She surveyed the line of woods one last time before turning back around. Her imagination was getting the best of her. Nothing more than that.
Readjusting her straining fingers around the handles of the two buckets she held, she continued on, stopping at the house where the workers slept and took their meals. They were all still at work in the barley fields.
Now that winter had passed, the ground was soft enough for planting. She left one of the buckets of potatoes and cabbages she had gathered beside the door, knowing the men would appreciate it for their dinner, and continued on her way.
Her home loomed ahead on top of a sloping hill. Her skirts swished at her ankles, slapping into her bucket as she cut through the verdant grass.
A white fence surrounded the house. Papa and Mama had erected the fence to keep their dog from running loose to the far corners of their property. Like her parents, the old hound dog was also gone now. Mercy had never replaced the dog with another, but they had a flock of cats that never strayed far. Not that the fence served to pen them in. The felines chose to stay near where they always had scraps and plenty of ear scratches.
Their fat tabby was more often inside the house than outside. Unlike his brethren, Whiskers preferred snuggling in an afghan by the fire and being petted rather than hunting mice out of doors.
As Mercy approached the gate, one of their many cats darted across the yard in a gray blur. Fast on its heels was yet another cat.
The area surrounding the house was otherwise free of activity. The curtains hung motionless in the windows.
Her brother was inside, likely napping. Her sister, too. Not napping though. Grace had not napped since the age of two. However, she did not busy herself about the farm as Mercy did. She kept indoors, occupying herself with the lessons Mercy had assigned to her, in addition to her needlework and practicing of the pianoforte.
She knew her sister longed for life away from the farm. Mercy did not blame her. It was natural. She was young and yearned to spread her wings. Mercy wished she could send her away to a proper school or broaden her experiences with travel outside of their little hamlet, but they lacked the funds for that. Even though Mercy had salvaged the farm, they still were decidedly short on funds. Bede had always seen to it that they never had a surplus.
As a lad, Papa had insisted he go to Eton and receive a gentleman’s education. Papa had turned a blind eye to the truth—which was that they were reaching beyond their means. Bede’s gentleman’s education had only succeeded in giving him a taste for things above his station.
Papa had promised Mama that Bede would elevate the family, but he had failed to bring Bede up with the understanding that he would eventually return to the land and oversee its management and care for all those who relied on him—his sisters and nearly a dozen staff.
Mercy wondered what Papa would think now of what Bede had done.
What would he think of your actions?
Wincing, she shoved the question away and refused to consider it. She had done what needed to be done.
Passing through the gate, she rounded the house to the kitchens. At the back door, she removed her boots. She knew better than to tromp into Gladys’s clean kitchen in the boots she had worn all over the farm today.
Stepping inside, she slid her stocking-clad feet into her waiting slippers. Turning, she deposited her bucket on the work table for Cook’s inspection.
“Ah.” Gladys hefted a large cabbage from the bucket. “Look at the size of this marvelous thing!”
“Yes. The garden is doing brilliantly this season.”
“Well, considering the bottomless stomach of that brother of yours, that is good news.”
Elsie entered the room just then, catching the last bit of her aunt’s remarks. “We don’t have to worry about feeding him for much longer.”
Mercy stilled. “What do you mean?”
Elsie spoke with a casual air as she peered inside the bucket, clearly having no idea of the implication of what she was saying. “He is packing as we speak.”
“Packing?” Mercy echoed as though she did not know the meaning of the word.
“Yes. Your brother is packing.” Elsie plucked one of the carrots from the bucket and brushed it off before lifting it to her mouth for a bite.
Gladys slapped her hand half-heartedly, prompting her to drop the carrot.
“My brother is packing?” Mercy demanded clarification. She needed clarification.
“Yes. He asked for me to launder his jacket so that he could depart with it not smelling of goats and manure.”
“We don’t have goats,” Gladys pointed out.
Elsie shrugged. “Those were his words.”
Of course he would say that. Not only did her brother eschew life in the country—he treated their way of life with disdain.
“My brother is packing to . . . depart.” It bore repeating. It was too incredible. Too outrageous.
Elsie nodded again.
Good Lord. What was the fool thinking? He could not mean to leave. She had only just returned, successful from her venture.
When she had arrived home from London, Bede had swept her up into a great bear hug, treating her like a conquering hero returning home. For one rare moment, things had felt right. He was happy and relieved and grateful and she had senselessly believed everything was going to be fine whilst she had basked in his uncommon affections.
“I knew you could do it,” he had exclaimed. “You never let us down, do you, you clever girl? How did you get the best of that smug bastard? Tell me everything!”
“Bede,” she had chastised, disliking his ugly words about Silas Masters.
“Tell me. I must know every detail. I wish to savor his comeuppance.”
“Uh.” She had looked away uneasily. In no way was she going to disclose the details of her time in London to her brother. “The only thing that matters is that we can keep our home. It’s all ours and we are never going to lose it again.”
Even as she had said those words, she realized it might not be so simple. Not with her brother free to go about and offer their family land as collateral yet again.
Bede had nodded in agreement as she proclaimed those words. It’s all ours and we are never going to lose it again. But there was something vague in his eyes that should have warned her. That should have reminded her. He did not value their home, and when a person did not value something, they did not care if they lost it.
Her sister had entered the room just then and Mercy sent her brother a quelling look, conveying that they should put an end to this conversation at once.
Bede had followed her gaze to Grace and chuckled lightly. “Ah. I see you don’t wish to taint tender ears.”
Mercy rolled her eyes. So much for discretion.
“I am not a child and you are not my parents,” Grace protested. “I have a right to be privy to family conversations.”
Mercy winced. She did not wish her sister to know that she had stolen back the voucher—that she was a thief. She might not regret it, but it was not something she was proud of either. The specifics of what had happened at The Rogue’s Den would stay in her heart and mind forever. Some things need never be shared.
“That lad. Such a shame.” Gladys tsked and shook her head, yanking Mercy back to the present. “Never could stay put at home where he belongs, that one.”
Mercy stared straight ahead. She willed away the sense of doom threatening to overwhelm her.