“Nothing like that. I only meant how old Lybrand keeps Miss Maeve on a short leash. And he holds the mortgages on three-quarters of the county, but he makes that poor girl work for a living,” Hettie said, indignant.
I set my coffee cup in its saucer with a clink. “Miss Maeve may enjoy teaching. Perhaps she chooses to work because she finds it fulfilling?”
“Maybe,” Hettie conceded, “but the point of the matter is he won’t let her get married. She’s had plenty of suitors, make no mistake, and he’s run them all off. Every blessed one.”
“The word around town is her uncle threatened to disinherit her if she ever married,” Abel put in. In the clear, early light, his eyes were the same deep blue as the morning glory flowers tangling the fencerows around the farm. “Mr. Lybrand is what newspapers like to call a ‘robber baron.’ Makes it sound dramatic, almost piratical.” I felt my mouth quirk in spite of myself at his choice of words. “But he’s really just a sour old man from somewhere out east who made lots of money in the railroad business. And he owns a passel of banks. He travels some, but never takes Miss Maeve anywhere.”
“Lybrand got the best deal of his life when Miss Maeve came to live with him after her folks died,” Hettie said. “She cooks and cleans and keeps him company. Nobody else in their right mind would spend more than five minutes around the man. Stands to reason he wouldn’t want her to leave.”
“I’d like to go visit my sister.” I needed to see for myself that Mr. Lybrand wasn’t mistreating Lilah. “There’s no need to spare a horse for me. I’m used to walking everywhere I go.”
Hettie’s face darkened, but I hurried on. “I’m not asking for time away from our work. If you lend me a lantern, I could walk over in the evening, after we’re done for the day. I’m not bothered by the dark.”
Big Tom and Hettie exchanged a troubled looked. “Best to avoid the woods,” Big Tom rumbled.
Hurriedly, Hettie added, “I was going to send Abel to fetch some things in town tomorrow, but if you want to go, that’ll be fine. You can stop by the schoolhouse and see your sister.” Her smile was rusty from disuse, but genuine. “But not all day long, mind,” she said, gathering the dishes. “We have too much to do for you to tarry overlong.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I agreed as I stood to help her wash up.
Big Tom left, his huge boots thudding on the wooden floor. Abel followed him, casting one quick look over his shoulder to where I stood at the sink. I diligently pretended not to notice.
As I dried the last plate, Hettie disappeared into a tiny closet and returned holding a wilted straw hat. “So you won’t blister,” she said.
I put the thing on, the smell of sweat and hay drifting around my face. “Where are we going?”
“Cornfield, and we best get moving,” Hettie said. “The men took the wagon on down to the fields already. They’ll be waiting for us.”
Donning her own hat, she swept open the back door, only to stop in midstride and look downward. I moved closer to peer over her shoulder.
Glossy green branches dotted with orange berries lay in a neat line across the porch, just outside the threshold. Hettie stepped carefully over them, frowning. When I followed, my hat brushed something hanging from the lintel. I looked up to find a bundle of dried flowers, tied with twine, dangling petals-down. Curious, I reached for one.
“Leave them,” Hettie said quickly, eyes darting over the yard.
“What are they?”
“Summer’s bride and buckthorn,” she said, moving briskly across the porch and down the steps. “They’re for protection. From evil spirits, curses, things like that.”
“Where did they come from?” I asked.
“Big Tom left them, I’d venture.” A worried squint deepened the lines around her eyes. I doubted she believed her own words. “Best let them be.”
I dropped the matter and surveyed the sweeping landscape. It wasn’t my longed-for home, but no one could deny the peacefulness of this remote place. Why did Hettie think dark forces would come to call here?
I tromped after her in my borrowed boots. Hettie’s feet were bigger than mine, and the wad of newspapers stuffed into the toes made for uncomfortable going. We trudged in silence, our shadows marching beside us, thin black slivers on the dew-covered ground. So often, I’d wished Lilah would stop her relentless chatter. But in the company of the quiet Hettie, I missed my baby sister more than ever.
We walked through a pasture along a sunbaked track to the edge of a cornfield. The once-vibrant stalks, now gone brittle in the sun, rasped in a faint breeze. The silks straggling out from the withered husks were brown and crumpled like the legs of a crushed spider. “The heat got to the crop before we could harvest it all for eating,” Hettie said. “But we can still use the dry ears. Big Tom will put some up to feed the stock this winter, and we’ll grind the rest into cornmeal for cooking.”
Big Tom guided a wagon pulled by a tall-eared mule several yards out into the corn while Hettie and I followed through strips of shadow. With care, Big Tom lowered his hefty form down between two rows of corn and began expertly breaking off the ears, tossing them over the high wooden sides of the wagon. I reached up to grasp one. My hands wrapped around the papery husk just as a long, dry leaf sliced the inside of my bare forearm. With a hiss of pain, I clamped a hand over the thin cut.
“You all right?” Abel climbed down from the wagon. “Those leaves are called blades for a reason. They’re awfully sharp after they’ve dried out.”
I jerked my sleeve down over the cut. “It’s nothing,” I said.
Abel stooped to gather the corn felled by the passing of the wagon.
“You can help me,” Hettie said, moving to the opposite side from where Big Tom had disappeared amid the towering corn. She bent one of the tall stalks and grabbed an ear. Her strong hands gave a quick twist, and it broke away from the stalk with a violent crack. “The down row’s awful hard on the back.” She gestured to where Abel bent over his work, breaking ears from stalks that had been crushed to the ground. “Especially when you ain’t used to it.”
Abel straightened, his arms loaded with corn, to give me a pointed look as he strode by.
“I’ll help with the down row,” I said.
Abel dropped his harvest into the wagon, then turned to face me. “Your muscles will be screaming in ten minutes flat,” he said. “You sure you want to do this?” Boots crunching over the fallen stalks, he went back to his work.
I slid in shoulder-to-shoulder next to him. “I’m sure.”
Abel’s estimate had been generous. My back and shoulders tightened to furious, offended knots within five minutes, and stayed that way for the rest of our time in the field. The sun beat down, burning my back through the flimsy fabric of my dress as I worked. Sweat stung my eyes, slipping down my face to wet my cracked lips. I began to relish the short moments when the wagon moved to a new spot, because following it gave me an excuse to straighten up for a few minutes.
When at last Big Tom surveyed the field and announced it picked clean, I nearly buckled with relief. “Not bad for your first time,” he said kindly. I felt sure that was a soothing lie. Abel’s deft hands had stripped three-quarters of the ears we’d gathered in the down rows. Big Tom slid a canteen from around his neck and handed it to me. “There’s a path to the spring just over that rise there,” he said, pointing. “Why don’t you fill this up?”