Page 39 of Beneath the Harvest Moon

“I cannot be the only one.”

Bess scoffed. “Mrs Scatchard is very selective regarding whose company she keeps.”

Blythe changed the subject. “I have come to check on the linen I ordered.”

“It is due tomorrow. There’s no need for you to come back. I’ll send my boy out to Silverdale as soon as it arrives.”

Blythe blinked, then delved into her purse. “I shall⁠—”

“No need.” Bess held up her hand. “Mrs Scatchard is not the only one grateful to you for nursing James Farrer.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. “It was nothing. Anyone would have⁠—”

“No, they would not. Many others would have left him to suffer and die alone.”

What could one say to that?

“Your mam says you’ll return to York soon.”

Blast Mama, her assumptions and her loose tongue. “I have yet to decide my future.”

Bess’s lips twitched. “I’ll be sure to tell her that the next time she’s puffing you up to my mam.”

Blythe placed a shilling on the counter. “For your boy. Good day.”

In the street, Blythe inhaled and stared at the shop ahead. You can do this. Her insides squirmed with discomfort. If she wanted to become a healer, she must swallow her shame. She could not change what she had done. She could only change her future. Gabriel thought his mother would allow her a second chance. But not all were as willing to forgive as he.

An apology was the first step. If Mrs Sharpe refused to accept it, and Blythe would not blame her, then she would have no choice but to return to York and find an apprenticeship there. The prospect of unwelcome interference from the Simmonds family turned her stomach. But she would not succumb; she would be strong and find her own path.

She paused before the bowed shop window. Mrs Sharpe was one of the few people whose good opinion she cared about, yet Blythe had abandoned her and hurt her son. A mother’s love was not to be trifled with, as she now understood. She would be lucky to leave with her head on her shoulders.

Have courage, Blythe. She entered the shop.

The baker’s wife placed her purchase in her basket. “Good morning, Mrs Simmonds.”

“Good morning, Mrs Foster.”

“Please pass on our compliments to your father for the fine wheat this year.”

“Thank you, I shall.”

Goodness, it seemed everyone was willing to speak to her now. If only it had not taken the death of a boy to make it so.

Once the door closed behind Mrs Foster, Blythe forced her gaze to meet that of the matriarch behind the counter. She swallowed back the lump in her throat and said, “Good morning, Mrs Sharpe.”

“Good morning.” Mrs Sharpe’s tone matched her name. “How can I help you,… Mrs Simmonds?”

“Blythe… please.”

The woman harrumphed.

“Thank you for the delicious marmalade. You did not need⁠—”

“Omit the pleasantries. Say what you have come to say.”

Blythe dropped her chin to her chest before forcing herself to meet her former mentor’s gaze. “I apologise for abandoning your teaching.”

Mrs Sharpe stared with the same determined brown eyes she shared with Gabriel.