by Regina Scott
"Soup and hot tea,” Mrs. Pentercast explained as she caught Gen's look of surprise. “The men will be needing it, poor dears. Martha, is there something Miss Genevieve can do to assist?"
Martha Martin, the Pentercast housekeeper, offered Gen a smile from where she stirred a huge pot hanging over the blazing fire in the old-fashioned fireplace. “The loaves are just coming from the oven, mum. Perhaps the young lady could slice them?"
Mrs. Pentercast indicated an oak table not unlike the one in the Abbey kitchen, and Gen sat at it, sawing the serrated knife through the steaming loaves of oat bread set before her by one of the many maids. Her stomach rumbled at the savory smell. The maid grinned at her. Embarrassed, she quickened her efforts.
Some time later, she stood looking out the kitchen window, watching as Mrs. Pentercast and several of the maids made their way among the working men to hand out the bread, hot soup, and tea she had helped prepare. Over their torches, the far horizon looked a little lighter, and she realized dawn would be breaking soon. She yawned, leaning against the window frame. Beside her, the kitchen door swung open, and Alan thumped in to warm himself by the fire.
He apparently didn't notice her standing there, and she made no move to make him aware, preferring to watch him in silence. His dark hair was plastered to his head from the rain and his own exertions. His broad shoulders sagged with weariness as he slumped on the bench, stretching his long legs out to the warmth. A drop of water, shining in the firelight, slid down his nose, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. Then he frowned as if feeling he was being watched and turned to her. Gen managed a smile.
He laughed, rising. “I knew I was tired, but not that tired. She's not yours yet, my lad. Save the dreams for your sleep.” He stumbled back out the door before she could tell him he wasn't dreaming.
Dawn had broken before she found herself lying in the canopied bed in the corner room of the Manor. She woke much later that morning to find her hunting dress freshly laundered and ironed and hanging in the wardrobe, along with her boots, polished and with new laces. She felt guilty that the servants had gone to such trouble; they had surely been up as late as she had. Donning the clothing and boots and using the hairbrush she found on the dressing table to put her curls in some semblance of order, she descended to the first floor. The footman there politely directed her to the breakfast room, where she found Mrs. Pentercast in a frothy white lace morning robe.
"Ah, Genevieve, up so early? I thought you'd sleep until noon after being up so late in the kitchen."
"What's this about the kitchen?” Alan grumbled behind her, and she hurried into the room to get out of his way. His hair was disheveled as always, but clean now, shining in the light from the winter sun through the two multipaned windows. He wore rough wool trousers and a jacket, clearly ready for more work outside. She went to stand behind Mrs. Pentercast, gripping the top of her high-backed chair, suddenly unsure how to respond to him.
Mrs. Pentercast rescued her. “Sit beside me, Genevieve, dear, and let me pour you some tea. Good morning, Alan. You look tired my dear. I thought Gen's little meal should have helped last night."
"It wasn't my meal, Mrs. Pentercast,” Gen heard herself say, taking the seat offered her. She accepted the tea from her hostess’ hand and took a sip to steady herself.
"Well, perhaps not entirely,” Mrs. Pentercast allowed. “But you were marvelous help. Girls often are, you know, Alan."
"So I've been told,” Alan quipped, going to sit on the other side of his mother. She obligingly poured him a cup as well. “I see you're dressed for traveling, Miss Munroe. I'll have the carriage brought around straight away to take you home."
Gen gathered her courage and met his eye. “That won't be necessary, Squire. The day seems to be bright. I can walk home."
"Let's not start that again,” Alan growled.
"Walk home?” Mrs. Pentercast interrupted. “Oh, my dear, I don't think you'll want to. It turned quite cold last night. We'll finally have some winter snow if I'm not mistaken. Even the carriage is likely to be chilly. Make sure they put in the lap robes, Alan, and warm bricks at her feet."
"Nothing but the best for Miss Munroe,” Alan almost sneered.
Stung, Gen looked away.
His mother frowned. “Alan, I cannot like your manner this morning. I know you're tired, but it isn't like you to be so gruff with a guest. Perhaps I should ask Geoffrey to see her home."
"Geoffrey is nowhere to be found this morning,” Alan replied, sipping his tea as if nothing were amiss. “I suspect he's investigating that broken dam."
"I hope he took someone from the Abbey with him,” Gen snapped. “It is our property, after all."
"I'm well aware of that, Miss Munroe."
"What is that supposed to mean?” Gen demanded, setting down her cup with a clatter. “You suspect us of causing this mess, don't you?"
Mrs. Pentercast tittered. “Of course not, dear. Alan wouldn't be so silly. Imagine girls hacking through a dam."
"I have no difficulty imagining a certain young lady doing so,” Alan replied, rising. “She has too much at stake, and I don't think she much relishes losing."
"Not as much as you relish winning,” Gen countered, rising as well. He still towered over her.
"Oh, so now I'm the one who broke the dam and flooded my own farm, is that what you're saying?"
"You needed seven swans a-swimming,” Gen replied, head high. “You said so yourself."
"If you really think that I'd risk losing everything I've worked for to win a stupid wager, you value yourself much too highly, Miss Munroe,” he answered, tossing down his napkin. “Walk home if it pleases you. Good day."
"Alan!” his mother protested as he stalked from the room. Gen blinked back hot tears. “Genevieve, what is he talking about? What wager?"
Gen swallowed, holding onto the back of her chair with unsteady hands. “It doesn't matter, Mrs. Pentercast. I don't think your son wants to honor it any longer. Thank you for your kindness. I think I'd best be going now."
Mrs. Pentercast scrambled to her feet. “Nonsense! I'll have the carriage brought around myself. I won't have you walking home in this cold. Munson!"
Somehow, Gen managed to hold back the tears as the carriage was brought around, Mrs. Pentercast ushered her into it, and one of the Pentercast grooms drove her down the long road to the Abbey. She managed to hold them back while she was greeted by her mother and sister and toured the Abbey with Chimes to make sure everything had survived the adventures of the night. She even managed to hold them back when he took her to see that the dam had indeed been hacked clean through. They found the ax still lodged in the remaining pieces. She didn't let the tears fall until she was safely ensconced in her own room that afternoon. Then she sobbed until her pillow was soaked.
It was because she was so tired, she convinced herself. She ought to be delighted that she had finally dissuaded Alan from continuing with his wretched wager. If he gave up, that meant she had won. The harvest tithes would be her family's for generations. They were saved, and she was no longer being forced into a loveless marriage. Then why was she so unaccountably depressed?
It was late in the day when Chimes tapped at her door, telling her she had a visitor. Her heart leaped, and she hurried to answer his knock.
"The Squire is at the front door to see you, Miss,” he said with a bow, and she frowned at his formality. “He has, um, something for you."
She wasn't sure whether to be depressed or glad. “You mean he isn't giving up?"
Chimes squirmed. “Well, Miss, perhaps you ought to see it for yourself."
Frowning, Gen followed him to the entry of the Abbey. It stood empty. She turned her frown on Chimes. “Well?"
Chimes cleared his throat. “Outside, Miss."
Shaking her head, Gen went to open the front door. And stared.
The small clearing in front of the Abbey was thronged with dairy cows. They bumped and shoved against each other, lowing path
etically. They scraped against the trees, shaking the slender branches; they trampled the brittle winter grass. She spotted one of the yellow winter pansies Mrs. Chimes had planted in the window boxes disappearing into a mobile mouth. She couldn't have stepped past the porch had she wanted to.
"What on earth is this?” she demanded of Chimes, who had come up beside her.
"This, Miss Munroe,” Alan's voice ran out from the far side of the clearing, “is a herd of dairy cattle. A very small herd I might add. My other neighbors were kind enough to take most of my animals into their barns until my barns dry out, but I have no where to put these beasts. As my mother assures me you have the greatest desire to be of assistance, I'm leaving them with you."
"This is ridiculous!” Gen cried, standing on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of him. “What am I supposed to do with a herd of cattle! I don't even have a barn!"
"I don't care where you put them,” Alan called. “They'll most likely survive the night or two in the clearing, as long as you keep them nicely packed together. I'll retrieve them in a day or so, as soon as the water subsides."
"You can't do this!” Gen shouted at him. But she knew it was in vain. She couldn't stop him from doing it. She couldn't even get out her own door! She threw up her hands, turning back to Chimes. “Gift, eh? Chimes, so help me, if I thought you were in on this ... “.
Chimes held up his hands in surrender. “I'm innocent, Miss Gen, I swear!"
She shook her head, gazing back at the lowing animals. “What are we to do with them?"
"Genevieve?” her mother called from inside the Abbey. “Chimes? I'm hearing the oddest noise."
Gen turned back to the entry way as her mother and sister appeared from one of the wings. “Good afternoon, Mother,” she started, motioning Chimes to shut the door. Unfortunately, one of the cows chose that moment to poke its head in. Her mother froze, and Allison gasped.
"Is that a cow?” her sister asked, moving cautiously toward the door.
Gen exchanged glances with Chimes and saw in his black eyes that she had no chance at bluffing. “Yes, I'm afraid so. And there are about thirty more like her in the front yard."
Her mother frowned. “How can that be?"
"It's a grand gesture,” Chimes put in, shoving at the cow in vain to get it back into the yard so he could shut the door. “Miss Gen offered to keep them for the Squire until his barns drained."
"Very thoughtful of you, Genevieve, I'm sure,” her mother allowed, watching his struggles from the safety of the far side of the entry way. “However, I don't see how we can do so. What shall we do with them?"
"Hello the Abbey!” a voice called from the far side of the clearing. The cow startled, pulling back its head, and Chimes made to snap the door triumphantly closed. Gen put out her hand to stop him.
"William?” she called back.
The curate's sandy head appeared over the backs of the cattle. “Yes. I heard about the flood and came to see how you were fairing. I seem to have come at a bad time."
"Go around back,” Gen called to him, motioning him around the side of the herd. “Chimes will let you in the kitchen."
She saw him wave and move off. She nodded to Chimes, who sighed with relief as he swung the door shut at last.
"Chimes,” her mother intoned as Gen sagged with relief as well, “please send the Reverend Wellfordhouse to the withdrawing room when you retrieve him. Genevieve, I think we must talk."
With a heavy heart, Gen fell into step behind her mother and Allison.
In the withdrawing room, her mother motioned her to a chair opposite the fire, taking up her usual seat in the Sheraton chair. Allison curled up on the chaise.
"Now, my dear, please explain to me about these cows."
Gen managed a smile, mind whirling as she sought to think up a plausible tale. “Well, you see, Mother,” she hedged, “as Chimes said, the Pentercasts were nearly flooded out last night, and since the dam was on our property, I thought it was only polite to offer to help."
"Help, certainly,” her mother nodded. “But cows? What are we to do with them? We have no pasture, no place to house them. And we certainly have no food put up for them to eat."
"I'm afraid it's worse than that, Mrs. Munroe,” William said in the doorway. “Pardon my intrusion, but I take it you've only recently been told you have a herd of dairy cows in your front yard."
"Quite recently,” her mother said.
"If you have any ideas on what to do with them,” Gen told him, “we'd be delighted to listen."
William wrung his hands, offering her a wane smile. “I would be delighted to be of assistance as to the care and feeding of dairy cattle, Miss Genevieve. However, from my vantage point across the clearing, I believe you have a more immediate problem than housing or feeding them."
Gen frowned. “Oh? What would that be?"
"They seem to be, er, that is,” William was turning several shades of red but for the life of her she couldn't imagine what was discomposing him so. “Dash it all, they look like they need to be milked."
"Milked!” her mother and sister cried with her.
William winced. “Yes, by your leave, just so. I don't supposed any of you have any experience with this kind of thing?"
"None whatsoever,” her mother assured him, turning on her oldest daughter. “Genevieve, this really is going too far. We simply must tell the Squire we cannot keep them for him."
William cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, Mrs. Munroe, but they'll never make it back to the Manor, even through the woods. I have had some little experience in these manners, having been raised on a farm until I was ten. I'd be happy to be of assistance. But you need to milk them soon, within the hour if I'm any judge."
"Surely they can be told to wait,” her mother protested.
William shook his head. “I'm afraid not. If they are forced to remain unmilked, the milk gets quite hard and, er, I believe it is quite uncomfortable for them, not to mention the fact that they will eventually go dry, which would be quite a shame for the Squire, if you take my meaning."
Gen rose, determined. While she had no reason to wish Alan well, she couldn't imagine exacting her revenge through some innocent beasts. “It's all right, Mother. I got us into this, I'll get us out. William, if you could show me how to do it, I'll milk them."
He was turning red again. “I'm sorry, Miss Gen, but one alone won't make a difference. A skilled milker could do no more than 10 cows in an hour, and I would imagine with this being your first time and the cows not familiar with you, you'll do far less. There looked to be at least thirty cows out there. You could never get to them all in the hour or so we have remaining. I'd say we need at least ten people for the job."
Gen sank back into her chair. “Ten people?"
Allison jumped to her feet. “I'll help. It will be a lark."
Her mother frowned at her. “I cannot like it, but very well. Since you have explained that it will cause the beasts pain if we refuse, I shall assist as well, William."
"We'll all have to help,” Gen agreed. “Chimes, Mrs. Chimes, Bryce, and the other servants as well."
Her mother nodded.
Sometime later, armed with tubs and buckets, the entire household of Wenwood Abbey descended upon the herd and set to work. William instructed the Munroes and Bryce, who had never been near a cow before, how to go about the milking. Mrs. Chimes and the groomsmen, it turned out, had had some experience and therefore proved the most adept, doing three animals in the time it took the others to do one. Gen found that if she followed William's instructions—touch the cow first to make sure it knew she was there, always milk on the animal's right side, and let them chew on the pansies if it seemed to help—she could manage the task.
The animals’ udders were warm to her hands, the milk soft as it squirted past her fingers. The smell was not unlike the horse stables—sweet and musty. After about the fifth cow, however, the novelty of the experience wore off, and she found each successive beast m
ore daunting. By number seven her arms ached; by number nine her back hurt as well. It was nearly dark before they finished.
As Gen limped back toward the house, William fell into step beside her. “How often does this have to happen?” she asked him, almost afraid of the answer.
"Twice a day, I'm afraid,” he told her with a gentle smile. “But you've got the hang of it now, Miss Genevieve. And it shouldn't be long. I'm sure the Squire's pasture will drain soon."
She nodded, too tired to do otherwise. Her one consolation was the tubs of milk, a good 50 gallons even with the amount they had spilled. Mrs. Chimes was already mumbling about the cheeses, butter, and clotted cream she would make.
"And with so many to help you, it will go much easier in the morning,” William assured her. “Have the gentlemen carry the tubs for you, and as for the eight maids ... “.
Gen gasped, pulling him to a stop. “Eight maids! Oh, no, William, don't tell me!"
A slow smile spread across the curate's face. “Why, I believe you're right, Miss Genevieve. Eight maids a-milking. The Squire has done it again."
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Chapter Twelve
Verse Nine, Nine Drummers Drumming
Since the pond was now reduced to a large frozen mud flat littered with dying pond lilies and threaded by a trickle of a stream, Genevieve decided to put the cows there the next morning after milking. Part of her feared the creatures must have frozen in the night, but they were apparently closely packed enough to generate sufficient heat, for they greeted her family and servants complacently that morning when they all trooped out for the next milking. She was wracking her brain for what to feed them (besides Mrs. Chimes’ pansies) when Tom Harvey arrived with a loaded hay wagon. She thankfully directed him to the back gardens.
"And did the Squire tell you when he planned to retrieve them?” she couldn't help asking as he turned the draft horses toward the back of the clearing.
