I pictured Jonathon waiting on the front lawn with his curious smile and enjoyed the vision for a rather long time before I remembered to be ashamed and think instead of Alan with his strong chest pushing against his uniform pockets. I thought of Alan’s letter and his trust and blushed without any rouge. It is perfectly normal to get all flirtations out of your system when you are only 18, Alan, I told him most reasonably in my head. It is psychological fact. It will only help me realise how much I love you when other men pale in comparison.
When I got to the door I cleared my throat and shook my head before I knocked. I wondered if a formal butler would answer, but the door was opened by a woman far different than my rememberings but just similar enough to know it was Mrs. Doran.
“Good morning, dear. How nice to have you.” Her black hair was sprinkled with gray, her cheeks permanently splotched from rosacea. Her figure was shorter and rounder than I recalled. Her voice was neither formal, nor casual, but simply there. She put on no airs at all. Even her clothing was unflattering, though finely fitted and of good material. “The maid is tending to something else so forgive such an informal greeting. Don’t you look sweet?” She gave me a motherly grin (I had nearly forgotten what those felt like) and turned her head over her shoulder. “Jonathon, Miss Brannon is here.”
“Jonathon?” I asked her, all startled.
He strode over to us with long, fast steps. His smile was so small and hid behind it so much mirth. “You do knock quietly,” he said to me. Then turning to Mrs. Doran he said “However did you hear that, Mother? Were you prowling at the door?”
“You know I don’t prowl,” she said with a frown.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” I stammered to him.
“I don’t mean to ruin the tea party. I was home for the weekend for time with my father and I wouldn’t let Mother shoo me away.”
She shook her head to emphasise what he’d said. “He won’t be shooed at all. But do come in. At least he’s not like Marion, bringing in two or three girls all at once. What kind of girl would agree to a date like that, I ask you?” she asked as I stepped into the foyer. The first feeling was of space and air and room and cleanliness.
I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to answer her question, but I gave it a go. “I wouldn’t. I didn’t even know Jonathon would be here,” I promised. “I’ve come to meet you.”
“Which is lovely.” She led me at a good clip past wonderful furniture I wanted to stop and admire. Even worse was keeping pace with her past the paintings. There was one of a shipwreck so forlorn it pained me not to stop and drink it up. Certainly their home was nothing compared to great homes of truly titled families but it looked glorious compared to crumbling plaster walls and floors that sometimes try to grow actual mushrooms in the corners of my kitchen. The light fixtures were all brass and crystal and electric. I trailed my finger along the wooden back of a sofa, wishing I could peek about in morbid curiosity, opening every drawer and carved box on the side tables.
“I sang here when I was little,” I told them. “One year I was a cowardly soldier listening to Henry V, who was really Shelley Bright from fourth year. I had to act all cheery by the end of it and ready for battle.”
“Oh those terrible programs. I dare say it tortured the children, but my husband loved them.” Mrs. Doran sat down at a small table beside a window overlooking the walking garden. “You look barely out of school,” she said with a keen study of my face.
“I’ve been out for ages. Since I was sixteen.” I lowered myself beside her, pointedly avoiding looking at Jonathon because my voice trembled whenever I made eye contact.
“Don’t let her fool you,” Jonathon’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “She’s nearly a spinster. But a chap from the village was kind enough to spare her a life of loneliness and has proposed.” He said it so lightly, but there was a mocking to his voice that sliced like an arrow through my chest. I dropped my eyes to my gloved hands, trying not to let it hurt me.
“How nice for both of you, though I doubt you were ever in danger of loneliness,” his mother said. I looked up in gratitude in time to see her shoot her son a sharp and quizzical glance.
“Alan is a farmhand with grand plans to improve production.” I smiled at Mrs. Doran, making sure not to share the grin with Jonathon. “His plans have to wait, however, because he was just accepted in the Royal Horse Artillery. Only, of course, they don’t use horses anymore,” I added.
“But that is where Marion is! Officer training,” Mrs. Doran blurted out, her frizzy, black hair waved in the breeze from the window.
“I thought he was going into the RAF to fly?” At last I looked at Jonathon, waiting for an explanation.
“Peripheral vision. He didn’t pass muster. You don’t think they could be together?”
“I don’t know. Alan certainly never mentioned him.”
Jonathon’s smile retracted into a thin line. “Do you hear from him often?”
“Yes. Several letters a week.” Why did I lie? There is never more than one a week but the fib escaped without even consulting me.
He looked out the window at nothing in particular. “That’s nice.”
“Well, all the more reason to pray for the RHA. I’ll feel better knowing we’re doing it together.” Mrs. Doran patted my gloved hand her with her stubby fingers. “Is he training in Woolwich?”
“Yes. He left last week, but he told me he thinks they will promote him. He’s the top marksmen in his battalion.”
“Marion’s with the 88th. Great War glory and all that,” Jonathon murmured.
I told them I hadn’t thought to ask what battalion Alan is in, mostly because I don’t know a lick about companies or rank. The parts of Alan’s letters about the army are unintelligible to me. As I spoke the maid brought in a tray of sandwiches and lemonade in crystal glasses that sparkled when she set them in the window. I hated to eat it because it looked such a perfect picture on the white tablecloth next to the window trimmed in ivy.
Jonathon must have read my thoughts because he spoke close to my ear in a confidential way. “I told her you would love this far better than the formal dining room. In the mornings it is nothing but light and sun. It reminds me of your farm.”
I turned toward his voice, finding his face too close to mine. I ducked my head and answered, “I’ve never said something looked too good to eat, but I feel it now. Thank you Mrs. Doran.”
“Speaking of your farm, what is the latest update?” Mrs. Doran asked, settling into her chair much the way Skip burrows himself into the corner of the sofa. Nothing
of her gave any evidence of extreme refinement or snobbery. I found it remarkably comforting.
“There is news on that front, actually. Both good and bad.” I told them about Holton’s fortuitous diagnosis and the treatments. “We’ve slowed the decline, but it still looks like we may have to sell.” I managed it all with a chipper smile, attempting to ward off any pitiful looks from Jonathon. I seem to have no immunity to them at all.
“Surely that can’t be the end of it,” he protested. He had smiled grandly when I told about Holton discovering the lead poisoning.
I tried to skip over the terrible truths. “Theo would…” I remembered my manners and turned to Mrs. Doran, “My friend, Theodora Weller lives in town. Her father manages the bank. She would like it very much if we took a row house close to her.”
Jonathon didn’t quit. “But some sheep are treated for lead and recover. Didn’t the article say—”
“How do you know what the article said?” I said, snapping my eyes on his.
“Well, you just said…”
“The ones that recover are much less gone. Holton put slices of our dead sheep’s brains under his scope…” I stopped, mortified. Surely, it was hideous manners to say that with food on the table. My eyes flashed to Mrs. Doran’s disturbed face and I blushed, losing my voice.
But Jonathon fought on. “And should one want to invest for practical purposes? The war is going to make wool prices soar and the farm would be nothing but good business. Perhaps someone like myself could invest.”
“Have you any interest in wool?” I don’t know where I found the strength to give him such a steady gaze.
“He hadn’t before,” his mother assured me.
“I’ve a great interest in all that goes on in Kepsdale,” he answered firmly.
The maid entered the room, stopping under the doorcase. “Madam, a call from Doctor Peterson about Mr. Doran. Shall I tell him to ring back?”
To Move the World (Power of the Matchmaker) Page 15