“You poked me!” Rosie scowled at Mathilde.
“One cannot help sharp elbows.”
“But they can mind where they’ve stuck them!”
“You make a beautiful scene,” I called. Their little fingers, their pretty lips; they looked like a painting themselves, except a painting couldn’t have captured the field rippling in the breeze and their dresses rising and falling on the same drafts of air. Nor would it have caught their bickering. “As long as you are not talking.”
I went back over to the chaise, stopping at its rear. I could hear birdsong and closed my eyes to listen. A wren’s rapid trill and a skylark’s elongated call as it hovered above. So rarely did I get to see these small birds—those that quieted when Lucy was nearby. Wishing for luck, I opened my eyes, and placed my palms against the back of the small carriage. Using all my weight, I leaned forward to shove it into the ditch.
“Mama?” Rosamund cried, alarmed.
I pushed harder.
“Mama!” Rosamund repeated. Both girls’ mouths were open in small O’s of surprise.
With a final heave, I managed to get the chaise to lurch ahead. The gig rolled forward into the ditch, flipping on its side.
Mathilde turned to her sister. “She’s lost her senses.”
Both started to stand.
“Sit back down,” I called. “Don’t move, I’ve only just positioned you.” I looked down at the cart and frowned. I had not anticipated its flipping. One of the wheels had also broken. “God’s bones,” I whispered to myself.
“Positioned us for what?” Mathilde demanded.
“You’ll see shortly.”
I was operating on a series of assumptions. I knew from Finnie that the prince was hunting that day. And that the party would be looking for fowl on the Enright property. The retinue would have to be large—large enough that the group couldn’t stay at most halls and would have come from the direction of the city—and they would need to take the main road for their many wagons and carriages. The best time for hunting was late afternoon. I hoped they would pass us, and slow to offer assistance. I had positioned the girls close enough to the road that their faces might be remembered by a passing prince. The wind in their hair. Sun-kissed cheeks and a paintbrush held aloft: a tableau of feminine grace and artfulness.
But, for a long while, nobody came. The sun dropped lower in the sky. The girls’ silence turned to complaints. Biscuits were pilfered and eaten. And, when, finally, there were hoofbeats, the dust revealed only a farmer and his wagon.
He tipped his hat and slowed, looking at the carriage. “You need help,” he yelled, as he got closer.
“No,” I called back. “No, thank you!”
He began to pull on his reins.
I shook my head at him. “No, sir, do not stop!”
“You need help!” he repeated, more plaintively.
“I do not,” I called. “Be going. Move along.”
Confused, he scratched his head.
“Shoo!” I shouted. Glancing over my shoulder, I could see my daughters’ looks of consternation.
The farmer shrugged, unbothered. But watching his cart trundle away, I felt less confident. I didn’t believe in fate or luck; rather that you had to take a situation in your weathered hands and wrestle it into whatever shape you required. But what if those instincts only served me a broken chaise in a ditch? We couldn’t afford a wheelwright. And I couldn’t do without a chaise. Dejected, I went back over to the picnic to eat another biscuit, further ruining the shape of the pyramid.
“When your father and I traveled after our wedding, the staff would set up a lunch like this every day,” I remembered aloud. “There were tables and chairs and even silver.”
“Yes,” Rosamund said. “And insects would get trapped in the canopy of the tent.”
“And the women were not supposed to talk,” Mathilde added. “And you had to sit in silence and listen to the men.”
I realized it was a repeated story—and perhaps not as sweet as my current recollection.
“Forget tables and chairs,” Mathilde said. “A picnic would be more enjoyable if you could eat all the food.” She stared longingly at a bowl of pears.
