Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I hear them before I see them. The horses’ hooves on the muddy path, the men’s boots heavy on the ground. They are dressed neatly, in Sunday coats despite the warming weather.
From the window, I watch as they descend upon the house, feeling a terrible dread in my stomach.
The wind seems to deliver them to me, bringing them slowly from a distance and then all at once.
They arrive like a murder of crows, dark and important.
The man in the front carries a paper in one hand, hubris in the other.
I step out onto my porch before they get the chance to call for me, hands folded tight behind my apron.
I remember the stories my gran told me about her mother, about how the men came for her, too. Men just like these before me. I don’t dare let them see the way my hands shake beneath the cloth.
Inside, the girls are watching from atop wooden stools at the parlor window. Though they are quiet as shadows, I can feel their presence without looking, without even hearing a creak of the floor underfoot.
They radiate nervous energy, like field mice caught in a storm.
“Evening, Mrs. Wilde,” says the first man, his hat pressed carefully against his chest as if he’s here to mourn something not yet dead.
Up close, I recognize him as Mr. Clemens, a local shop owner. When I do not respond or bid him well, he goes on. “We’re here on account of concern from the village. Real concern. For you and your daughters.”
“Are you now? I don’t recall sending for any concern, real or otherwise.”
That seems to silence him for a moment, but then he just gives me that smile that men often give you when they mean to talk over you. When they think you’re just a foolish woman who says foolish woman things. “Be that as it may, Mrs. Wilde, we’ve convened a special meeting on your behalf.”
“Very kind of you, but unnecessary, you can be assured.”
He’s growing irritated with me now, as his men become restless.
“We’ve spoken with Reverend Hawkins, and he’s in agreement.
As is the town council.” He braces himself, his feet shuffling about like a turkey.
“It’s not proper, nor is it safe, for a woman—a widow—to hold land alone. Now, we’re only looking out for you.”
“Your concern is very decent, Mr. Clemens, but I assure you, you need not worry. Foxglove’s stood without a man on its deed as long as it has stood, more than my seven and twenty years of living. More than my gran’s. It’ll stand for a few more, God willing.”
He squeezes the paper in his hand, balling his fingers into a fist at his side. “You must have a husband, Mrs. Wilde. Or male kin to see to your wellbeing. It’s only right.”
Now it is my turn to smile, for I have been warned about these men and their rules all my life.
My eyes scan the crowd, the others there prepared to tell me what is fit and right and proper for my own life.
Among them are farmers and shopkeepers, nearly ten of them—though one is just a boy who has not grown into the hair on his chin.
They watch me with wild expressions, nodding and clucking their agreement like the hens in the coop.
Their greedy eyes take in Foxglove, then me, and I see the fire of which I’ve heard tales. The hatred.
“I have a brother,” I say. “Many of you know Henry. And my late husband, James. But their names have never been on the deed. Will never. Foxglove is and has been mine from the moment my mother was placed into her grave.”
“Henry is a good man,” Mr. Clemens says. “But he is not taking responsibility for you and your daughters in your time of grief.”
“I didn’t ask him to—”
“That’s just it.” He cuts me off. “It’s not about asking, Mrs. Wilde. You and your daughters being here alone…it isn’t right.”
“Ain’t lawful in some counties neither,” calls a man from the back, hand in the air. Around him, the other men mumble in agreement.
Mr. Clemens puts up a hand to quiet the crowd. “You’re putting your daughters at great risk, and we know that is not what anyone wants. Not you. Not us. You’re leaving them out here alone, unprotected. No husband to look out for you. No proper name on the land.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Clemens, but your concern is starting to sound more like a threat.” I take a step toward the edge of the porch, and the men retreat like a wave pulling back to sea, fear in their eyes.
It’s the most powerful I’ve felt in my life, save for the moments I brought my daughters into this world.
“No, ma’am.” He bows his head but meets my eyes again in a way that tells me he doesn’t plan to budge. “We just want things done the decent way.”
“My name will have to be decent enough,” I tell them, my voice firm. My next step takes me off the porch, so the hem of my dress drags through the mud and puddles left by this morning’s rain. “For it is the only name that will ever claim this land.”
“But you’re a woman.” He says the word as if it is a curse.
“And?”
“A woman can’t own land. Can’t protect herself and her family.”
“And yet I have.”
Another man from the back of the crowd speaks up, and I recognize his voice without looking for his face.
Daniel Blackwell—a man who reeks of soured milk and old whiskey, with a face that looks like an apple rotting beneath its tree.
Unbelievable as it is, his temper is worse than his breath.
“You’re barking mad, woman. Be reasonable.
You’ll only draw trouble if you mean to keep this place on your own forever. It’s already got folks whispering.”
“Better they whisper about me than some of you,” I say. “The village needs something to worry themselves over or else they’ll be bored, don’t you think?”
He snarls his upper lip, revealing brown teeth. “Ain’t it bad enough your line has been tainted by that no-good witch blood?”
His words burn me where I stand, and I feel water from the hem of my skirt brush against my skin through my stockings as I take another step forward. “You know nothing of which you speak.”
“I know enough,” he says with a snort from that oversized nose of his. “All you Wilde women up here alone. Half of you never marry, and the ones who do bury their men far too often.”
A wicked smile grows on my lips then, like mandrake sprouting from the ground. “Yes. Isn’t it strange how the men keep dying, yet the women live on?”
That, at least, seems to quiet them. Worry them. They’re nothing more than they’ve always been—fearful little hornets.
Mr. Clemens steps in front of me, keeping the rest of the men back with a wave of his hand. “We’re here to help, Mrs. Wilde. Like we said…concern is what brought us and nothing else.”
Lies.
“There is a man. A widower, like yourself. John Reardon is decent. He has land of his own, and he’d make an honest husband.
We’ve already spoken to him, and he’s willing to take on the burden of your girls.
Foxglove could remain in Henry’s name, or you and Mr. Reardon could sell it in.
Or save it for your sons one day.” He looks over his shoulder, then back at me, lowering his voice.
“For your daughters’ sake, ma’am, I beg you to think on it. ”
I don’t need to think on it. “From the day my James died, I’ve done nothing but think. The answer is no.”
There’s a rumble of disagreement, and it surprises me when the youngest boy speaks up. “But surely you don’t mean to leave your daughters with nothing, Mistress. Mr. Reardon—”
“They will not be left with nothing, not so long as Foxglove stands.” My voice is icy as I stare at them, an odd companion for the fire I feel in my gut, in my palms. “This house will be more than enough for them.”
“A house with no husband is—”
“These walls were built by the hands of Wilde women.” I’m shaking now, my voice scarcely escaping my bared teeth.
“The well was dug with our sweat and bloody fingers, the land cared for by our souls. No man had a hand in building this place, and none will claim it. Not as long as Wilde blood flows through our veins.”
“It’s unnatural,” someone shouts from the back, though I can’t tell to whom the voice belongs. It doesn’t seem to matter. They have but one brain between them all.
I take my time, looking over the faces of each one of them. I want to remember their eyes. “Unnatural? Is that what you think?”
Their heads bob.
I take another quick step toward them, and again, the men move back as one, like water crashing against a rock in a stream.
As if I am stone, commanding their direction.
“What’s unnatural is thinking the moment you were born a man, God placed the world in a box and handed you the keys for safekeeping.
You are not needed to protect—not me nor my girls—and as long as I live, I vow it.
Gentlemen, you will own neither Foxglove nor this land.
Your keys may have gotten you inside a lot of doors, but they are no good here. ”
Mr. Clemens stares at me a long while, the deep wrinkles in his face folding, shadows darkening like bruises. “We’ll take it to the court then, see what Judge Roberts has to say about it.”
I can’t deny the fear that flicks through me, but I don’t let him see it. “You do that.” Without daring to turn my back on them, I step up onto the porch. “I do hope you brought your lanterns tonight, sirs. It will be night soon, after all, and these woods aren’t safe after dark. Even for men.”
They all stand still and steady for several moments, like they don’t know what to do. I can almost hear their thoughts, see them sagging like rocks in the pockets of their usually thoughtless minds.
The wind picks up as if she’s trying to carry them away as quickly as she brought them, and their horses begin to stir, whinnying nervously. The animals can sense the incoming storm. Same way I can.
The men take the nervous air as their cue to leave. They turn, backs stiff as boards with pride and discomfort, as they mutter to each other and mount their horses. The last of the men to leave is the boy, who looks over his shoulder just once at me, his face ashen.
I don’t leave the porch until the final image of them vanishes through the trees. I whisper my thanks to Foxglove for keeping me safe, and my hopes that they’ll stay gone. Funny things happen when you speak your hopes out loud, my gran used to say.
Inside Foxglove’s walls, the girls rush to my side. I draw them close to comfort them, their small, frightened faces shattering my calm. Rose is barely twelve, Lyddie not even nine. They do not yet know the dangers this world holds, but they will all too soon.
Their small fingers cling to my skirts like roots, so tight I fear they may never let go.
“What did those men want, Mama?” Rose whispers. “Will they make us leave Foxglove?”
I kneel down next to her, taking both cheeks in my hands. “My darling, Foxglove has stood too long under the feet of Wilde women to ever fall to man’s paper. They will try, as others have, but do not fear. They shall not succeed.”
Lyddie squeezes against me, her voice trembling. “What will happen if they come back?”
I lift my arms and drag the girls in closer to me, holding them tight and wishing I could make everything right again. Wishing it were as simple as it was when they were very young and a kiss could mend all wounds.
I glance out the window, at the trees and shadows surrounding our land, dark and buzzing with ancient secrets we may never understand.
“This land knows our name, my darlings. It knows our blood and our intentions. It was never theirs to claim nor covet. Foxglove is ours, and she will protect us. We are safe here, do you understand?”
They nod against my skin, and I kiss their heads.
That night, as they sleep beside the hearth and the storm rages on outside, I rise and make my way to the kitchen, retrieving a knife from its box.
The handle is made of a beautiful blue stone, and it fits perfectly in my palm.
It was a gift from James during our last Christmas together, meant for cutting and preparing the herbs I collect.
Until this moment, I haven’t found the strength to use it, but now, rage bubbles over like a pot of boiling water as I carry it back to the fire, to the hearth that has warmed this house and fed this blood for centuries.
I run my hand across the stone mantel, knowing the work this will take, knowing it might break the blade, but I have to do it.
I whisper apologies to Foxglove as I begin to carve each letter, taking my time. It will take weeks—months, perhaps—but I will make it happen.
Each night, after the girls are asleep, I set to work again. Just me, the knife, and the stone.
And in the end, when I am finished and the knife’s blade is dull, I step back to admire my work. In the stone mantel, the very heart of our dear Foxglove, I have carved one word.
I run my finger across each letter.
W-I-L-D-E.
WILDE.
For she is ours, and we will always be hers.