Edwin fumbled around for several minutes in the shadowy forge before he came upon a nice length of a slim chain which would work as well as a rope. He approached the beast, but the animal got to its feet and moved away from him.
He had some crusts of bread up in the loft, which might be useful in tempting the pig to come closer. However, the thought of enduring the pain of crawling up the ladder again forced him to think of an alternate plan.
He picked up a long, heavy bar of iron. If he hit the animal on the head, knocked it out, and then put the chain on it, tomorrow he would have fresh roasted pork for dinner. He put the heavy bar of iron behind his back and inched closer to the hog, but the animal moved away anytime he came within striking range.
“You trusted me when you barged in here. What changed your mind?”
Sunshine appeared between the wooden batting of the siding. The rain outside had ended. The pig stood by the door and squealed.
Edwin inched up behind the pig and lifted the bar over his head. “Roast pork and bacon. I have you now.”
“Jonas! I hear Jonas in the forge!” Young Margaret’s voice called out from the other side of the door. “Open up, Edwin. Is Jonas with you?”
Jonas? The stolen pig? Edwin lowered the bar with disappointment and moved to lift the latch. The hog squealed and scurried away from him, but the moment the latch was freed the pig rammed him from behind.
He fell onto his injured leg and let out a howl. When the door opened, the pig trampled over him and ran out into the sunshine.
CHAPTER NINE
Agnes took a crust of bread from her pocket and handed it to the pig. While he devoured the morsel, she traced the long scar on his hindquarters. Her heart brimmed over with joy. She wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. “Where have you been, dear Jonas?”
The animal smiled at her, sniffed at her pocket, and squealed for another treat.
She smiled back and drew out one more crust for her loveable pet. “Apologize to our Cousin Edwin. You knocked him over.”
Jonas let out a loud grunt and turned his attentions to Margaret, snorting at her pocket.
“I gave my crusts to a bird.” Margaret giggled as she scratched the pig on his head between his ears. “Why didn’t you come home sooner?”
“That beast is a menace. He deliberately knocked me over.” Edwin sat in the dirt and rubbed his leg.
Agnes and Margaret helped him to stand. He looked dreadful. The floor of the forge was not only covered with charcoal bits and iron filings, the rain had streamed in and created blackened mud which now coated his borrowed clothing.
“Goodness, you are a sight. Your clothes need a washing.” Agnes sighed as she donned her leather apron. “I’m sure Jonas recognized the hungry look in your eyes and feared for his life.”
“He is a pig. His destiny is to be served up on a platter,” Edwin grumbled.
“We cannot eat Jonas,” Margaret cried. “He is the smartest pig we’ve ever raised.”
“Yes, he must be exceedingly clever. He escaped the Tories, the British, and found his way home.” Agnes pulled on her gloves. “At any rate, hogs are not slaughtered until much later in the year.”
“If he was smart, he would have stayed in the woods, or wherever he was hiding,” Edwin growled.
“We treated him with exceeding care after I took the musket ball out, which is how we grew to know him far better than any of our other livestock. He’s intelligent for an animal. Smarter than any dog, I dare say. I will not have the heart to slaughter him.”
“I would never eat a single morsel of him,” Margaret proclaimed.
“I would have no trouble eating all of him by myself.” As Edwin ran his tongue along his lips, a little shiver wound through Agnes. The man had a rather nice mouth, she told herself, but like most men, she did not doubt he had an insatiable appetite. If Jonas was roasted, Edwin would devour every last morsel and still want more.
Jonas turned to glare at him, grunted loudly, and trotted off toward the barn. Margaret followed the pig and talked to him. As if he understood every word, Jonas muttered back.
“We shall trade him.” Agnes sighed as she gathered her tools beside her. “Someone else will eat him, but not us.”
“What would he bring in an exchange?” Edwin looked up with interest.
“Perhaps chickens.” She piled up charcoal for firing.
“Chickens are not as savory as pork.” Edwin’s brow furrowed and then brightened. “Could you swap him for a horse?”
“No one would trade a horse for a pig.” She laughed. Why did he not know that? A slight shadow of doubt crossed her mind, but she ignored her momentary unease. “Unless it was a very, very old horse.”
“How about a pig for a boat?”
Her heart gave a painful twist. Why did he have to leave? “We cannot eat a boat.”
“You could use it to go fishing,” he suggested.
“That is true, though I have not had any experience in catching fish. Besides, I do not know of anyone who has a boat, though we can ask at services next Sunday.”
“I must find a boat sooner than that.”
Why did he have to be so insistent? “Can you row?”
“I grew up along the banks of a river. I can row, sail, and swim quite well.” His expression became aloof and cold. The sudden distance in his features chilled her.
“I grew up here and while there is a river, I cannot swim.” She would occasionally put her feet in on hot days when the water was low and watch Margaret splash about, but then she would think of her mother and grow melancholy as well as fearful. At any rate, she seldom had time for play.
She found a few coals still glowing in the pile she had banked on one side. She asked Edwin to assist her by pulling on the chain for the bellows.
Edwin’s remote mask grew wistful. “My brothers and I fished, swam, and boated on the Stour.”
Her pulse leaped. “My mother mentioned that river. She said it was very lovely. Are you sure you never heard of the Elleries?”
“Many villages lie beside the river.”
The little spark of hope in her died. “I simply wish I knew more about my mother.”
“Your father must know.”
“He has refused to say a word about her since the day she died.”
“Perhaps she had no other family.”
“She told me stories about her young life in England. She talked of riding ponies, visiting friends and going to parties. Her best friend was named Judith.”
Edwin’s hand stilled on the chain. Agnes glanced at him. His lips had drawn together into a tight line.
“Is the pain worse? Please sit down.” She took his arm and led him to the tree stump which served as the only seat in the forge.
He winced as he lowered himself upon the crude seat while keeping his injured leg straight. “Judith?”
She touched his forehead, but she did not feel the heat of a fever. Slick, cold sweat coated his skin. “Do you need some water?”
“No…I know…someone by that name. Did she tell you the color of Judith’s hair?”
“My mother described her thick tresses as being a rich brown, exactly like the color of chestnuts in the fall.”
His eyes closed and her worry increased.
“I am so sorry.” She twisted her gloved hands and wondered if she should call for a physician. Without Colleen, she did not trust her own knowledge of healing herbs. “I did not suspect Jonas hurt you so badly. I should not have made light of your fall.”
He took a deep breath. “The pig hurt my pride and sullied my clothes. My leg is no worse than it’s been. You needn’t worry.”
“Oh.” Maybe he had a sweetheart named Judith who was very dear to him, judging by his reaction. Undoubtedly, he wanted to take the risk of returning to his company because he hoped to see Judith once more.
A great well of despair left a hollow space inside her, but she turned and went back to her work, tugging on the chain until the pile
of charcoal burned with bright heat. “I will ask the Newtons if they know of anyone who has a boat.”
“A canoe, a raft, anything that floats.”
* * *
The next day, Edwin donned one of Hobart’s smocks, for nobody had any other clothing that fit him. The smock hung loosely, but the woven fibers were rough and scratched him. He longed for his soft, woolen uniform.
“You are hard on clothes,” Agnes commented as they walked to the inn.
“Lately, I seem to have a propensity for damaging them beyond repair.” At home, Edwin ruined his clothing on a regular basis, but replacements were not difficult to obtain. His mother insisted he must present the proper appearance at all times. So no matter how often he ripped and stained his jackets and breeches, another suit invariably appeared the next day for his use.
“Is it an unfortunate habit then?” Agnes asked.
“It was never a problem until now.” The lie pricked his conscience. He thought he heard the vicar sigh.
“You would make a fine farmer.” A blush rose to her cheeks and he marveled for the hundredth time at her delicate beauty. However, he restrained himself from commenting upon it. He must not lead her to think of him as anything but a soldier of the king.
“I know nothing about farming, though I am rather good at eating.” He smiled at her and the ends of her mouth tilted upward in a charming way. He swallowed hard. She excited his senses more than any other woman and holding himself in check became a weighty burden.
When they arrived at the inn, they asked Mr. Newton whether he knew of anyone who had a boat. He merrily led them to the back of his barn where a vessel rested against the rough boards.
Edwin had never seen anything quite like it. “That is not a dory.”
“This is a skiff. The fishermen use them.” Mr. Newton explained. “I traded with a man who moved out to Pennsylvania. He needed barrels and spirits.”
“It’s large.” Edwin ran his fingers along the sides looking for cracks in the seams.
“From what I understand, fishermen run these skiffs out through the breakers. They are well-built and sturdy.” Mr. Newton beamed.
“Are there oars, or a sail?” Edwin asked.
“No. He apologized for losing them,” said Mr. Newton.
Disappointment sank Edwin’s hopes. Maneuvering without a sail or oars would be impossible. Pushing the boat along the river with a stick would work, but it would be awkward and slow. Was it possible for him to fashion a sail from a linen sheet or a blanket? “How could he lose the oars and sail?”
“Perhaps he swapped them for other goods from someone else.” Mr. Newton shrugged.
“Will it float?” Agnes asked.
“The man attested to its seaworthiness, though I never tested it. I had hopes of riding along the river some afternoon, but we are always busy.” Mr. Newton sighed. “There’s always someone needing a place to eat, drink, and sleep.”
“I have nothing to trade.” Except my boots, but I need those. Edwin considered whether telling Mr. Newton he was the third son of a Duke would help his cause.
“You may borrow it,” Mr. Newton grinned broadly. “Agnes needs some fresh air and sunshine. What with working in the forge all the time, she’s as pale as a snowdrop.”
Edwin glanced at Agnes. Her skin did not resemble a white flower petal to him. It had radiance, like sunshine gleaming through the clouds. Besides, her skin was warm whereas blossoms were cold. He had gathered many samples with the vicar. They had pressed them while discussing the scent, the color, and the references to flowers in the Bible.
Agnes was far more wonderful than any bloom.
He felt a twinge of jealousy when she hugged Mr. Newton.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Now don’t go thanking me for letting somebody enjoy the use of this old boat. I want to see those roses in your cheeks.”
Edwin longed to touch the pretty blush glowing on her skin, which held more fascination for him than a common rose.
Agnes gave Mr. Newton a shy smile and drew back. “You are so very kind.”
Mr. Newton rubbed his hands together and appeared quite pleased with himself. “I must get back inside, for we have a thirsty group today. I fear Mistress Newton is going to give them a scolding for not minding their manners.” He chuckled as he walked away.
“He’s such a dear, dear man, but I am not so very pale. The heat of the charcoal keeps my skin flushed.” Agnes leaned against the boat.
“Your skin is faultless.” Edwin wanted to revel in the softness, but he held himself in check. He would leave and return to his company. He would not be a traitor.
“When it’s time for the harvest, my skin will turn a far darker shade, for I’ll be out in the fields everyday.”
He stared at a curly tendril of her glossy hair that had escaped her cap to trail along her shoulder. He wanted to twist the silken strand around his finger. How he would miss her! With any luck he would be long gone by harvest time. A cold band squeezed his chest.
“Can the ox carry this boat?” he asked after a moment, when he was able to draw in a breath.
“It’s quite heavy, no doubt, but we will ask Hobart.” She turned to leave and return to the forge. Edwin followed, though haltingly. The tussle with the pig added bruises and aggravated the never-ending ache of his wound.
Agnes walked at a slow pace, accommodating his awkward gait. “Are you sure you can guide a boat in the river? It grows wider as it moves toward the sea and the currents are swift, for they ebb and flow with the tides.”
He heard the note of worry in her voice. No doubt she feared the waterway, for her mother had drowned in it.
“I spent many pleasant hours in a dory on the River Stour.” Edwin sought to quell her anxiety. “Traveling by boat is most agreeable in good weather. My brothers and I went as far as the mouth of the river where it meets the sea.” His father punished him for that trip. The Duke thundered on about how he should have better sense. Don’t you know your brother will be the next duke? You must not risk his life with your foolishness!
Edwin tried not to wince as he thought of the incident.
“How many brothers do you have?” she asked.
He gave a wry twist to his mouth as he pictured them in his mind.
“Two, they are older and rather dour fellows now, but when they were younger we had some grand adventures.” Though whenever they got into mischief, they always blamed Edwin. For a moment, he wondered about the possibility of ever seeing them again, but he steeled himself against the memories. He had a duty to his king and his country. He must not relinquish those ties, despite the risk.
“Margaret’s never had any grand adventures with me as her sister.”
“You’ve taken care of her in the absence of your mother.”
“Colleen…did most of the work in the beginning.”
He did not miss the catch in her voice. His throat tightened in sympathy.
“Margaret knows you love her. That is better than a long journey.” Had his parents loved him? He often doubted it. From the moment he had an understanding of the English language, the Duke and Duchess, and indeed everyone else, impressed upon him the duties they expected him to perform.
Only at the vicar’s small cottage had he found people who required nothing of him and seemed to enjoy his company as much as he enjoyed theirs. When the cleric died and his family moved away, Edwin had been left bereft. Another parson soon came as a replacement. He bore a stern countenance and talked of nothing but fire and brimstone. The Duke was quite pleased with the new vicar. Edwin sought excuses to be absent on Sundays by going to house parties. That presented difficulties, too, because the mothers of young ladies did their best to capture him. As if he were the fox in a hunt and they were the hounds delighting in the idea of ripping him to shreds.
A chill sliver of anxiety curled up his spine. Would anything change if he returned?
The weight of the expectations from his own family
became more burdensome, literally crushing all his dreams until there seemed no way out but escape. Still, he now realized what a terrible choice he had made.
Except for meeting Agnes.
She stopped so suddenly, he nearly ran into her. “Was this to be your grand adventure?”
“Yes.” Why not admit it? He might as well be honest and confess the truth to her. Especially since the likelihood of ever seeing her again was remote. That thought saddened him, for he found her company so delightful.
“I am sorry you have met with such misfortune.” Her words were soft and smooth, like velvet.
“I am grateful for your aid in getting me through the worst of it.” Without her care, he might have died.
“I can never thank you. For all you did, for Colleen.”
The note of pain in her voice tugged at his heart. His injuries were visible, but hers went deeper.
“I pray with time your sorrow will lessen.” He meant what he said, even though until he had come to this country he had rarely prayed, but then he had never given much thought to the material things in life either. He had always had an abundance of food, clothing, and other comforts. Yet, he had never experienced a sense of belonging from his own kin. For that, the vicar’s family had proved a most pleasant substitute.
After joining the army, he floundered in a hopeless morass of uncertainty. He had no recourse other than to pray and he did so in desperation. He found the effort helped him and he continued. He had borrowed a Bible and read when he could. Often the passages leapt out at him. He had learned them well from the time he had spent in the vicar’s company.
Perhaps he would have developed more faith in his youth if he had had to rely upon it, if he had nothing else but faith, which is all he had now.
Originally, he believed the situation in which he found himself would be temporary. A serious misadventure to be sure, though if he managed to get out of this scrape, a room would be waiting for him in Dalfour Castle. The ramparts had already endured much for several hundred years and were likely to carry on for thousands more.
But did he want to go back there?
He and Agnes had ceased walking. He gazed at her gentle face and her lovely eyes. She stood close beside him. Those wispy tendrils of her hair peeked out from beneath her cap and he lifted a group of them simply to feel their silky texture against his roughened fingers.
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