Cosima was glad to be in the big outside, tromping and squelching their way across this field. Soft, wet spring grass soaked the cuffs of her jacket when she reached down to touch it. The sky was low over the softly rolling hills, the grass at mid-calf, the weather perfectly cool and sunny.
Another world from Los Angeles. A different life.
But she didn’t hate it.
“It makes sense that we’d have to go through fields to find a stile.” Edie’s voice broke through the almost frantic layers of birdsong. “But don’t you think there’s beena lotof walking through fields? If I had walked this far through any field in Wisconsin, I would’ve already been shot. Or at least barked at by a poorly trained dog.”
Cosima stumbled over a stone. “I can never tell if you’re serious.”
“Why? You live in America. Be careful, there’s a lot of those big stones now that the grass is thicker. Also, does it smell like sheep? Is it this jacket?”
“Of course not, it’s—”
“—holy fucking shit!”
Edie went down in the grass, and then there was an enormous flurry of movement and an improbable, complainingbaaa-aaa-aa.
“Edie!” Cosima parted the grass in front of her with her hands.
A black-faced sheep looked up balefully from its position on its side next to Edie, who was on her ass on the ground, trying to avoid being kicked by the sheep as it attempted to right itself. “It just came up on me! Right against my hip! Goddammit!”
Edie hiked herself to her feet just as the sheep hopped up, and then it turned and butted her in the stomach.
“Hey! Hey!” She backed up. “I didnothing. This is your field, right? Look where you’re going!”
The sheep backed up again, pawing at the ground with one of its front hooves, and put its head down. Cosima grabbed her arm. “Run, Edie! Run!”
She dragged Edie beside her, stumbling over the wet, stony earth through grass that grabbed and tangled at their wellies. The sheep tramped along behind them, neither slow nor fast but huffing alarmingly, udders swaying. Cosima was just beginning to wonder if the combined strength of two American women who were not at the peak of fitness would be sufficient to outlast one nettled English ewe when she heard a long, low whistle.
Turning toward it, she spotted a shape arrowing at them through the grass.
It burst into view, a black-and-white sheepdog circling the ewe to come to a stop in the space between them, where it got low to the ground and laid its ears flat.
Cosima heard another whistle. The dog feinted toward the ewe. She ran away, bleating with irritation.
A woman appeared, walking toward them from the direction the dog had come from. She gave them a jocular wave. “Don’t mind her!” she shouted. “She’s been a bit terrible since having her lambs.”
The person was as tall as Cosima, with salt-and-pepper hair cut blunt along her chin. Her fossil of a blue sweater had darned elbows. She put her pinkies in her mouth and let out another sharp whistle. “Linda!”
Another disturbance in the grass signaled the dog’s return, and then there Linda was, dropping to the ground and putting her head between her paws at the feet of the woman.
“That was amazing,” Edie said, still out of breath from running. “What a great dog!”
“Oh, well. Linda does all right. Her mum, now, Linda Senior, was something else. Swear she read my mind.” The woman put her hands on her hips. “You two must be Morag’s guests. I’m Thorberta Fernsby, but everyone calls me Bert, of course.”
“Of course,” Cosima found herself whispering. Edie had moved half a step in front of her. Whether this choice was due to Edie’s extroversion or an attempt to prevent Cosima from being recognized, she couldn’t be sure.
“Sorry I crashed into your sheep,” Edie said. “I didn’t even see her!”
Bert laughed, crossing her arms and bending over as if Edie had the wit of the ages.
“Bert, I hope we’re not trespassing.” Cosima stepped beside Edie, extending her hand and being rewarded with the brief clasp of Bert’s firm, powerful grip. “I’m Cosima Frank, and this is Edie Whitelock. You’re correct, we’re guests at Gregory Place. Morag assured us it was permitted to walk through the fields.”
“Oh, that’s right, isn’t it?” Bert didn’t react in any way to Cosima’s name. “These fields belong to the sheep, as you foundout for yourself. Won’t be long before they can’t sneak about in the grass with their lambs. They’ll have it grazed down, and summer will have begun in earnest, poppies crimson and showy in the ditches like ribbons along the roads.” Bert let out a short, happy sigh. “Lincolnshire at her finest.”
Neither Cosima nor Edie had a ready response to this unexpected poetical reverie, but Bert seemed satisfied to listen to the birdsong and enjoy the light breeze for a moment. Both of them jumped when she suddenly clapped her hands together. “You’ll be looking for Hermione’s Stile.”
“How did you know that?!” Edie exclaimed. “Who told you?”
