The next morning, Barbara and Sarah lined up with the rest of the girls for Charlotte to list out their chores. This life had little in common with Barbara’s London existence. While she missed the poetry and discussing politics with her father, there was peace to be found in a world where one’s worth was measured not in how others saw her but in her own actions.
Though Uncle Ferrier rebuffed any attempts to engage him in discussion of what she studied in his paper, even regarding farm economics, she’d learned many skills so far that might just someday come to use when she had a manor of her own to tend, her father’s or that of the man she deemed worthy to marry.
Charlotte handed out wicker baskets, each of the cousins grinning as she reached for hers. Though the baskets had some meaning, Barbara and Sarah shared confused glances. They had to wait for the explanation to understand.
“The farmhands reported a raspberry bramble gone ripe early. We’ll have to be quick to get there before the birds, but if we manage enough, Cook will make us a pie.”
“And tarts,” Georgiana added to Charlotte’s pronouncement with a smack of her lips. “You’ve not tasted anything until you’ve had one of Cook’s tarts fresh out of the oven.
“If you manage to taste anything with your mouth all burnt to a crisp.” Jane caught Barbara’s sleeve. “Don’t listen to her. Wait until the tarts are cooled a bit.”
“If there’s any left by then,” Marian added with her eyebrows arched and a nod toward the youngest of the four.
Charlotte pushed Georgiana then the rest of them toward the farm gate. “Don’t count the number of tarts until we’ve gathered the berries. And don’t any of you snack on more than four, no six. One for each of us.” She leaned toward Barbara, her mouth twitching to counter her stern tone. “If I set no limits, we’ll come home with berry-stained hands and reddened lips, but empty baskets and no hope of even one tart. The worst of it, though, is explaining to my father how we spent the whole day out in the fields and he gets not even a single berry.”
She managed a passable imitation of Uncle Ferrier with the last, and they all laughed their way out into the countryside.
They found the bushes the farmhands had seen soon enough. Though the birds had collected the outer layer, Marian took Barbara in hand, showing her how to bump the branches apart with a fold of her skirt and find the ripe berries hidden deeper inside where thorns protected them.
Barbara pinched the first one as Marian had shown her only to have it squish between her fingers.
“That’s one,” Jane called out as Barbara licked the juice from her fingers.
All the others stopped long enough to pop a berry into their mouths, a ritual Sarah quickly caught on to.
Barbara swore she wouldn’t have only juice for her remaining five and used much more care to tug those that followed.
Soon, she’d mastered the technique enough to add layer upon layer to her basket quickly, pausing only to tease the other girls and enjoy a stretch in the sun.
“Time for luncheon,” Charlotte called, making Barbara aware of how far they’d spread in the raspberry bramble.
She made her way to the others to discover the extra basket Charlotte had carried held a large blanket, and bread and cheese for them to share.
“Did you go on picnics in London?” Jane asked, looking to Sarah as much as Barbara for a glimpse into life in the city.
While Sarah explained how outings worked in London, and the differences between a servant’s life and a lady’s, Barbara leaned back and let the sun kiss her cheeks. Her cousins might have found London and the season fascinating from a distance, but she couldn’t imagine giving up such freedom for uncomfortable clothing, judgmental society members, and the limited conversation allowed at most events.
A hand tugged her bonnet down across her face.
“You’ll end up with freckles so dark no weight of powder can hide them if you’re not careful.”
Barbara sat up at the sound of Charlotte’s voice, the others leaning close to listen to Sarah. “One more reason for the other girls to avoid a London season. It’s taking care every moment not to make a misstep, not to talk too loud or be too enthusiastic, but at the same time somehow sparkle and distinguish yourself all within the constraints of society. Freckles are the least of the strictures I’ve broken since coming here.” She raised her berry-stained hands as evidence.
Charlotte got a faraway look to her eye as she said, “It’s the lure of the unknown. You feel it here where our chores are delightful explorations for you and Sarah. They want to feel the same, only their unknown lies in London with its fancy dresses and grand balls. I remember how dazzling it all seemed when your mother took me up.”
Her cousin had avoided all mention of the season that had been cut short so Barbara kept her lips pressed closed, hoping for another hint as to what happened.
Charlotte gave a quick headshake as though in response to Barbara’s hope and pushed to her feet. “Come on, girls. Our baskets are barely half full. If we return with so little, Father will declare the tarts for everyone but the six of us for our slacking.”
“Can we at least have a berry each to sustain us?” Georgiana asked, her expression denying the filling meal Cook had prepared for their luncheon.
Her playacting brought a smile to Charlotte’s lips, wiping away the hint of melancholy whatever thought of her season had caused. “As if a single berry could sustain your energy, Georgie, but you’re right to mention it. Everyone has been so careful”—a sideways glance at Barbara marked the exception—“we’ve yet to have a second.”
Each of them snatched up the largest, ripest berry they could find in their basket before heading into the bushes once again. Barbara matched her speed to Charlotte’s, the talk of seasons reminding her of the vow to convince Charlotte to let the girls have their dancing.