Page 38 of Beneath the Harvest Moon

Blythe offered her young man a watery smile. “How perceptive you are.”

“I am not a child anymore, and I promise to take care of you.”

Her chest swelled with pride. Gone was the little boy who once scrambled under the covers and snuggled up to her while she read him a bedtime story. She sighed when he clambered into the travelling coach.

Violet waved until the vehicle had turned into the road towards York before running to the barn to collect eggs.

Seeing her son off to school never got any easier. At least he was happy, and he seemed to enjoy his studies.

She needed to walk off her agitation. Not only after saying goodbye to Elijah, but she still could not get Gabriel’s words out of her head, or the sensation of his lips upon hers.

In the kitchen, Mama bustled about as usual.

Blythe said, “I am going for a walk.”

Mama frowned. “Have you finished your jobs for the morning?”

“Yes.” Blythe refrained from rolling her eyes.

“Just be back to take out the elevenses.”

“Of course.” She collected a bonnet and shawl from the pile beside the door and headed into Midthorpe.

Brambles spread their long tendrils throughout the hedgerows. Their fat black berries glistened in the morning sunshine, ripe for picking. She would bring Violet to pick some and show her how to preserve them.

Mrs Simmonds and Mr Drake would not be pleased, but staying in Midthorpe was the right thing to do. The country air was better for her daughter, and she did not want Violet to become another lazy socialite.

She passed the silent tavern and darted around the corner onto the main street. Two grey-haired ladies approached. “Good morning, Mrs Simmonds.” They chimed in unison.

“Good morning.” Blythe almost stumbled in shock.

Further along the street, another lady with a small child nodded in greeting. She nodded back. What was going on?

She crossed the road and entered the haberdashery.

Mrs Scatchard stood at the counter and smiled.

“Good… morning,” Blythe said.

“Good morning, Mrs Simmonds.” Mrs Scatchard approached. “We were very sorry to hear about the demise of the young man with smallpox. We are most grateful to you for nursing him.”

“Thank you, but⁠—”

“I have a granddaughter of a similar age to your daughter. Would you like to drink tea with us tomorrow evening?”

“That is very kind, Mrs Scatchard, but I am afraid I have duties on the farm which cannot be neglected, especially at harvest time.”

“Perhaps after Michaelmas, then?”

“I would be delighted. Thank you.”

The lady left.

Blythe turned to find Bess Dawkins with both her palms flat on the countertop. “It appears someone has worked their way into everyone’s good graces once more.”

Blythe stiffened.

“Getting asked to drink tea with the local gentry. What a privilege.”