Page 12 of Beneath the Harvest Moon

Mama shook her head. “That frock will be ruined by the end of the day.”

“It is the plainest I have until I can make something more serviceable.”

“Borrow something of Jane’s. You’re of a similar size.” Mama’s lips pursed. “I’ll order some fabric.”

“I will pay, Mama.”

“Of course you will. Just stay away from Midthorpe. I don’t want you tangled up in any nonsense again.”

Mrs Lowe cleared her throat, and Blythe pursed her lips while Mama continued, “I know you, girl. You were always too quick to let your heart rule your head. Thank goodness I stepped in and saved you from this life of drudgery.”

“It is not a life of drudgery. It has purpose.”

Mama narrowed her eyes before she said to the cook, “Finish packing the bread for the elevenses, and I’ll be back in a tick.”

“You, come with me.” Mama tugged her back up the stairs to Jane’s bedchamber and rifled around in several drawers before pulling out a brown frock and a drab petticoat. She held them out in front of her. “This will have to do for now.”

Without asking, Mama removed Blythe’s gown and petticoat. She fingered the fabric and hummed with pleasure. “What a shame it would have been to ruin such fine muslin. This will feel a little rough against your delicate skin.”

“I will endure it.”

Mama threw the dress over her head with vigorous haste. Why did she wish Blythe to be a lady of leisure when she had raised her with a high regard for hard work?

Before Mama could button up the drop-fronted gown, Blythe brushed her hands away. “I can dress myself.”

“Well, I thought you might be out of practice, having a lady’s maid an’ all.”

She had left the maid in York because the woman was in Mrs Simmonds’ pocket. “That does not mean I have forgotten how to do such things myself, or milk the cows, or churn the butter, or make bread.”

“We’ll see if you feel the same once you’ve had to do those tasks every day while you’re here.” Mama hummed. “You looked so fine when you arrived in your silk and feather bonnet.”

“They are just clothes. They do not guarantee happiness.”

“Forgive me for making sure my daughter could enjoy the finer things in life.”

“I do not require the finer things in life.”

Mama shook her head.

“Is your life so dreadful? You and Papa have worked hard, but look what you have achieved. Papa now owns the farm, the first in generations who have worked this land. You have a lovely home, servants, and plenty of fine clothes and bonnets.”

“When do I get to wear them but to church?” Mama’s hands went to her hips again. “I toil all day, every day, but I can’t enjoy the fruits of my labour.”

“Perhaps you can retire soon.”

“Ha! Your father will work those fields until he turns up his toes.” Mama clasped Blythe’s elbows. “Will you consider the offer from Mr Drake? Do not waste this chance at a life where you don’t have to dig your own potatoes.”

Blythe said, “I will consider it while I am here. But let me be clear: I am not averse to digging potatoes.”

“I know, dear, and that’s what worries me.” Mama sighed. “Now, take some tea up to your father, then make yourself useful.”

After checking on Papa, Blythe slipped into a pair of sturdy wooden clogs and wiggled her toes. The familiar weight, after fifteen years of silk slippers and soft leather half-boots, provided comfort. She grabbed an apron from the peg on the wall and headed into the garden.

The sun’s rays warmed her raised face while she wandered down the gravel path, trailing her fingers through the purple lavender blossoms and the needle-like rosemary leaves. Comfort washed over her when the floral scents tickled her nostrils.

A horse neighed in the stable, and a maid hung linen shirts on the washing line. Hens meandered around the dusty yard.

Several dandelions poked between the lush green carrot tops, so she pulled them, shaking the soil from the long, pale roots. The leaves would make an excellent syrup to ease Papa’s cough.