Might as well do something useful with it.
Her mind made up, she released the hold on herself. Her feet were glad to be moving as she headed back down to the kitchen, where Mrs. Crangle positively lit up when Harriet explained what she wanted.
Patience was feeding and in need of a rest, so Harriet saddled her sister Folly instead. The mare was clearly itching for a run, so Harriet made doubly sure everything was firmly fixed before climbing into the saddle and letting the mare have her head. Folly’s hooves flew over the turf, kicking up the light snow until it glittered in the sunlight; Harriet indulged and took her the long way toward the ruins, around the base of the two hills and then up to approach the old church from the west rather than the north. She tied Folly securely and took down the basket, then made her way into the abbey.
Enough time had passed by now that the light had changed. Miss Wraxhall had seated herself against the base of a column, knees high, black coat and skirts all tucked close around her. Despite her mourning clothes she seemed to have collected all the sunlight around herself: the silver in her hair flashed almost white with it, and the pages of her book were bright enough to blind.
The ground in front of her was scattered with seed. The tall red rooster—Walter, Harriet recalled—had found his courage and was happily pecking at the grains. A few of the grey hens had joined him, though Harriet noticed they stayed carefully out of Miss Wraxhall’s reach. The rest of the hens were keeping watch, and called a warning when Harriet took another step forward.
The grey hens nudged Walter back to the safety of the nest.
Miss Wraxhall looked up, blinking in bafflement, as though slowly freeing herself from a spell. “Mrs. Boyne?” she said.
Harriet felt briefly ridiculous. The basket weighed heavy in her hands, and Miss Wraxhall was looking at her as though she were some sort of apparition. Nothing for it but to proceed, and hope the feeling passed swiftly. “Bread and cheese didn’t sound all that filling,” she said, “so I had Mrs. Crangle make us up a picnic basket.”
She set the basket down on the path and began to unpack its contents.
A small blanket to spread as protection from the cold, icy ground. Pork sandwiches, boiled beef, and a flask of tea still warm enough to scald. A bottle of cider, apple tarts, and a loaf of fresh bread with several of Mrs. Crangle’s best jellies. More cheeses, cold chicken, and two of the delectable pigeon pies Mrs. Crangle had made yesterday.
Miss Wraxhall’s eyes got wider with every item Harriet unpacked. She gave a little laugh. “Don’t you think Mrs. Crangle may have overdone things a bit?”
“Better too much than too little.”
“I suppose so—but goodness, I hope you’re planning to help me with all of this!”
Harriet eyed the pigeon pie and knew herself for a weak woman. “If you’re sure,” she said.
Miss Wraxhall went for the sandwiches, while Harriet poured them both tea in handleless cups. The pigeon pie was even better than yesterday, so Harriet ate it slowly and deliberately set the other one in front of Miss Wraxhall, away from temptation.
Miss Wraxhall took the hint, took a bite of pigeon pie, and let out a sound of such animal satisfaction that Harriet felt herself blush to have heard it. The woman’s eyes closed, lashes dark against her cheek, and the tip of her tongue licked out to get every bit of flavor from her lips.
Suddenly temptation had quite another object.
Miss Wraxhall’s eyes opened—brown, Harriet noticed now. Warm, chocolate brown so velvet-rich you could happily drown in it. “Do you think Mrs. Crangle would give me this recipe?”
“I’m certain she would,” Harriet said. “Though you might have to bribe her into it.”
Miss Wraxhall smiled, eyes warming with mischief. “And what kind of bribe works best on Mrs. Crangle?”
“Other recipes,” Harriet said. “Good wine, or brandy, or whiskey. Preserves or pickles, if you make them. Things that last. Things that can be saved against future need.” She shifted a little. “Of course, she might give you the recipe free and clear just to thank you for helping with the hens. She’s excited to have a source of eggs closer to home than the Bickerton market.”
Miss Wraxhall chuckled, sounding very like one of those hens herself. “We haven’t gotten them home yet—I’ll wait to ask about the pie until the flock is safe at Thornycroft.”
“You seem to have coaxed them into less suspicion, at least. It’s more than I would be able to do in one morning.” Harriet cast a skeptical eye at the hens semi-bristling in their nest. As if they knew their kind was being feasted upon not a dozen steps away. “You might have lured them all the way home before much longer.”
Miss Wraxhall sat straight up. “I do not steal chickens!” Delivered in the same tone of voice in which one might say I do not devour babies!
“I didn’t say stealing—I said luring.”
Miss Wraxhall frowned. “Is there a difference?”
“Luring implies that you gave the chickens a choice.”
Miss Wraxhall laughed, still uneasy, but clearly trying not to be. “First bribery, and now theft—sorry, luring,” she said. “Where did you come by so many vices, Mrs. Boyne?”
“In the army, Miss Wraxhall.”
That soft gaze sharpened. “Your husband was a soldier?”
