Page 14 of The Scholar (Emerson Pass Historicals 3)

“I suppose, but it’s terrible to be left with nowhere to go. I’ve been doing everything I can to keep our small farm going. If we lost it, I don’t know what would happen to Mother and me. It’s terrifying to be alone, isn’t it? I mean, without a man.”

“It is. How are you holding up?”

“I have two hired men helping, so the farm’s doing all right.” Her expression darkened as she gazed down at the hat in her hand. “My mom’s been sick. Dr. Neal doesn’t know what’s wrong with her.”

I listened as she described her mother’s symptoms: lethargy, coughing, and an aching head.

“The headaches are the worst part,” Nora said. “She has to stay in a dark room.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Seems to me you have your hands full as it is. Thank you, though.”

“We’ve come a long way since our schoolgirl days, haven’t we?”

“Yes, but in what direction?” Nora asked.

We laughed. Despite hardships, there was almost always something that could make me laugh.

“We have the summer party out at the Barneses’ to look forward to,” Nora said. “I’ve been saving my pennies to buy fabric for a new dress.”

The last few summers, Alexander and Quinn held an end-of-summer party. Everyone in Emerson Pass was invited. Women fretted over their attire, knowing that Quinn and her girls would be dressed well.

“Will you sew it yourself?” I asked.

“Yes, who else would?”

I was saved from admitting I couldn’t sew a stitch when Mrs. Johnson returned with Nora’s package. After saying goodbye to them both, I returned to the street. What now?

***

Ten minutes later, I walked along the dirt road toward the Barneses’ estate. The weather was pleasant, and despite my troubles, I enjoyed the beauty of the wildflowers in the meadows and the sounds of birds singing from the trees.

The hum of a motorcar drew my attention. I turned to look and was surprised to see Cymbeline behind the wheel. She came to a stop next to me.

“Louisa, what are you doing out this way?” Cymbeline asked.

“I’m walking out to call on your mother,” I said.

“Would you like a lift the rest of the way?”

“I’d be grateful, thank you.”

Seconds later, we were barreling down the road.

“Where were you this morning?” I asked to make conversation. Cymbeline intimidated me. She was smart and assertive and never seemed to worry what anyone thought of her.

“I’m coming home from helping Poppy. One of the Reynoldses’ horses had a difficult birth.”

“Did everything come out all right?”

Cymbeline nodded, then yawned. “Yes, but we were up half the night.” She wore men’s trousers, held up with a cinched leather belt around her waist. I glanced down at her feet—men’s boots caked with dirt. Why did she enjoy mucking about in mud? If I were rich and beautiful, I’d do nothing but read and pick wildflowers.

“I’d heard you were assisting Poppy. Are you enjoying yourself?” What a stupid question. I felt stiff and old-fashioned next to progressive Cymbeline, who spent nights helping to birth foals and drove a motorcar and wore pants.

“Oh, yes, but I don’t know how long it’ll last. Papa wants me to get married and stop all this running around. So far I’ve escaped the noose.”

Fathers wanting to see their daughters married seemed to be a