And where was David? That other suitor who had been so eager to claim her hand at the midsummer ball? He too had disappeared, like a summer mist.
Mirrie snorted as she picked up her skirts to jump over a fallen log. Whatever charms she had wielded that night must have faded away to naught. And looking down at her loose-fitting grey tunic, she could see why.
But it was so very freeing to tell herself that she did not care. To scoop up her hair into an unfashionable, untidy knot androam about with neither a bonnet nor gloves—except to protect her tender flesh from hard, manual work.
To be amongst people who did not judge her. And did not mislead her either.
Aye, it’s good to be home.
She rounded the last corner and came in sight of the vast hayfields which were filled not only with their own farm workers, but also villagers, including women and children. It took the whole community to bring in the harvest and was a time of hard work and togetherness. She put a hand over her eyes and scanned the labourers until she spied Callum, forking cut hay into a waiting wagon with impressive strength and accuracy. But he paused in his work when he saw Mirrie and was quick to flash his customary wide smile.
“Have you come again to join us?” He pushed a shock of dark hair away from his eyes.
“If you will have me?” she smiled back.
“We will be stopping for lunch within the hour, if you would prefer to join Frida and some of the other women in laying out the food?” He gestured towards the nearby cart which had brought provisions, all packed by Mirrie, up to the fields.
“Nay.” She shook her head. “I would prefer more manual work.”
“’Tis all important, Godly work,” he pointed out, his dark eyes fixed on her.
Finding me wanting?
“I should prefer to work up a sweat and forget my troubles.” She raised her eyebrows meaningfully. “Must we quarrel over this yet again?”
“I am in search of no quarrel. Here.” He held out his own pitchfork with a wink. “You carry on with this. I will go down to the end of the field and press on with the scything.”
“Thank you.” Her cheeks had pinkened, partially from the noonday sun, and partially from her outburst. She could not escape the notion that she was still acting in some sort of ruse and consequently, that she risked discovery and censure at every turn.
But that was true, she thought, as she grasped the fork firmly and dug it into the hay. She had kissed Tristan, Frida’s brother. And not one of these good people knew that.
’Twas one thing keeping her feelings for him a secret. ’Twas quite another to stay silent about all that had passed between them.
And all thatcouldhave passed between them.
There were times when the little voice in her head regretted that not more had happened in the school room of Wolvesley Castle.
Or in the corridor outside my bedchamber.
Mirrie pressed her lips together, hoping to silence these errant thoughts with hard, physical labour. Over time, she had learned how to swing the fork just so, to lift the maximum amount of hay without spinning of balance or dropping the bulk of it. It took all her concentration though, and she did not even hear the cry ring out for everyone to down tools and gather together for some much-needed food and drink.
A shadow fell over her, as she poised at the apex of her next swing.
“Will you not partake of refreshment?”
Her first thought was that the speaker was Callum, but as her fork dug through the cut hay, she realised the voice was deeper and more refined.
A voice which made her breath catch in her throat and her skin prickle with awareness.
Mirrie felt perspiration running down her forehead; her hair, she knew, was slick with sweat.
The last person she wanted to see right now was Tristan.
“I will stop in a while. I must finish this row first,” she replied, not even glancing towards him.
Why did he come?
Tristan oft helped bring in the harvest at Wolvesley. But never before had he joined them at Ember Hall.
