Madeline looked about at the low fog hanging over the land. “Is it unusual to have frost so late in the spring?”
“Not for Cumberland.”
“What about the crops? How do you manage to get everything done when you have to wait so long for the ground to thaw?”
“We plow in the fall. But don’t worry, this won’t last much longer. In another week, you’ll be fluttering your fan everywhere you go.”
“I’m not worried,” she replied, unable to stop herself from smiling. “And I still haven’t seen any of thosemosquitoesyou were so adamant about the other day.”
Her teasing tone made him smile, too. “Ah, yes, the mosquitoes. They’re as big as groundhogs, you know.”
“Groundhogs!” She laughed. “What do you take me for, Adam Coates? I may be a young Yorkshire lass, but I do have a head between my ears.”
“So I’ve learned,” he conceded.
They galloped up the ridge. Adam showed her where the barley and wheat would be planted, and pointed out the fields for oats and flax along the plowed uplands.
When they reached the crest, Adam pulled his mount to a halt. Madeline stopped beside him, finally able to look down at the great marsh below, stretching before them for thousands of acres, like a vast green, grassy sea.
“All this was created with dykes?”
He nodded, and she felt him watching her, studying her as she gazed with fascination at the magnificent vista below.
“How much of it is yours?” she asked.
“I own only a fraction of it. The rest goes on for miles inland. The local farmers work together to maintain it and protect it from the tides.”
“Does everyone do their rightful share?”
“Unfortunately, no. There are a number of absentee landowners. I’m pushing for the county to appoint an official committee to insure that—at the very least—the marsh as a whole continues to be maintained.”
“Yes, of course. You need to preserve this.”
“Preserve it, yes, but if we are enterprising, we could build it as well.”
He kicked in his heels and led the way along the top of the ridge to a road down the hill. Soon they reached the bottom and followed a narrow path that crossed the lowlands.
“We’re below sea level now.”
“Really? May I see some dykes?” Madeline could not keep the exhilaration from her voice.
“Of course. I’ll take you to the river.”
They trotted leisurely across the chilly marsh, the horses’ foggy breaths puffing out of their noses. The scent of wet marsh mud somewhere in the distance touched Madeline’s nose, and she inhaled its glorious freshness.
Seated high in the saddle, she looked down at the drainage ditches dug into the meadows like deep gashes, carved by a giant, swift knife. She doubted any of this work had been swift, however. All this would have been dug out by hand. Some of it by Adam’s hand.
She tried not to imagine that. It wouldn’t do her any good to picture him with his sleeves rolled up, his muscles straining against the physical force of driving a dyking spade into the dirt. Just thinking about it now made her body tingle in the strangest places.
They reached a dyke—a long, narrow hill, stretching like a giant snake along the bank of the meandering river. It went on and on as far as the eye could see.
“This was all built by hand?”
“Yes, by the Acadians.”
Adam dismounted and helped Madeline down. He took her hand to lead her up the steep side of the grassy dyke. From the top, she peered down into the river.
“The tide is low,” Adam said. “When it comes in from the bay and the water level rises—almost to where we’re standing—the dyke will keep it from spilling over onto the marshlands.”
