Page 33 of Beneath the Harvest Moon

“My mother.”

She released a sardonic chuckle. “Sometimes I think you are mad.”

“Why so?”

“I jilted her son and abandoned my apprenticeship to marry a rich man. Why would your mother take me under her wing? Even if I had not jilted you, I demonstrated a weak character by abandoning her teaching.”

“My mother said you were destined to be a healer, that you had a natural talent. I am certain she would wish to⁠—”

“Mrs Sharpe will not take me back, and I do not blame her.” She leaned a hand on the back of the chair vacated by Elijah.

“You do not know until you ask.”

Her feet shuffled on the patterned carpet. “She may be grateful to me for caring for James when she could not, but you ask too much, Gabriel. How can either of you trust me again?”

Her vulnerability almost melted away the barrier he had built around his heart. Damn him to eternal suffering! It was too late; the feeble barricade had collapsed, and Blythe had not even attempted an assault. “Am I wrong to try to see the good in someone? You have the chance to find purpose in life, Blythe. Elijah said you were unhappy in York.”

Her brow wrinkled. “He should not have discussed my private matters.”

“Tell me. I am your friend. In the past, we had no secrets.”

“That was the past. We are older and wiser, and some things are better left unsaid.”

Before he could think better of it, the question he longed for her to answer slipped out. “Why did you marry him, Blythe?”

Blythe fiddled with the strings of her purse and said, “He was rich and you were not.” Her head snapped up. “And you need to stop this foolishness. You should show better judgement. I am not the sort of person with whom you should be friends. You know it. I know it. The entire village knows it.” She strode to the door. “Good day, Doctor Sharpe.”

CHAPTER 13

The orange glow to the west cast deep shadows across the yard. Hopefully, the farmhands had already rounded up Daisy and Prue. If she had to remain on her feet much longer, her soles might burst.

Once in the cowshed, she dropped the pails on the straw-littered floor. She ran a hand over Daisy’s round stomach and grumbled at her bloated udder. “I am sorry, girl; I have been so busy harvesting vegetables and preparing food for the workers that I have not had time to get to you.”

She grabbed a pail and the three-legged stool and plopped down on the hard wood. At least she would not need to be on her feet for the next half hour or so. Perhaps she would linger. A reprieve from Mama’s constant questions about when she would return to York was welcome.

She tugged on two of Daisy's teats. Warm, creamy liquid squirted into the metal pail. Once she got up a steady rhythm, she rested her head against Daisy’s warm hide and allowed her mind to wander.

It was good to be useful again, to contribute, to talk about anything other than the latest fashions, or who was at home and who was not, or the latest musical soiree held by Mrs Sanderson to display her daughter’s skills.

Her lips twitched. She did not miss the caterwauling Sandersons or their weak tea.

“I see you have not lost your touch.”

Blythe yelped at the unexpected voice and jerked too hard on Daisy’s teat.

Daisy mooed and side-stepped in retaliation.

Gabriel stood in the doorway of the cowshed with his black frock coat hanging from a finger over his shoulder. His black waistcoat hugged his broad chest, and his shirt sleeves had been rolled above his elbows, revealing the sinews of his forearms covered with a fine dusting of dark hair.

Her fingers twitched with the urge to trace the lines of those muscles. Instead, she said, “What are you doing here? You frightened me and Daisy half to death.”

“I wished to see how you fared.”

“After a long day in the fields, surely it would be preferable to return home.”

“My home is quiet and boring. Why would I return there when I can sit here and watch you pull on dear Daisy’s and Prue’s udders? Besides, we said we would return to being friends, and this is what we used to do when we were friends.”

Her cheeks heated at the memory of what else they used to do when they were friends. She buried her face in Daisy's hide and resumed a steady rhythm. For a few moments, nothing but the gentle bubble of flowing liquid and the odd cluck of a roaming hen filled the cowshed.