Page 7

Camden nodded. “Oh, aye. Strange that he came here. It would nae be an easy walk with his injuries.”

With nothing more to be said, Anne made to leave, stopping when his hand touched her upper arm. Again, the ridiculous shiver.

“Thank ye for yer help. Ye have a gift for soothing Anne.” His voice was deep with a hoarse edge to it. She’d always liked the sound of it, but for whatever reason this time, she wanted to ask him to keep talking.

Instead she shrugged and took her satchel. “I am glad to be able to help with him. I pray he recovers soon.”

As she walked away, Anne sensed he watched her, but it was probably her imagination.

Later that day, stale air greeted her when she walked into the dim interior of the old woman Agnes’s cottage. Every window covering was firmly shut, allowing barely a trickle of light inside. The old woman sat in front of the hearth, wrapped in a blanket. Even the logs burning in the fire gave very little light as she burned only small ones.

It was smoky, stale, and smelled of the old woman’s unwashed body and whatever food she’d allowed to spoil on the table.

Anne left the door open behind her earning an annoyed glare from the old woman. Thankfully she remained silent as she glowered at the basket Anne carried. “Later than usual this day,” the woman grumbled. “What do ye have there?”

“I brought ye bread and some pottage to eat. I will fetch water from the well and—”

“I dinnae wish for pottage. I would prefer something else,” Agnes complained. “Ye can leave it, I will feed it to the pigs.”

Agnes didn’t own pigs but had apparently forgotten. And despite her constant complaints, always ate what Anne brought.

Agnes ate the pottage along with a cup of water, her eyes following Anne as she moved about the cottage.

Anne fetched some water and washed up the dirty dishes and clothes. After hanging the scant items of clothing to dry, she swept the floor and shook out the rug.

Finally when the water was boiling, she added it to a large wooden bucket and washed the woman.

“Ye are perfectly able to wash and comb yer hair,” Anne admonished the old woman as she brushed tangles from the woman’s wet hair. “Now let’s get ye outside so the breeze and sun can dry yer hair.”

“I prefer to sit near the fire. It will be just as good,” Agnes grumbled. “I will catch me death outside.”

Without speaking Anne grabbed a chair, dragged it outside, then taking Agnes by both arms, helped her to stand, and walked her through the door.

“I do require yer help in preparing the garden for planting,” Anne explained briskly before Agnes could demand to go back inside. In truth she would have preferred to leave Agnes indoors and not have to endure her company, but the woman needed fresh air and a bit of sunshine.

Agnes accepted the small trowel Anne handed her, though she did so with the reluctance of someone convinced the effort was entirely unnecessary. Anne, undeterred, dragged the heavy clay pot from beside the door and set it within easy reach of the old woman’s chair. The soil inside was dark and rich and freshly turned.

From her satchel, Anne withdrew several delicate seedlings, their tiny green leaves trembling with promise. She placed them gently on Agnes’s lap.

“Ye can plant these whilst I see about the fresh linens,” Anne said, already turning toward the cottage.

She didnae wait for an answer since Agnes rarely gave one that wasn’t edged with complaint.

Once inside, she stripped the bed and replaced the faded, threadbare linens with fresh ones she’d carried with her and cleaned out the chamber pot thoroughly.

When she returned outside, Agnes sat hunched over the pot, her thin fingers pressing awkwardly at the soil. Anne offered her arm. “Come, let us get ye inside.”

“I wish ye would leave me be,” Agnes grumbled as Anne helped her to her feet. “I am tired of ye and yer meddling.”

Yet her sharp, narrowed eyes swept over the cottage the moment they stepped inside. Taking in the quiet transformation. The brightness. The cleanliness. The fresh air.

“Close the windows,” Agnes snapped. “I’ll catch me death.”

Anne bit back a smile. “Ye dinnae tire of me,” she said gently. “One day ye’ll admit it.”

Agnes huffed in reply, though she didnae resist when Anne guided her back to her chair near the hearth.

“I will close them before I leave,” Anne promised, her voice patient and calm.