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Another rabbit raced away. The second one today, scared far too soon to shoot from a reasonable distance. Lenny gave her an exasperated glare, and Eliza smiled in apology and hiked her skirts up, revealing leather shoes with a small heel. Shaking her head, Lenny sighed dramatically.
Eliza stifled a laugh. “I don’t have anything else to wear.”
Lenny motioned for her to stay put and stalked into the brush. After sitting against a large tree for what seemed like an hour, a shot rang out, and her companion arrived shortly with one plump and very-deceased rabbit dangling from her hand. Grotesque. What was she supposed to do with it? She attempted to school her expression so as not to look horrified, but likely failed miserably. Eyes narrowed, Lenny studied her, then tossed the rabbit at her feet, took a knife from her belt, and handed it to her hilt-first.
“No, Lenny. I don’t think I’m ready for this. It’s just a little bunny. Nope. Hmm-mm.” She shook her head vigorously.
Her taskmaster waited, arms crossed. “You will learn how to do this, and you will gain the respect of Shaw.”
“Does everyone call him Shaw around here?” Eliza asked, poking at the poor deceased bunny with a stick.
“His people call him that,” Lenny said.
“How did you become one of his people?” she asked innocently.
“You want to know about his Pack,” Lenny murmured.
“His Pack,” Eliza repeated. “What are you?”
“We are whatever we need to be to stay safe. Garret is good at keeping his people safe. That is why we are his people. No more questions now, you are stalling.”
“Can you blame me?” she muttered, pulling a face at the bunny.
“Staring at it will not get anything accomplished,” Lenny assured her.
Apparently the girl had a stubborn streak that rivaled even Garret Shaw’s, because it wasn’t long before Lenny bullied her into gutting a bunny. While plodding back to the house, a much-lighter bunny in her hands, something inside her shifted. It was as if she had sloughed off a layer of reserve. Like a sliver of weakness had been left back there in the woods. When she lived in the city, she never in her wildest dreams would have imagined having the courage or stomach to do something so predatory.
But she had. No longer was she the frightened woman who couldn’t do much more than dress herself. As she tried not to let the self-satisfaction show too terribly much on her face, Lenny smiled sunnily at her.
The triumphant feeling lasted only until they arrived in the kitchen, when Lenny goaded her into skinning the poor creature. Cutting the meat under her mentor’s direction, she started a rabbit-and-vegetable stew that simmered for the rest of the day. Though the rabbit stew was satisfying at the end of the long day of toil, having experienced the bloody work that had gone into making it, eating it was harder than she’d expected.
Surely, she would get used to it though.
She hoped.
****
Though I am not long for my bed, Eliza wrote the night of the third day, yawning with tiredness, exhilaration compels me to document my thoughts. Pride is a sin, Aunt Elizabeth always told me. No matter, I cannot help but find my accomplishments of the past few days thrilling. Is it a sin to take pride in the work of one’s hands? I think not.
From the housemaid who lays the fires in the morning to the butler who oversees serving dinner, Aunt Elizabeth’s servants performed their duties with quiet efficiency. Certainly they do not have a shining-eyed Lenny making horns above her head to goad them on in their labors, but Lenny and I now work the same way. Still she does not speak much, yet a wealth of conversation in her eyes and expressions guides me through her instruction. Her smiles of praise and silent companionship gladden my heart. It seems there is nothing she can’t do or figure out.
Today I earned her approval when, not once but three times I knocked the twig from the table at the longest distance yet with the biggest rifle. So far away were we, it was difficult to tell where the table ended and my target began. Take that, Garret Shaw!
That man penetrates my thoughts. He is not here, yet I cannot get away from him. Indeed, thoughts of those eyes of his watching me only spur me on to greatness.
In the privacy of my journal, I can say this. His presence would be welcome. Despite the man’s chilly nature, I am almost ashamed to admit, sparring with him fires my blood. Most unladylike—I can hear Aunt Elizabeth now—but he makes me feel alive.
Thank heavens he will not see my dimwitted failures. A blatant misuse of the damper this morning filled the house with smoke. Lenny and I ran for the yard, coughing up soot. Yesterday, a loaf of bread so unfortunate, it looked like a lava rock displayed by the Boston Society of Natural History. Perhaps by the time Garret returns, the stink of smoke will have dissipated and he will never suspect my shortcomings and mistakes. One can only hope.
But, I can now recognize the look in Bossy’s eye when she’s about to knock over the milk pail, the rude beast. And I know not to trifle with the biggest hen in the coop, whom I have named Red Meg after Aunt Elizabeth. Evil of me perhaps, but maybe I’ll feel kinder when the scar on my hand from her furious pecking is gone. I have learned how to escape the rooster, and I have learned to watch the kettle as it boils and prepare for the laundry. A difficult lesson to be sure, as the green silk dress now sports a large singed patch near the hem. And I’ve learned that the kitchen knives deserve respect for a reason. Another petticoat of mine is in tatters, gone to make bandages for the knife’s revenge on my hand.
Knowledge is of utmost importance in this unforgiving land. No one will carry me in this life here. If I need something, I will have to make it or suffer without. I can pull my weight and will prove my mettle. I am finally starting to find my rhythm.
My husband is my biggest motivation, but for the life of me I cannot decide if it is positive or negative. I guess it matters not either way, so long as I learn.
Chapter Six
Eliza sucked in air through her teeth, laid down the knife she’d used to cut the pie, and gave her bleeding hands a rest again. If only they would heal so she could get a break from the pain. As usual, Lenny had dutifully slathered her palms with salve this morning, but there had been too much work to be done around the ranch to let her hands rest for long.
