Chapter 32
Mrs. Brinn’s brows rose until they reached her hairline, and the pair stood there, staring at one another for a long moment before she stepped aside and ushered Thea in.
“I’ll pour us a cup of tea,” said Mrs. Brinn, and before Thea could protest, the woman bustled to the hearth, setting baby Jennie in a cradle beside it. “You sit yourself down by the fire, Miss Keats. You are chilled through.”
Thea hesitated, desperate to explain what had driven her here in such a state, but Mrs. Brinn waved off her attempt.
“Sit,” she ordered, with a tone that left no room for argument, and Thea obeyed, perching on the small chair closest to the fire as the other woman fetched the kettle from where it hung over the coals.
The cottage was small and close, the kind of space where the hearth truly was the center of the home.
Smoke-stained beams crossed low overhead, and the scent of wood and earth lingered in the air, softened by the herbal scent of the plants drying from hooks in the ceiling.
A single window let in the dim, gray light, and beneath it stood a sturdy table scarred by years of chopping and kneading, surrounded by a few scuffed and well-worn chairs that were well-loved, oft-repaired, and had seen many Brinns before this set.
Shelves lined the walls, holding a few bits of crockery and jars along with the odd keepsake.
Everything bore the mark of a careful hand: neatly folded linens, kindling stacked in even piles, brightly-colored wildflowers displayed on the rough-hewn mantlepiece.
There was little enough to the room, yet it felt lived-in, solid, the warmth of the fire reaching even the corners where the mist had crept in through the door.
Near the hearth, one of the Brinn children lay curled beneath a worn blanket on a small pallet whilst two others sat close by, their heads bent together over a pair of rough wooden figures that bore the unmistakable marks of having been carved by their father’s hand.
Reaching into the cupboard, Mrs. Brinn fetched a set of teacups, setting one before Thea. The porcelain was as thin as eggshell, the rims painted with a faded band of gold, and tiny roses wound their way around the bowl. Thea leaned closer to admire them as Mrs. Brinn returned with the kettle.
“This is lovely,” said Thea.
Mrs. Brinn sat down, carefully positioning her own cup before her seat. “My Gerald scrimped and saved for six months to buy the pair of them. I told him we couldn’t afford proper tea, so I didn’t need a proper set to serve it, but he insisted.”
Rubbing a thumb across the delicate cup, Mrs. Brinn’s lips pulled into a wistful smile as she studied it, though the expression faded as she turned her attention to Thea once more.
“I only have a tisane,” she said, lifting the kettle to pour her a cup.
“Chamomile, a bit of nettle, some dandelion root. Nothing fancy, but it’ll do you good.
The babes are down for a rest, the others are quietly playing for once, and I was just about to sit and have a cup myself, so your timing is quite lucky. ”
Thea took a sip. The taste was sharp and earthy, with far more bitter than sweet, as there was neither honey nor milk to soften the edges, yet the plainness suited her mood.
She swallowed, the warmth spreading through her chest, and for the first time that day, the clamor in her thoughts began to quiet.
Or perhaps it was the familiarity of this ritual.
The End House was a far cry from the plush parlors of her peers, but sitting with a cup of something warm whilst settling in for a good coze was a tradition dating back ages.
No doubt the different peoples drank different beverages, but Thea imagined that even the women of ancient Rome or Egypt found comfort in sitting beside a fire, partaking of female comfort. The drink was merely a detail.
Despite the oddity of her request and what was to come next, Thea’s pulse slowed as she took another sip, not caring that it scalded her tongue. And Mrs. Brinn allowed the silence to linger a moment as she collected herself.
Only then did the woman ask, “Laying a fire?”
There was no point in beating about the bush, so Thea accepted the prompt and unraveled the whole tale.
Or at least the whole that Mrs. Brinn needed to know.
There were plenty of details that could remain carefully tucked in Thea’s heart, but if the woman was to understand precisely what she was asking, Thea had to tell her most of it, starting with Frederick’s downfall and ending with Papa’s edicts.
“I am sorry to hear that,” said Mrs. Brinn, a frown marring her brow.
“I can’t say I’m surprised, as the village has been in a tizzy about the goings-on at Dunsby Hall, but I had hoped it was naught but a bit of idle gossip.
A good many will be out of work if the new owners do not keep it up as the Vosses have. ”
Straightening, Thea stared at the cup as she could not look at Mrs. Brinn.
For all that she had considered the trouble facing her and Frederick, she hadn’t given a passing thought for the village.
Any gap in employment would send ripples throughout Haverford’s economy as a flood of servants struggled to find temporary employment until the new master and mistress settled in.
Yet even as she considered that, Thea’s shoulders loosened: Frederick would’ve made provisions for that. Or as much as he could. There were bound to be impacts (they were inevitable with any change), but they would be dealt with as best as possible.
“No doubt your parents are none too happy about your sweetheart,” said Mrs. Brinn, giving Thea a knowing look before sipping her tisane.
Considering her own drink, Thea wondered what to say, for her parents weren’t the only ones with reservations: she needed to convince Frederick and even herself that being together was the best path forward.
“Don’t be too hard on them,” said Mrs. Brinn, setting down the cup carefully. “They know marrying beneath you will cause a world of trouble, and they are right to worry. Heaven knows my parents did.”
Thea’s gaze drew up to meet hers, and the woman turned her teacup about on its saucer with a wistful smile.
“I was a tradesman’s daughter,” she explained. “And they were livid when I insisted on marrying a laborer. They haven’t spoken to me since I went against their wishes.”
As Mrs. Brinn spoke, little Billy padded across the floor, his curls mussed and his cheeks flushed with warmth as he rubbed at his eyes.
Without a word, he threw his arms up over her knee, half climbing and half wriggling until his mother hoisted him into her lap; tucking his thumb into his mouth, he settled himself into the crook of her arm as his eyes fluttered drowsily.
“Such a course isn’t for the faint-hearted,” said Mrs. Brinn, placing a kiss on her son’s head. “The moment I chose my husband, I lost my home, my family, and my friends. I found myself mired in a life that was wholly different from what I knew.”
Thea watched her quietly, her fingers wrapped around the cooling cup, as Mrs. Brinn absently smoothed the curls from her son’s brow.
The dark skies outside provided little light, but the hearth glowed, illuminating and warming the tiny space with its plain walls and worn furnishings. The epitome of a simple life.
Here was the very thing her parents feared: a life of work and worry, of mending what could be mended and doing without the rest. And the sight of it settled heavily in her chest, sobering her far more than any lecture or threat.
Did Mrs. Brinn regret her decision? She’d chosen a lifetime of love, only to find herself widowed young and trapped in a position even more precarious than that of a laborer’s wife. Was the sacrifice worth it?
The questions rose to Thea’s lips, but faltered when she considered the small ears listening in. The woman’s eyes met hers, and seemed to comprehend the unspoken words, for her brows furrowed in contemplation, though she pressed another tender kiss to her son’s head.
“All choices bring joys and hardships, and every path is a gamble.” Mrs. Brinn rocked the child and smiled wistfully, “Humans have a gift for making themselves miserable, regardless of their circumstances. They ask, ‘what if…’ and invent fairy tales of the perfect life the other path would’ve provided, making the present one look grim and terrible.
An apples-and-oranges comparison if ever I heard one. No good comes of it.”
The weight of those words settled deep in Thea’s mind, threading through her like a slow current.
The quiet thickened around her, and the small sounds of the cottage sharpened—the faint creak of the chair, the soft breath of the sleeping child, the low crackle of the coals—as if the very air were listening, waiting for her to speak.
“I fear I have been quite foolish of late,” said Thea, letting out a heavy sigh. “Rather than accepting the choice before me, I dismissed every concern and forged ahead. However, I must explore the possibilities as best I can, for I will live with the consequences for the rest of my life.”
Mrs. Brinn nodded. “Hearts are silly things, apt to make choices willy-nilly. Whatever you decide, you’d best do so with your eyes wide open because regrets will rear their ugly little heads at times, and a heart that chooses knowingly is the heart that remains strong in the face of such troubles.”
“Which is why I wish for you to teach me how to lay a fire and cook and clean and whatever else a woman might need to know,” said Thea, straightening.
“I arrived on your doorstep wishing to silence the voices that say I am unprepared and ill-suited for this life, but now, I wish to know for myself if I am equal to the task.”
“A tradesman’s wife shan’t need to scrub and clean,” said Mrs. Brinn with a frown. “Most have a maid-of-all-work at the very least.”
“We are starting with nothing, so it may be some years before we are established enough to afford it. And there are skills I shall need even when life is comfortable, such as sewing a gown.”
Mrs. Brinn’s brows shot upward. “You do not know how to sew?”
“My training is wholly in fancywork. I can embroider anything you set before me, but I have never once attempted to make clothes,” said Thea, sighing to herself. “And as you said, every choice is a gamble, so I would rather learn more than necessary than find myself unprepared.”
Leaning back in her seat, Mrs. Brinn’s expression softened as her gaze grew thoughtful as she studied the lady before her.
“Well then,” she said in a contemplative voice. “We’ll begin with the fire. After that, mending and cooking. Washing is a beast, so we’d best give it some time before we attempt it.”
As Mrs. Brinn spoke of kindling and ash, dough and hearths, Thea found herself leaning forward. Here was something tangible for her to do. A task to complete.
Learning a few chores was a small thing.
Insignificant, perhaps. Yet the heaviness that had settled over her in recent weeks thinned as Thea’s resolve coalesced and strengthened, and a quiet energy unfurled in her chest—something bright and restless that ushered in a tingling anticipation that made her wish to roll up her sleeves that very instant.
Thea’s fingers itched to be useful, to do something more than sit idly by while others decide her fate.
The uncertainty of the future remained, but it no longer pressed so sharply upon her.
For the first time in too long, the path ahead did not feel like a burden to be endured, but a challenge to be met.
Frederick. Her parents. They all believed this was their decision to make, but it was Thea’s future at stake, and she wouldn’t allow others to choose for her.