Page 34 of The Lord’s Reluctant Lady (Sisters of Ember Hall #2)

Mirrie placed the last bread roll in the over-stuffed hamper and nodded to the two waiting farm boys.

“You can take it now.”

“Thank ye, miss.”

Though small, the boys were well used to working in the fields and between them they hefted the heavy hamper out of the kitchen and onto the waiting cart with enviable ease.

They then hopped on the back of the cart and settled in for the ride back to the hayfields.

Mirrie pretended not to see them each swiping a hot heel of bread from the basket.

Mirrie wiped her hands on a cloth and looked about the untidy kitchen. It was hotter than ever in here, with the bread ovens first fired up since before dawn. Agnes had rolled up the sleeves of her stained tunic to reveal forearms made muscular through hours of kneading and beating.

“Is there aught else I can do?” Mirrie asked the long-time cook of Ember Hall.

“Nay, miss, you should take a well-earned rest.” Agnes pushed back the tendrils of long grey hair that had escaped her plait. “I’ll whip up a last batch of cakes for the evening meal.”

“Methinks there will be many mouths to feed this night.” Mirrie crossed to the sink and rinsed her hands, enjoying the rush of cold water on her warm skin. “’Tis likely everyone now bringing in the harvest will come back to the hall.”

“God willing, this harvest is a good one.” Agnes fanned herself with a floury hand. “Sir Callum said the barn stores are filling up nicely.”

Mirrie nodded. She had counted the sacks of corn herself, just last night. Lammas Day was not long past, but already they had more animal food set aside than at the end of last summer’s harvest.

“God willing,” she echoed Agnes’s plea. If the skies turned to rain, much of the crop could still be ruined. But there was no sign of that. Yet.

“Be off with you then, miss. You look fit to drop,” Agnes said, turning away to fetch butter from the cold store.

Mirrie was not affronted; she had long grown used to the cook’s abrupt manner.

But she had no intention of going upstairs to rest. Instead, she slipped off her apron and stepped out into the sun-drenched warmth of the courtyard.

Here she paused for a moment, enjoying how the golden rays of light caught the honey-hued ancient stone.

Pink roses nodded lazily in the gentle breeze and the only sound was the haunting mewl of a curlew, circling high overhead.

Such peace and calm after the fiery heat of the busy kitchen was a balm to her.

However, she only allowed herself a short time to enjoy it.

’Twas just days since she had sat in the great hall and asked Callum if she could play a greater role in the running of Ember Hall. And helping to bring in the harvest was the hardest and most important job of all.

Mirrie glanced down at the palms of her hands, which were already blistered after long hours wielding a pitchfork out in the fields.

Frida had insisted she spread honey over her chapped skin, and bind her hands in bandages overnight.

Now, Mirrie slipped on a pair of thin cotton gloves she had brought down from her bedchamber.

They would offer little protection, but would be better than nothing.

“Good morn, Miss Mirabel,” shouted one of the grooms, coming out of the stables with a pitchfork swinging from his hands.

“Good morn, Alaic,” she replied.

Alaic returned to the barn and Mirrie set off for the hayfield with a bounce in her step and a smile that was halfway to being genuine.

Within minutes she would be joining a busy group of workers comprising farm-workers and villagers, all working together to bring in the harvest. She enjoyed the feeling of unity and purpose; and long hours outside helped banish the shadows of doubt that had taken root in her heart.

Whenever Mirrie was alone, with little to occupy her hands or her mind, her thoughts would invariably return to Tristan. A little voice would pipe up, asking her if she was sure she had done the right thing.

Should I have left Wolvesley without taking the time to talk to him?

She couldn’t help looking over her shoulder whenever she heard a man’s heavy, booted footstep or gravelly laugh. Sometimes it seemed inevitable that Tristan would come looking for her at Ember Hall. Sometimes it seemed more likely she would not see him again for months, if not years.

She did not know which of these outcomes was the least disturbing.

And where was David? That other suitor who had been so eager to claim her hand at the midsummer ball? He too had disappeared, like a summer mist.

Mirrie snorted as she picked up her skirts to jump over a fallen log. Whatever charms she had wielded that night must have faded away to naught. And looking down at her loose-fitting grey tunic, she could see why.

But it was so very freeing to tell herself that she did not care. To scoop up her hair into an unfashionable, untidy knot and roam about with neither a bonnet nor gloves—except to protect her tender flesh from hard, manual work.

To be amongst people who did not judge her. And did not mislead her either.

Aye, it’s good to be home.

She rounded the last corner and came in sight of the vast hayfields which were filled not only with their own farm workers, but also villagers, including women and children.

It took the whole community to bring in the harvest and was a time of hard work and togetherness.

She put a hand over her eyes and scanned the labourers until she spied Callum, forking cut hay into a waiting wagon with impressive strength and accuracy.

But he paused in his work when he saw Mirrie and was quick to flash his customary wide smile.

“Have you come again to join us?” He pushed a shock of dark hair away from his eyes.

“If you will have me?” she smiled back.

“We will be stopping for lunch within the hour, if you would prefer to join Frida and some of the other women in laying out the food?” He gestured towards the nearby cart which had brought provisions, all packed by Mirrie, up to the fields.

“Nay.” She shook her head. “I would prefer more manual work.”

“’Tis all important, Godly work,” he pointed out, his dark eyes fixed on her.

Finding me wanting?

“I should prefer to work up a sweat and forget my troubles.” She raised her eyebrows meaningfully. “Must we quarrel over this yet again?”

“I am in search of no quarrel. Here.” He held out his own pitchfork with a wink. “You carry on with this. I will go down to the end of the field and press on with the scything.”

“Thank you.” Her cheeks had pinkened, partially from the noonday sun, and partially from her outburst. She could not escape the notion that she was still acting in some sort of ruse and consequently, that she risked discovery and censure at every turn.

But that was true, she thought, as she grasped the fork firmly and dug it into the hay. She had kissed Tristan, Frida’s brother. And not one of these good people knew that.

’Twas one thing keeping her feelings for him a secret. ’Twas quite another to stay silent about all that had passed between them.

And all that could have passed between them.

There were times when the little voice in her head regretted that not more had happened in the school room of Wolvesley Castle.

Or in the corridor outside my bedchamber.

Mirrie pressed her lips together, hoping to silence these errant thoughts with hard, physical labour.

Over time, she had learned how to swing the fork just so, to lift the maximum amount of hay without spinning of balance or dropping the bulk of it.

It took all her concentration though, and she did not even hear the cry ring out for everyone to down tools and gather together for some much-needed food and drink.

A shadow fell over her, as she poised at the apex of her next swing.

“Will you not partake of refreshment?”

Her first thought was that the speaker was Callum, but as her fork dug through the cut hay, she realised the voice was deeper and more refined.

A voice which made her breath catch in her throat and her skin prickle with awareness.

Mirrie felt perspiration running down her forehead; her hair, she knew, was slick with sweat.

The last person she wanted to see right now was Tristan.

“I will stop in a while. I must finish this row first,” she replied, not even glancing towards him.

Why did he come?

Tristan oft helped bring in the harvest at Wolvesley. But never before had he joined them at Ember Hall.

“But everyone else has stopped.”

She raised her eyes to the grassy knoll where the cart had halted earlier. Rugs had been spread all around, and tired workers now sat together, eating and drinking. No one spared her any attention.

“If you do not go now, all the nicest cakes will be gone,” he urged, his voice low.

She shrugged, still determined to not look in his direction. “Agnes is already baking more. Besides, I am guided by more than my belly.”

She thought he would stay and argue further. She was disappointed to hear him walk away.

But disappointment was a familiar companion; one she was used to living beside.

She flexed her fingers and re-positioned her sore hands on the handle of the pitchfork.

A long row of cut grass stretched before her.

It was now more important than ever that she finish it. She would take refreshment later.

She straightened up when the ache in her shoulders became unbearable, surprised to see another worker down at the end of the field, where the grass was still uncut.

This worker was tall and strong, grass flew up with every swing of his scythe.

He worked methodically and accurately, legs braced, bronzed shoulders bare to the sun.

Exertion had already made her heartbeat quicken, now it began to gallop. Her hands slipped on the fork and she stumbled on the uneven ground.

This would never do.

Tristan was working his way toward her. Soon he would be at her side. Talking to her, looking at her, and she was not prepared for such a conversation.

He had kissed her. She had slapped him. Then she had left without saying goodbye. And he had let her.

Too much had passed between them for politeness to be observed in a hayfield. Especially when her dress stuck to her sides with perspiration.

Mirrie didn’t pause to consider her actions. She left her fork laying atop a pile of chopped grass, and turned away.

She couldn’t return to the house; he would only track her down there.

Nor did she want to walk past the happy group of workers picnicking atop the rugs.

Instead, she ran lightly down the side of the hayfield and through a shady copse of trees, her long legs pounding wildly beneath her as she descended a steep slope.

The ground here was often muddy, but the prolonged warm, dry weather made dust fly about her as she rounded the final corner and emerged into Ember Cove.

The hard ground turned to shingle, which was difficult to walk on.

She pressed on, breathing hard, heading for the welcome shade of the cliffs.

As soon as she reached them, she sank to the ground, uncaring of how the miniscule stones would stick to her tunic.

She stretched out her legs and leaned aching back against the coolness of the stone, letting her head roll back and her eyes feast on the glittering expanse of the sea.

She forced her thoughts to quieten, so all that filled her head was the gentle rushing of the waves on the shingle beach and the mournful calling of the gulls.

The air was fresh and clean. There was no one here but herself. Mirrie reached forward to tug off her boots, relieved to rid herself of their weight.

If only she could plunge into the inviting sea, to wash away the dust of the day along with all her woes.

But she could not. Walkers on the cliffs above could look down upon Ember Cove and see her. She would have to be satisfied with cooling off in the shade.

So be it.

Mirrie was used to resigning herself to less than what she truly desired.

She sniffed at the sudden wave of self-pity.

Why should she always be the one to sit in the shade?

The rhythmic rolling of the waves seemed to call to her, inviting her down to the shore.

She walked forward, drawn by the sparkling water and the promise of cool release.

When a large wave rolled towards her, soaking the toes of her stockings, she merely smiled and shuffled further in.

Her feet sank down into the shingle, anchoring her in place.

The sea rose around her ankles and a salty breeze caressed her hot face.

Why should she not have this pleasure? And more besides?

She opened her arms and tilted her face to the sun, closing her eyes as the cold waves rushed back and forth. The sound was hypnotic, as was the pull of receding water of her calves and the feeling of shifting shingle beneath her toes.

Her cares began to lessen along with the ache in her shoulders. She allowed her mind to relax; her body to be one with the waves.

She did not hear Tristan walking slowly towards her, across the beach.

When he cleared his throat, her eyes flew open in surprise.

“What a wonderful idea, Mirrie. There is naught better than paddling in the sea on a hot day. Do you mind if I join you?”