monotonous.
Hours seemed to pass, but she knew it was only a matter of twenty or thirty minutes before Joshua raised his hand to those behind, clicked softly at the horse, and the wagons moved onto the track. The journey seemed infinitely longer this time, even though she could breathe and see and was not in fear of imminent discovery. But shecould feel the tension in the burly figure beside her, the straining into the darkness for the sounds of pursuit, and her own thoughts were a roiling turmoil of fear for Benedict, of the avalanche of awakened memories, and of how the disclosure of those memories was going to affect the idyll in the woods.
D awn was streaking the sky when the wagons turned into the yard of Joshua’s farm. They were driven into the barn, and the solidly comfortable figure of Bertha appeared immediately, tucking her hair into her cap.
“I’ve been worried sick wondering where you’d got to!” she scolded Bryony, wagging a ferocious finger. “If you were one of mine, I’d take a switch to you … going off like that without a word.”
“Leave her be, Bertha. She’ll have trouble aplenty with Ben,” said Joshua, unhitching the horse from the traces. “Besides, she did us a good turn.” He handed the reins to Bryony. “You can do us another one, and get this old lady out of harness and bedded down in the far stall.”
Bryony, glad to have something useful to do and not at all unwilling to be out of the way of Bertha’s rough tongue, took the horse off cheerfully. It was not a task she was accustomed to performing, Sir Edward’s stables being amply staffed, but she set to it with a will,reflecting that recently she had learned to do a great many things that Miss Bryony Paget in normal circumstances would never have expected to tackle.
Bertha was caring for the other horses while Joshua and the two lads were pitchforking hay over the wagons. Bryony, having fed and watered her charge, grabbed a fork and joined in. It was backbreaking, scratchy work, with dust and straw flying around, sticking to the sweat on her brow, and getting in her nose and mouth. Her hands, still sore from their combat with the fishing line, blistered rapidly, but she persevered, refusing to give up before anyone else. Bertha joined them and seemed every bit as strong as the men, swinging the pitchfork with an enviable rhythm. She glanced at Bryony and pursed her lips.
“Not used to this sort of thing, are you?”
“Is it that obvious?” Bryony paused for breath, leaning on her fork.
“Clear as day,” the other woman said bluntly but without rancor. “You’re all wore out, I shouldn’t be surprised. Go on up to the kitchen. There’s a pot of coffee in the hearth.”
It was a tempting offer. “No, I’ll do my share.” Bryony resumed the forking, feeling that in some way she had to redeem herself in the woman’s eyes.
“How long do you think the others will be, Joshua?” The question didn’t manage to sound as casual as she had hoped, as calmly confident that they
would
be turning up at any moment.
The farmer grunted, paused in his efforts for the time it took to wipe his brow with a bright spotted handkerchief. “Only Ben’s coming here. The others’ll be off their separate ways. We got to lie low for a while after thisnight’s work. Don’t want to draw attention to this place … not with this lot under the hay.” He gestured to the three haystacks that had replaced the wagons.
“So, how long do you think he’ll be?” she persisted, tossing another forkful onto the haystack.
The answer was unhelpful. “No telling. Depends how much of a fight the redcoats put up.” He propped his fork against the barn wall. “Reckon that’ll do. Let’s go up to the house. My belly’s cleaving to my backbone.”
Bryony, however, found the keenness of her own appetite blunted by apprehension. She was quite incapable of doing justice to the steaming pile of griddle cakes that Bertha set before her, or
Hours seemed to pass, but she knew it was only a matter of twenty or thirty minutes before Joshua raised his hand to those behind, clicked softly at the horse, and the wagons moved onto the track. The journey seemed infinitely longer this time, even though she could breathe and see and was not in fear of imminent discovery. But shecould feel the tension in the burly figure beside her, the straining into the darkness for the sounds of pursuit, and her own thoughts were a roiling turmoil of fear for Benedict, of the avalanche of awakened memories, and of how the disclosure of those memories was going to affect the idyll in the woods.
D awn was streaking the sky when the wagons turned into the yard of Joshua’s farm. They were driven into the barn, and the solidly comfortable figure of Bertha appeared immediately, tucking her hair into her cap.
“I’ve been worried sick wondering where you’d got to!” she scolded Bryony, wagging a ferocious finger. “If you were one of mine, I’d take a switch to you … going off like that without a word.”
“Leave her be, Bertha. She’ll have trouble aplenty with Ben,” said Joshua, unhitching the horse from the traces. “Besides, she did us a good turn.” He handed the reins to Bryony. “You can do us another one, and get this old lady out of harness and bedded down in the far stall.”
Bryony, glad to have something useful to do and not at all unwilling to be out of the way of Bertha’s rough tongue, took the horse off cheerfully. It was not a task she was accustomed to performing, Sir Edward’s stables being amply staffed, but she set to it with a will,reflecting that recently she had learned to do a great many things that Miss Bryony Paget in normal circumstances would never have expected to tackle.
Bertha was caring for the other horses while Joshua and the two lads were pitchforking hay over the wagons. Bryony, having fed and watered her charge, grabbed a fork and joined in. It was backbreaking, scratchy work, with dust and straw flying around, sticking to the sweat on her brow, and getting in her nose and mouth. Her hands, still sore from their combat with the fishing line, blistered rapidly, but she persevered, refusing to give up before anyone else. Bertha joined them and seemed every bit as strong as the men, swinging the pitchfork with an enviable rhythm. She glanced at Bryony and pursed her lips.
“Not used to this sort of thing, are you?”
“Is it that obvious?” Bryony paused for breath, leaning on her fork.
“Clear as day,” the other woman said bluntly but without rancor. “You’re all wore out, I shouldn’t be surprised. Go on up to the kitchen. There’s a pot of coffee in the hearth.”
It was a tempting offer. “No, I’ll do my share.” Bryony resumed the forking, feeling that in some way she had to redeem herself in the woman’s eyes.
“How long do you think the others will be, Joshua?” The question didn’t manage to sound as casual as she had hoped, as calmly confident that they
would
be turning up at any moment.
The farmer grunted, paused in his efforts for the time it took to wipe his brow with a bright spotted handkerchief. “Only Ben’s coming here. The others’ll be off their separate ways. We got to lie low for a while after thisnight’s work. Don’t want to draw attention to this place … not with this lot under the hay.” He gestured to the three haystacks that had replaced the wagons.
“So, how long do you think he’ll be?” she persisted, tossing another forkful onto the haystack.
The answer was unhelpful. “No telling. Depends how much of a fight the redcoats put up.” He propped his fork against the barn wall. “Reckon that’ll do. Let’s go up to the house. My belly’s cleaving to my backbone.”
Bryony, however, found the keenness of her own appetite blunted by apprehension. She was quite incapable of doing justice to the steaming pile of griddle cakes that Bertha set before her, or
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