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Chapter 16
Surrender
From the moment the wheels of the Ramsbury carriage left his land Laurence threw himself into his farm work with dogged determination. He had the sense that he was holding shut the gates of his mind to a veritable army of overwhelming thoughts and emotions about what had just transpired—so hold them he did, with heroic resolve.
“Too much work to be done,” he would mutter to himself under his breath. “Can’t leave it any longer. Have to catch up.”
Suddenly the farm seemed to be flying apart at the seams. Over the previous days Laurence had left a thousand chores undone, and the sight of each one provoked a frustrated shake of his head and a redoubling of effort. The crops were dying of thirst in the field, sheep had gone unsheared, unpicked apples beginning to rot on the branch.
All for the best that she left. Can’t take that kind of distraction,Laurence thought, unable to bear the thought of saying it aloud.
On top of everything else, the animals all seemed to have developed a wicked grudge against him—the ducks nipped at his fingers as he was feeding them, Rhea and Robinson would hardly touch their oats, and Bernadette had somehow gotten herself with calf when he hadn’t noticed.
Despite the abundance of labour to be completed, his field hands forever seemed to be absent or else working as slow as molasses and twice as bitterly, and Laurence found himself snapping at them in frustration several times each hour, rushing to do their chores himself.
Worst of all was the look they gave him. Each time he walked past Dennis or Margaret or any of the hands, he saw their eyes widen, their posture turn simpering, mouths contorted in expressions of pity. Each time Laurence would cut off their sympathy by barking an order in their direction, or else stalk away muttering under his breath. This proved successful in preventing any distasteful interactions, and only slightly less successful in warding off brief thoughts of Alicia.
“Got to keep at it,” he would say, marching off to yet another chore. “The daylight is being squandered. Can’t afford it.”
His arms and legs felt like iron rods, stiffly moving through each motion of lifting, carrying, feeding, cutting. He could feel the extreme effort he put into each task take a heavy toll on his body, yet some part of him relished the feelings of overexertion, as they were better than the emotions he knew were lying in wait for him as soon as he found himself in idleness.
And so the day went, with Laurence moving his muscles with the grim determination of an ox. He did not stop for an instant, neither to drink nor eat nor lean for a moment’s rest, until the sun had disappeared over the horizon and the farm was plunged into gloomy blackness.
It was only when he returned to the house, his face filthy and limbs terrifically sore, when Laurence said a single word that was neither murmured to himself nor a snarled order to one of his workers.
“James!”
Mary-Anne was sitting at her usual place at the end of the table, and James now sat beside her, looking oddly dour. Empty plates were in front of each of them, and there was a third plate heaped high with food at Laurence’s spot. Laurence was slightly surprised to see that there was neither a bottle of wine nor a mug of ale in front of James on the table, but paid it no mind for the moment.
“Hello, Laurence,” said James with only a shadow of his usually ever-present grin.
Forcing a welcoming smile to his lips—a task that felt familiar to him in a way he did not expect—Laurence stomped over to the table to give his friend a hearty clap on the back, then took his own seat, suddenly famished.
“Mary-Anne,” Laurence said as he began to chew on a chicken leg. “There’s no accounting for James not asking, but have you not even offered him a tipple? Just because he’s being an unusually polite guest doesn’t mean you have to make up for his lack of poor manners.”
In a quiet voice, Mary-Anne said, “He turned me down, Laurence.”
“Well that’s a first,” Laurence chuckled. “You aren’t going all virtuous on us, are you, James? I cannot begin to imagine what Dunwood will do if their resident troublemaker has become—”
“I came to talk to you, Laurence,” James interrupted, putting his hands on the table in front of him.
Laurence cocked his head, trying to keep a scowl from forming on his brow. He shot a questioning look to Mary-Anne, then back to James. Both of them were as stone-faced as he had ever seen them. “Oh? Whatever about?”
“Oh, come off it, Laurence,” said James, adopting a more familiar if still irritating posture of snappishness. “You’re clearly incredibly upset.”
“Upset? Me?”
“We’re not blind, man. I’ve known you too long to be able to miss it. I’ve not seen you so wound up since…” James paused, then finished, “Well, ever, really.”
“I see it, too,” said Mary-Anne. “I’ve seen you stomping about the farm like a mad bull, shouting at poor Dennis and all the field hands about something or other. This isn’t like you, brother.”
Laurence blinked. He felt the armies of thought gather once more at the gates—he had repelled these invaders all day, but now they surged with ferocity at Mary-Anne’s implication. “I’m sure I have no idea what you mean,” he said, turning his eyes away from his questioners and back to his plate of supper.
For a moment silence reigned over the table, and Laurence stuffed his mouth to hush his thoughts. After a significant pause, he heard James knock on the table to get his attention, and when he looked up he saw his old friend shaking his head with arms crossed.
“No chance, Laurence. I’ve played cards with you too many times to be fooled by your bluff. You’re lying.”
Laurence set his cutlery down on the table with a loud thump and glared at Mary-Anne and James. “And just what it is I’m supposedly lying about?” he asked peevishly. “If you know my emotional state better than I do, what am I feeling that has me so terribly upset?”
