Chapter 35
Steam curled in lazy ribbons from the washtub, drifting into the open air where it thinned and vanished, and sunlight fell unfiltered across the packed earth of the yard, warming her back as Thea bent over the laundry.
Arms submerged to her elbows, she worked the soap into the bedsheet, and the fabric twisted this way and that, being as uncooperative as possible as she scrubbed it against the washboard.
Every motion sent a dull ache through her shoulders, the pain settling into her very bones.
No matter how carefully Thea tried to move, it tugged at some knot or twinge that no amount of rubbing or stretching could ease.
Even her hands felt strained and swollen, the skin reddened and tender from the lye, each finger stinging where the soap found a crack.
Thea wrung out a sheet over the basin, the weight of it pulling at her shoulders until her arms trembled, and though sweat dripped into her eyes, she could barely expend the energy to wipe at her damp forehead.
Not that it did any good. Though a breeze drifted through the trees and shrubs that enclosed the space, it did little to stave off the heat pouring from the basin at her feet and the sun on her back, and beads gathered as quickly as she wiped them away.
Between the boiling and the scrubbing, the wringing and the drying, every load required days of effort, allowing for only a brief respite before the next round began.
It was punishing work without beginning or end.
Each garment yielded to her efforts with reluctant obedience, only to be replaced by another and another and another. The piles were never-ending.
Carrying another load to the line, Thea wondered how she had ever overlooked the sheer enormity of the task.
But then, the used linens in Rensford Park were replaced with fresh ones as if by magic, the laundry maids’ work occurring entirely in the unseen bowels of the house.
Invisible to all but them. Now, with the weight of damp cloth pulling at her arms, Thea understood why the household employed several servants solely for this chore alone.
Across the yard, Mrs. Brinn worked with practiced efficiency, her sleeves rolled past her elbows, steam billowing from her wood tub as she poured another kettle of water into her load, and Thea found herself singing along with the woman; the country tune added a rhythm to the work as their movements moved in time with the lilting melody.
There was something oddly grounding about chores.
Whether it was seeing something made clean again or raw ingredients transformed into a filling meal, there was a sense of peace that came from looking at a job well done and the fruits of one’s labors—though she wished for a moment or two to enjoy it before the next task came bearing down.
“Supper needs stirring,” called Mrs. Brinn with a hint of a smile, and Thea straightened, her back groaning in protest. With wide eyes, she glanced at the back door, which was open enough to spy the pot hanging above the glowing embers in the hearth.
And only then did she catch that warning scent.
Water sluiced down her arms, and Thea mopped it up with her apron as she scurried inside, snatching the rag from the table and using it to lift the pot from the hook.
A few quick turns of the spoon showed it wasn’t burned.
Thank the heavens: it wasn’t her who would be forced to eat it, and that made her failures all the more painful to bear.
“You cannot allow your attention to drift too far afield,” called Mrs. Brinn from the yard. “It isn’t just about learning each task on its own—”
“It is about managing them all together,” replied Thea, offering up the words the woman had spoken many times since they’d undertaken her training all those weeks ago. “I do not know how you do it.”
“Practice, miss,” came the quick and oft-repeated response.
The words did little to reassure her. Practice.
It sounded so simple when Mrs. Brinn said it, as though repetition alone might transform Thea’s clumsy efforts into something resembling competence.
Yet no matter how diligently she tried, the work still felt unwieldy, demanding more of her hands than she could do.
Patience. Thea repeated that word again and again.
Household management was not a skill one perfected in a day or two.
It had taken her countless hours to learn how to properly address an invitation, studying under her mother’s tutelage to gain the skills and abilities required of a lady in her standing.
Keeping house would require just as much dedication and effort.
As the morning stretched on, and the rhythm of work settled between them once more, Thea began to notice small triumphs she might have missed before: how her hands moved more surely through the motions, how she reached for the right tool without prompting, how the corrections were growing less frequent.
Thea even remembered to stir the pot without Mrs. Brinn prodding a second time. A small triumph to be certain, but Thea clung to those little victories, forcing herself to see them as signs that she was learning.
Once the tubs were emptied and the linens hung to dry, the small cottage fell into that weary quiet that followed hard labor.
Thea’s arms ached, her skirts were damp, and the scent of lye clung stubbornly to her skin, but she cleaned herself up as best she could, returning the apron Mrs. Brinn lent her before gathering her shawl and going on her way.
A gust of wind swept over her flushed skin, raising a shiver as it drew away the lingering steam and the sour tang of soap, and Thea paused, eyes closed, breathing it in while the breeze teased the damp curls at her neck and eased the weight of the day from her shoulders.
It wrapped around her like a balm—cool and startlingly fresh after the stifling heat of the washbin.
For a long moment, she stood there, letting her gaze drift over the slow curve of the land as it rolled toward the horizon, criss-crossed by the hedgerows.
The scent of grass and warm earth hung in the air as the sun glinted off the lingering dew that dotted the fields.
Thea had always thought it lovely, but with the ache of honest work thrumming through her limbs, she saw it differently; every leaf, every breath of wind, every speck of dust caught in the golden sunlight thrummed with a simplistic beauty she’d never noticed before.
Warmth crept up her neck that burned hotter than anything she’d felt whilst standing over the washbin.
How flippantly she’d dismissed Frederick and her parents’ concerns, imagining the work as simple and easily managed.
A dash of discipline and effort was required, of course, but it was nothing terribly vexing.
The words she’d once said so carelessly echoed in her head, sounding hollow amidst the distant calls of the songbirds and lowing of the sheep as they wandered the fields beyond the hedgerows.
Thea lifted her gaze toward the horizon.
The fields stretched out endlessly, golden beneath the summer sun, and she considered what the past months had taught her.
How blindly she’d moved through life, pampered by the invisible efforts of the servants and laborers.
She’d passed by them, with their chapped hands and bowed backs, and had thought she understood their world simply because she stepped into their homes from time to time with a charity basket in hand.
Now, Thea felt the full weight of her ignorance, and with that clarity, a question rose to her thoughts, and for the first time since Frederick had spoken to her of his troubles, Thea gave it the proper weight and consideration that it deserved.
Was this a life she wanted to live?
Each day with Mrs. Brinn bestowed more knowledge and confidence, and Thea knew skill was not the issue at hand. It may be difficult, but she was capable of managing the duties. But did she wish to?
Thea’s steps came slowly as she followed the lane toward the front gates, but her thoughts were far heavier than her limbs.
Ahead, the trees gave way, and Rensford Park emerged through the screen of elms, the pale stone catching the sunlight with a soft glow.
The house looked impossibly composed: every line was exact, every window polished, every hedge clipped into perfect obedience.
And hardly a stone’s throw away was the tiny End House.
That pokey little building, with its worn walls and roof, was the nearest neighbor of this Grecian behemoth.
No one “of consequence” would say such a thing, as to their thinking, that distinction was not simply physical distance but also social, and the Brinns couldn’t be farther from the Keats.
Thea’s gaze lingered on the familiar windows of her home, the gentle slope of the lawns, the trim symmetry of it all.
How many mornings had she stepped through that doorway without thought, believing such beauty a birthright, rather than the product of labor she’d never seen?
Now, after scrubbing and hauling and wringing until her arms ached, she saw the efforts of the hands that polished the brass and the backs that bent to keep the floors gleaming.
So many people envied the life she had. Could she abandon it? Would her feelings for Frederick survive the hardship and difficulties of that world?
The question caught hold and refused to let go.
Thea’s feelings for Frederick were as tangible as the blood in her veins—an integral part of herself—but could love withstand the endless labor, the worry that crept in with every draft beneath the door, and the gnawing uncertainty of whether there would be enough to last through the week?
Rent to pay. Children to feed and clothe. Mrs. Brinn measured every spoonful of flour and hoarded every farthing, and to live like that, day after day, year after year, with no promise of rest or reprieve? Could Thea willingly subject herself to that?
And what if Frederick were to pass like Mr. Brinn? The very thought of it made her chest tighten.
Thea drew a long breath, but the air faltered as that sharp flicker of doubt pricked at her.
Once, she would have answered without hesitation, but now, the words stuck in her throat, choked by the image of Mrs. Brinn stooped over the washtub and the sound of her meager coins clinking together as she counted and re-counted the rent.
The question lingered, heavy and insistent, but Thea forced herself to breathe through it.
She didn’t have to decide now. Not today.
That was the purpose of all the work, the lessons, and the endless scrubbing and aching—to see clearly and to understand what such a life meant before she chose. The answer would come in its own time.
Sunlight spilled across the stone portico and glinted off the brass handle of the front door as she reached for it, and the scent of beeswax polish and fresh-cut flowers greeted her as she stepped into the entryway—only to spy a letter, written in a familiar hand, on the side table.
The sight sent a rush of warmth through her, dispelling the heaviness of her thoughts, and in an instant, her weariness was forgotten.
Thea snatched it up, her fingers trembling slightly as she broke the seal, eager to hear the latest from Phoebe. Eyes fixed on the letter, she absently dropped her shawl onto the now-empty place on the side table, her feet turning toward the stairs as she read through the first few sentences.
And paused.
Lowering the letter, Thea glanced at the shawl and snatched it up again, draping it over her arm: the maids had enough to manage without tidying up something she could easily carry herself.
Thea turned her attention back to the page and moved toward the staircase, eyes skimming the familiar hand as she read, scouring for some sign of hope.
The past few missives had been so very bleak, and Thea couldn’t help but hope and pray that Phoebe’s life in Kingsmere was settling into something better. Of course, it was new, but surely—
“There you are.”