I once was,” Harriet said, and Allan frowned.
“I should have considered, with Maggie gone, that more work would fall to you. We can hire a girl—”
“No, no,” Harriet said quickly. “There’s no need for that.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, I’m certain.” She paused, threading her needle carefully before she spoke again. “If we were to hire anyone, I think a man to help you with the harvest would be best.”
“A man? I’m not in need of any help. I’ve got George, after all.”
Harriet glanced up from her darning. “It’s a good deal of work for just one man and a boy,” she said. “You’ve hired men before—”
“For a season,” Allan allowed. “When I was tending my father’s land as well as our own. But there’s no need of that since we sold his acreage.”
“Even so,” Harriet murmured.
“What are you about, Harriet?” Allan asked mildly enough, although she recognized that thread of steel in his voice. “What’s got you in such a fash?”
“Neither of us are getting any younger, Allan.”
“You think I’m too old for this?” he demanded, and she couldn’t tell if he was angry or amused. Knowing Allan, probably both.
“No, but I know your father worked himself to death on this land and I don’t want to see the same happen to you. I love you too much for that, Allan MacDougall.”
Allan smiled, his eyes crinkling. “My father was far older than I am when he breathed his last. And in truth he died the way any farmer or man for that matter would hope to—strong until the very end.” He leaned forward and covered Harriet’s hand with his own work-roughened one. “I know having Maggie leave us has cost you, whether you’ll admit it or not. And I feel my years more keenly when I see what a grown up young woman our Maggie is. But I don’t need a man to help me now, and hiring one won’t keep me alive any longer than Providence allows.” He gave her a rueful smile. “God surely ordains all our days, my love. I trusted that when I sailed away from you all those years ago, and I trust it now.”
Tears pricked Harriet’s eyes and she nodded, her throat too tight and her heart to full to manage words. “Aye,” she said. “I trust it as well.”
Boston, 1838
It had been an entire fortnight since Isobel had written to Mr. Anderson of the Commissioners for Foreign Missions, and she had not had a single reply, a fact that filled her with both relief and irritation. She realized she had been foolish to think that a suitable candidate for husband would present himself immediately, and yet placing her name on that list had felt so monumental a decision that it was dispiriting not to have an immediate response.
And, in her most private and pained moments, Isobel wondered if a candidate would choose her at all. The thought of the humiliation she would experience if it were ever to be made known that she’d put her name on such a list and not been chosen made her insides writhe in an agony of anticipated embarrassment.
After two weeks she started to think nothing would ever happen. She would turn thirty years old in a few weeks; what man would choose such a spinster, especially if he wanted children? She pushed all thoughts of mission work or marriage out of her mind and attempted to concentrate on her work with the First School.
It was a balmy evening in late June when she returned home to find a letter addressed to her on the silver salver by the front door. Her heart bumped in her chest and she tore it open, heedless of how she ripped the envelope. Quickly she scanned the lines and her heart stopped bumping and seemed to freeze instead. Mr. Anderson had a possible candidate and wished to see her at her earliest convenience—preferably tomorrow.
At four o’clock the next afternoon Isobel presented herself to the office where she’d had that first wretched interview. She was even more nervous now, and she knew it made her seem haughtier than ever, her only
“I should have considered, with Maggie gone, that more work would fall to you. We can hire a girl—”
“No, no,” Harriet said quickly. “There’s no need for that.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, I’m certain.” She paused, threading her needle carefully before she spoke again. “If we were to hire anyone, I think a man to help you with the harvest would be best.”
“A man? I’m not in need of any help. I’ve got George, after all.”
Harriet glanced up from her darning. “It’s a good deal of work for just one man and a boy,” she said. “You’ve hired men before—”
“For a season,” Allan allowed. “When I was tending my father’s land as well as our own. But there’s no need of that since we sold his acreage.”
“Even so,” Harriet murmured.
“What are you about, Harriet?” Allan asked mildly enough, although she recognized that thread of steel in his voice. “What’s got you in such a fash?”
“Neither of us are getting any younger, Allan.”
“You think I’m too old for this?” he demanded, and she couldn’t tell if he was angry or amused. Knowing Allan, probably both.
“No, but I know your father worked himself to death on this land and I don’t want to see the same happen to you. I love you too much for that, Allan MacDougall.”
Allan smiled, his eyes crinkling. “My father was far older than I am when he breathed his last. And in truth he died the way any farmer or man for that matter would hope to—strong until the very end.” He leaned forward and covered Harriet’s hand with his own work-roughened one. “I know having Maggie leave us has cost you, whether you’ll admit it or not. And I feel my years more keenly when I see what a grown up young woman our Maggie is. But I don’t need a man to help me now, and hiring one won’t keep me alive any longer than Providence allows.” He gave her a rueful smile. “God surely ordains all our days, my love. I trusted that when I sailed away from you all those years ago, and I trust it now.”
Tears pricked Harriet’s eyes and she nodded, her throat too tight and her heart to full to manage words. “Aye,” she said. “I trust it as well.”
Boston, 1838
It had been an entire fortnight since Isobel had written to Mr. Anderson of the Commissioners for Foreign Missions, and she had not had a single reply, a fact that filled her with both relief and irritation. She realized she had been foolish to think that a suitable candidate for husband would present himself immediately, and yet placing her name on that list had felt so monumental a decision that it was dispiriting not to have an immediate response.
And, in her most private and pained moments, Isobel wondered if a candidate would choose her at all. The thought of the humiliation she would experience if it were ever to be made known that she’d put her name on such a list and not been chosen made her insides writhe in an agony of anticipated embarrassment.
After two weeks she started to think nothing would ever happen. She would turn thirty years old in a few weeks; what man would choose such a spinster, especially if he wanted children? She pushed all thoughts of mission work or marriage out of her mind and attempted to concentrate on her work with the First School.
It was a balmy evening in late June when she returned home to find a letter addressed to her on the silver salver by the front door. Her heart bumped in her chest and she tore it open, heedless of how she ripped the envelope. Quickly she scanned the lines and her heart stopped bumping and seemed to freeze instead. Mr. Anderson had a possible candidate and wished to see her at her earliest convenience—preferably tomorrow.
At four o’clock the next afternoon Isobel presented herself to the office where she’d had that first wretched interview. She was even more nervous now, and she knew it made her seem haughtier than ever, her only
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