Chapter 3
Stooks of barley dotted the flat fields, waiting to be gathered.
Blythe could not stop the rhythmic tap of her heels. She was home. But would she be welcome after all she had done?
Elijah peered out of the carriage window. “Is all this land part of Grandpapa’s farm?”
“Yes.”
“Is Grandpapa rich?” Violet asked.
“He makes a good living as a farmer. Some years are more difficult than others depending on the weather, and a poor harvest affects more than the farmer.”
“Why have we not visited before?” Violet fidgeted next to her governess, who appeared mesmerised by the passing fields and hedgerows.
“Because farmers are busy all day, every day. There is a lot more to do than just tend the fields.” It was a partial truth.
The children did not need to know the promise she had made to their father.
“Your grandparents will be delighted to meet you.” Well, she hoped they would be.
Mama had encouraged her to stay away. But regaining control of her life included standing up to her mother.
“What if they dislike me?”
“No one likes you.”
“Elijah, do not be unkind to your sister.”
Her son rolled his eyes. “She knows I am only teasing.”
Violet tutted. “I cannot wait until you return to school; then I will not have to see you again until Christmas.”
“And I will not have to listen to your snivelling.”
“Your grandparents will love you both. If you are on your best behaviour and use your manners, Grandmother Dixon will adore you. There is nothing she likes more than well-turned-out children. She is very proud that her grandchildren live in York and are growing up to be a fine businessman and an elegant young lady.”
“What if I do not wish to be a businessman?” Elijah asked. “What if I wish to be a farmer?”
She leaned forward. “You will have my support no matter what profession you choose.”
“You know nothing about being a farmer,” said Violet.
“I could learn.”
“You can both enjoy the country air and learn about farming. There are plenty of things you can do to help. When I was a girl, I milked the cows, churned the butter, fed the pigs and chickens, and collected the eggs.”
Violet’s nose wrinkled. “I do not want to feed the pigs! They probably smell.”
“Then you will be in good company.”
“Mama!” her daughter whined.
“Elijah, are you four or fourteen?”
“She is annoying.” Elijah slouched on the swabs and crossed his arms. “It would do her no harm to get her hands dirty for a change.”
“Grandmama Simmonds says a lady should never have dirty hands.”
“Grandmama Simmonds is not here, and I cannot wait to get my hands dirty. Whenever Mr Drake takes me to the bank, all he talks about are profits and investments. It is so dull. I would rather do something useful.”
“I enjoy talking about money.”
“Then you can work at Papa’s bank.” Elijah scoffed.
“I might.” Violet continued with a sad lilt in her voice, “Papa said I have an excellent head for numbers.” Her lower lip protruded. “Why can a lady not run a bank?”
“Perhaps one day you will prove the world wrong.”
“I do not think Grandmother Simmonds would be pleased.”
What a shame Violet had inherited her tendency to please domineering maternal figures. “You do not need your grandmother’s approval. If you wish to run the bank when you grow up, then you will have my full support too.”
The carriage rolled past the gateposts of Squire Rodgers’ estate. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach.
“Perhaps I will become a doctor,” said Elijah. “I could help people rather than make money for them.”
Blythe cleared her tightening throat. “A physician is a very worthy profession.”
“But you will have to speak to sick people.” Violet grimaced.
Elijah sighed. “Why do you not concentrate on being pretty and I will concentrate on doing something useful?”
Violet flicked her loose blonde curls over her shoulder. “There is more to me than being pretty.”
Their bickering grated. “You will both make yourselves useful during our stay.”
Violet pouted. “I want to go home. Grandmama Simmonds will not be happy to learn that I have been collecting eggs or milking cows.”
“Then I suggest you refrain from telling her when you write,” Blythe said through gritted teeth.
The open fields gave way to the stout, red-brick buildings of Midthorpe.
Those butterflies in her stomach became a swarm.
They passed the empty yard of the coaching inn. On the sign, the now faded and peeling black horse reared above.
She could not help but crane her neck when the carriage rolled over the crest of the medieval bridge across the beck and down the dusty road through the centre of Midthorpe.
A joyful peal of bells rang from the square tower of the Anglo-Saxon church.
The great oak spread its sturdy branches across the village green.
It would not be long before the leaves carpeted the ground in burnished orange and brown.
At any other time of year, boys would be scampering across the grass. Now, they were out in the fields.
At the edge of the green, a fiery glow emanated from the wide-open doors of the smithy. Had Samuel Farrer taken over from his father? Did his own children work with him now?
Bowed windows displayed hats in the milliner's, and reams of fabric and ribbons in the haberdashery. A side of beef hung on a hook outside the butcher's, and golden loaves sat in rows in the baker’s window.
At the junction remained a double-fronted shop. In bright yellow lettering, the words Sharpe’s Apothecary stood out against the dark green paintwork. Guilt and delight warred within her.
A group of women stood on the corner. In unison, they gawped at the carriage when it took the south road. She jerked her head away. Perhaps she need not venture into the village during her stay.
The carriage rolled on. They passed the silent tavern, and terraced cottages became open fields once again.
After a few minutes, they reached a wide gateway with the word Silverdale carved into the stone arch.
The pigsty, the dairy and the stables lined the left side of the wide courtyard.
Ahead, the barn doors remained open, and chickens fluttered and squawked when the carriage approached.
To the right, her heart swelled at the sight of her garden. Runner beans and pea vines climbed the brick walls, and the raised beds brimmed with lush green leaves.
Home, she was home.
Between the dusty dirt of the yard and the row of bright yellow and orange trailing nasturtiums that marked the edge of her garden, a maid stood with a sheet before the washing line on which already hung several shifts and shirts.
The girl dropped the sheet into the wicker basket at her feet and ran into the house through the side door.
The carriage halted before the pointed-arched oak front door of the farmhouse.
Blythe inhaled, and the footman unfolded the step before helping her to alight. The limestone house rose two stories high. Pale pink roses climbed up to the slanted roof.
The studded door opened.
Blythe held her breath when Mama walked into the yard and stood before them, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Look at you all.” Mama wrapped Blythe in her arms, and she sank into her mother’s embrace.
Mama whispered, “I said there was no need to visit.”
All sense of comfort evaporated. Be strong, Blythe. “I came, regardless.”
Her mother stiffened. “We shall discuss this later.”
Oh, she had no doubt. Blythe gestured to her children and said, “Mama, allow me to introduce Elijah and Violet.”
Elijah bowed and Violet curtsied.
Mama put a hand to her chest. “Such a fine gentleman and young lady!” She turned to Blythe and said, “You’ve fair made me proud, Blythe.”
Pride had never been a problem.
Mama leaned down and kissed her grandchildren. “How well-turned-out you are.” She ran a thumb down Elijah’s cheek. “So smart and handsome.” To Violet, she said, “And you are as beautiful as your dear Mama was at your age, and what a pretty frock!”
Violet beamed under her grandparent’s praise.
“Come, we will drink tea in the parlour.” She took Violet’s hand and led her inside. It was clear who was now Mama’s favourite.
Elijah followed.
A woman stood in the doorway with a palm resting on her heavily pregnant stomach.
After instructing the governess to oversee the unloading of the waggon, Blythe entered the house. “Jane.”
Her brother’s wife wrapped her in a warm embrace. Her round belly bumped into Blythe’s, and they pulled apart with a soft chuckle.
“You are brave to disobey Mother Dixon, but I’m so glad you did.”
“In our correspondence, did we not agree that we would no longer allow Mama to overrule us?” Whether her resolve endured further interrogation would remain to be seen. It must! “You look well.” Blythe ran a hand over Jane’s swollen stomach.
“Hopefully the babe will arrive before the end of September.” Jane rubbed her spine. “My back cannot withstand another month.”
Blythe linked her arm in Jane’s, and they headed towards the parlour. “I can take over your duties, and you can rest.”
A teasing smirk formed on Jane’s lips. “When was the last time you did such things?”
She halted. “I have not forgotten what it is to work.” Blythe ignored the sardonic tilt to Jane’s dark brow and asked, “How is Papa?”
“Mother Dixon says he’s on the mend, but I’m not allowed in the sickroom.”
Blythe nodded. “You cannot risk becoming unwell so close to the birth. You are older now and must take extra care.”
“May I remind you; you’re a lady now and no longer an apprentice midwife.”
Not if her plans were to come to fruition, but there were more pressing matters at hand. “I will visit Papa in a moment.”
“He’ll be happy you’re home. We’ve all missed you.”
Home. Just the word eased the pressure on her chest.
Jane headed into the parlour while Blythe climbed the stairs. The fifth step creaked under her feet, and she could not help but smile. She removed her gloves and ran her hand up the dark wood banister.
Before her parents' bedchamber, she paused, inhaled, then rapped on the wood.
“Come in, Blythe.” Papa’s words were followed by a racking cough.
Papa stood before the window in nothing more than his shirt and stockings.
“What are you doing out of bed?”
Papa coughed into a handkerchief, then said, “Did you drive through the village in that? Your mam will be preening like a peacock to think her friends will have seen you in that fine carriage.”
“I do not care about Mama’s friends. I care about why you are not in bed.”
“Stop fussin’, child.” Papa waved her off.
He wobbled when he turned, and she took his arm, guiding him towards the carved four-poster bed. “Papa, you have had lung fever. You must rest, or it may return.”
Papa clambered onto the mattress. She plumped his pillows before allowing him to recline, then pulled the sheets and blankets up to his neck before tucking them in.
“I’m not an invalid. I’ve been in bed a month. I need to get back to work.”
“You will not get back to anything if the lung fever returns. Besides, I am certain John is doing a fine job of overseeing the harvest.”
“Aye, your brother knows what he’s doing. I’ve no worry on that score. But it does a man no favours to malinger in bed, especially one who’s never been struck by illness afore.”
“I hate to say this, Papa, but you are getting older.”
Papa snorted.
A musky stench turned her stomach. “This room is stifling. You need some fresh air.” She opened a diamond-paned window.
He grumbled under his breath, “You sound like Doctor…”
She turned.
Papa picked at the blankets.
Blythe hung her spencer on the back of a spindle-legged chair. “You can say his name, you know, and Doctor Sharpe is correct.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t argue with his modern ways. He’s a good doctor.”
“I do not doubt it.” Ignoring the sensations swirling within her, she perched on the edge of the bed.
Her throat tightened upon closer inspection of Papa’s hollowed cheeks and the grey smudges beneath his eyes.
Fine lines bracketed his mouth, and loose skin hung around his chin.
“I am here to take care of you and help Mama, so both you and Jane can rest.”
“You always were an excellent nurse, but your mam won’t be happy. How will she crow about her handsome daughter living the life of a lady in York if you’re here?”
She refused to allow Mama’s opinions to dictate her actions again. Resting her hand on top of her father’s, she said, “I do not care, Papa. I am a farmer’s daughter after all.”