“That was a pretty fool move. Can’t believe you just let him go like that.” Jack paused to turn his head and spit.
“What on earth would magic beans give me? He told me that they grow straight into the sky or something stupid like that. What can you do with a plant that goes all the way up there? Pick all the beans you see hanging and sell them for a fortune?”
Blythe never cared for beans unless they were cooked into mush or a form that was completely unrecognizable. Yes, like mush. Then again, he was also forced to concede that his biases would be more a product of years spent being subjected to Molly’s cooking.
“The problem with you is that you don’t have any imagination.”
“What’s there to imagine with a giant beanstalk? It shoots up to the sky. Oh, happiness.”
Jack just snorted in disgust. “You don’t know how to think about possibilities. Sure, the beanstalk can reach the sky, but what goes on beyond that? I mean, what’s at the end of it?”
“Clouds and some heavenly being who drinks too much and pisses on us at the worst possible times,” Blythe replied, sighing. This conversation was getting quite tedious. “Besides, unlike you, I don’t believe in luck and getting rich because I happen to be in the right place at the right time.”
“Well, I do, and I think that there’s a lot more to those magic beans than what that old man’s letting on.”
Blythe glanced at his friend. “What if there isn’t?” he prodded.
“There is no ‘isn’t’.”
“What makes you so sure? You don’t have the beans with you, let alone have them already planted in your backyard. I think you’re just trying hard to justify the fact that you don’t want to work to earn your riches. You just want it given to you for nothing. You sound like one of those people who inherit their riches and act like they deserve it.”
Jack gave Blythe’s arm a sharp punch, sending Blythe stumbling off the path a few paces with a yelp. “Rich folks are rich through no hard work,” Jack retorted, turning to spit again. Icy bitterness edged his words. “I don’t see why it can’t happen to people like us.”
“Accident of birth, fool,” Blythe said, grimacing as he gingerly shook his arm. “Ow. You didn’t have to hit me that hard, you know.”
“Well, you’re irritating me. You don’t think that poor folks don’t deserve good luck.”
“I never said that. I only said that I don’t believe in luck.” He didn’t, did he? Blythe pinched his mouth and scowled as he fought off a few ugly thoughts coursed through his mind.
“What if it happens to you? What would you do then?”
Blythe considered for a moment. “I don’t know. If it happens, it happens, I suppose, but—I don’t think I’ll be feeling too comfortable about it.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. It’s easy money, and you won’t feel comfortable? What, you want to suffer at work all your life?”
“I wouldn’t be earning it, Jack. That’s my problem with it.” But the temptation, though—Blythe was forced to admit that being gifted with riches was such an amazing dream. There were so many things he could do with the money, so much independence to revel in. The very thought of living in a house that was more than just four walls and a ceiling…
“Lord, talking to you’s like talking to a damned wall. Then again, I suppose some people are plain too cowardly to take chances. I’m certainly not one of those.”
Blythe scowled at his feet as he listened and pondered. Was he being a coward? He certainly despised his new work, and his experience at the market was nothing short of hideous despite Molly’s success. He’d love to see his family rise above their station, but he’d always been told that only one path was available to reach that end: hard, honest work and a good deal of prudent handling of money.
He felt the weight of the baskets on each hand, and his eyes strayed to the one he carried in his left hand. It contained three unsold loaves, while the right basket was emptied of its contents. He’d been reluctant to return home with three loaves left because he was sure that it’d be a sore blow to Molly, who’d always come home empty-handed.
Blythe had spent much of the later morning hours searching for people who might be interested in the loaves, but everyone had already had breakfast or refused him for whatever reason. It all rankled, considering the fact that since his first day taking over his sister’s work, he’d always come home with at least one unsold loaf—a depressing reminder of his shortcomings.
Jack happened to stumble across Blythe sitting forlornly at the fountain in the middle of the town square, watching everyone go about their business while cradling the basket with the loaves against his chest. Jack almost had to peel him off his stone perch and force him to walk around idly. For his part, Jack had escaped his mother’s cottage because he still refused to chop wood for the hearth, claiming that he’d already sharpened the ax, and it would be a waste of his time if he were to dull the blade again by hacking away at a tree.
“I’m not a coward,” Blythe snapped. “I just have a different view of things.”
“Oh, sure—like do the safe thing. How predictable. Nothing will happen to someone who won’t take risks.” Jack let out an exasperated sigh as he kicked a stone and watched it fly off and disappear under the wheels of passing wagons. “Wish I were at the market. I’d have taken that old man up on his offer.”
“Jack, he could’ve been mad for all we know.”
The sudden yelling of a man and the neighing of horses forced their conversations to a halt.
“You two! Out of the way! Damned filthy urchins! Out! Out!”
Blythe and Jack whirled around and saw a pair of horses practically breathing down their necks. The driver glared at them and continued his shouts, and with a little exclamation, both boys jumped out of the carriage’s way. Jack went in one direction, and Blythe threw himself into the other.
He hit the ground hard, rolling and coughing at the cloud of dust that rose up. He waved a hand before his face and squinted as he looked around him. Sitting up, he saw his baskets a few feet away, the leftover loaves of bread having tumbled out, with two rolling directly into the path of the carriage’s wheels.
“Oh, no,” he cried, horrified, as he watched the loaves get squashed. “Stop!” he yelled, stumbling to his feet. “Stop! I have to sell—oh, lord.”
“What on earth—whoa! Whoa! Get away from the carriage! What are you trying to do, you idiot? Kill yourself?”
Blythe, without once thinking, had run close to the wheels in hopes of saving the third loaf, which had rolled farther out but was also in danger of being run over. Had it not been for someone’s quick intervention, he’d have been crushed under the wheels, himself. A bystander, seeing the catastrophe about to happen, had reached out, grabbed hold of Blythe’s jacket, and jerked him back roughly and out of harm’s way. With the sound of ripping fabric mingled a gasp and coughs because the sudden pull of his jacket and shirt nearly strangled him.
What sounded like a dozen voices started shouting at the same time. Blythe, frozen in confusion, shock, and terror at the realization of having escaped a pretty horrific annihilation, stood in mute helplessness, kept in place as well by his rescuer, who continued to grip his jacket. Blythe barely recognized Jack’s furious voice in the mix of sounds that now engulfed him. He wasn’t even clearly aware of a calmer, quieter voice asking something—a voice that was close, much closer to him than the others.
The man who’d yanked him out of the way finally released him. “That was a stupid thing you tried to do,” he scolded, frowning darkly at Blythe, his weathered features and thick beard lending him an even greater air of rough authority as he loomed over the boy. “Don’t ever do that again. You hear me?”
Blythe could only nod and offer his weak thanks, but those were enough to satisfy the fellow, who nodded, harrumphed, and then ambled off, his soiled and hulking figure melting against the busy scenery.
When Blythe felt a touch on his arm, the spell broke, and he gave a start.
“I asked if you were all right.”
He blinked and looked up. The boy he saw at the market was speaking, and he’d leaned out the carriage window and had reached out to touch Blythe’s arm. A look of worry darkened his features. Blythe, still confused but this time for a different reason, gave the carriage another look. No, this was a different one from what he’d seen before; perhaps this boy was a great deal wealthier than he’d thought, and his family owned more than one carriage.
Wonderful. Now Blythe felt a thousand times poorer than he really was.
From inside the carriage, a few voices floated out as well—female voices talking excitedly. None of the ladies looked out to see what was the matter, though, but Blythe hardly cared about that.
The realization of just how much of an idiot he was finally dawned on him, the worst part being the fact that the other boy had seen everything that’d just happened. The clear and sincere anxiety on Blythe’s behalf only made things worse. Not only was he a failure, he was also an object of pity.
He pulled his jacket more tightly around his shoulders, inwardly wincing at the pathetic picture he made. He was dusty and disheveled, his frayed and faded clothes now sporting a few new tears from his savior’s rough handling. His cap had fallen off, and God knew where it was now. With Blythe’s luck, it was probably lying in a shapeless heap under the horses and getting thoroughly shat on.
“I’m fine, thank you,” he said, meeting the boy’s gaze for a second before looking away, his face burning horribly. “I have to go.”
He turned away, grimacing as he rubbed his throat gingerly. The savage pull on his shirt and jacket felt as though his throat had been kicked. He looked around for his baskets, feeling the weight of the other boy’s stare on his back. Somewhere in the periphery of his awareness was Jack hurling insults at the driver, who, in turn, tossed back a string of colorful references to the nature of Jack’s brain. For better or for worse, Jack had the final say, and he gave the driver a pretty rude gesture with his hand as he made his way around the horses to join Blythe.
“Mr. Hood, if you wish to remain employed, I suggest that you leave the boy alone and drive on!” a woman called out from the carriage’s interior. Her voice was clear and firm, making Blythe wonder if she were the oldest lady in the group—and whether or not she was related to the boy whose solicitude now shadowed Blythe’s existence.
“Yes, ma’am,” the driver stammered. He whistled, made clicking noises with his tongue, and the horses trotted onward.
Blythe fought the urge to look up and watch the carriage go, but as it happened, he was at his most vulnerable, which included a severely weakened will. Swallowing, he glanced up and saw that the boy kept his head out the window and continued to stare at him with a worried little frown. At length, because of the growing distance, he was forced to sit back again, and the carriage soon vanished around a corner.
Around Blythe life went on. The earlier incident seemed to have been forgotten completely, or it seemed as though it never happened. Passersby went about their business—walking or hurrying, chatting with companions or looking preoccupied. Blythe picked up his baskets, momentarily inspecting them for damage and feeling some relief in finding none. The loaves were all beyond help. Even as Blythe turned to see where they lay, birds had already descended to feast on the torn remains that littered the cobbled street.
“Here.” Jack appeared and held up Blythe’s cap. “The horses nearly trampled it to pieces.”
“Thank you.” Blythe took his cap and stared at it, grimacing. “Oh, blast it. This was my best cap.”
“Fool. That’s your only cap.”
Blythe sighed as he regarded the remains of his unsold bread, wracking his brain for the best way to break the news to Molly. The pang of guilt lancing through him as his mind conjured up images of his sister sweating and covered in flour made his steps drag.
In the meantime, Jack, wholly unaware of his friend’s depressed state, ranted on about idiot coach drivers and insensible rich people.
“They don’t care about people like us,” he spluttered, turning to spit a few times in the course of his railing. After five minutes of that, Blythe sincerely worried if his friend was in danger of spitting himself dry. “They go about parading their damned money for everyone to see, rubbing our noses into their privilege—as if we needed more reminders of how far behind we are as their inferiors.”
After a few more moments of this, Blythe couldn’t bear to listen to him go on an endless verbal rampage that was generously peppered with emphatic spitting. His mind, having nowhere else to go, had decided to fix itself on that boy. A multitude of conflicting feelings pressed down on him and left him breathless and confused—yet again. Blythe shared a good many opinions about the rich with Jack, and on normal days, he’d be just as vocal in his disapproval of the shabby treatment poor people were forced to endure in the hands of the well-to-do.
Not now, though. Amid the awful sting of mortification at being seen in such a ridiculous—and dangerous—light, Blythe couldn’t help but recall the boy’s face and the myriad of expressions that had lit it with so much wonderful life. There was that look of contentment and quiet pleasure as he followed his companions—his family?—out of the milliner’s shop. The look of open curiosity at the market, which was followed by a friendly and rather bold smile. And now it was a look of anxiety, the boy’s gaze a great deal steadier and more deeply probing.
Blythe had never had many friends; in fact, he’d counted Jack Wicket for steady companionship since their childhood. Never, in his young life, had he ever been on the receiving end of such looks as he’d seen from that new—was he new?—boy. Even among those in the same circle he and his family moved in, Blythe had always been largely ignored, patronized for his age, and scolded or dismissed. He’d nothing important to offer, was the message he’d long grown used to receiving, and he’d learned to believe it about himself. And having accepted that, Blythe had sunk into a form of contented apathy and went about his days being—and acting like—a part of the furniture.
Now someone appeared to be paying attention to him, and he’d absolutely no idea what to do. The fact that this someone was rich only made the waters a great deal muddier than they already were.
“Hey! Wake up!”
Blythe gave a start and turned to find Jack glaring at him. His friend had also stopped, though Blythe hadn’t, and Blythe sheepishly turned around and retraced his steps back to his friend’s side.
“Sorry,” he said in a meek, meek voice. “I’ve got a lot of things on my mind.”
“Obviously.” Jack sighed and rolled his eyes. “I was asking you if you wanted to come in for something to eat. Mama’s still out, but I’m sure she won’t mind.”
Blythe’s surprise deepened as he gazed around him. He and Jack had walked past the last few houses, and they were now standing before the dirt path leading to the Wickets’ cottage. Unlike the Midwinters’ simple, rundown abode, the Wicket cottage had reached a more advanced stage of deterioration and neglect. It stood against a lush, green backdrop of trees and wildflowers, glowering at the world with its aging windows and shutters that could barely be closed. If one’s home reflected one’s character, Jack Wicket was perfectly represented.
“I’ll have to join you another time,” Blythe said, raising his baskets. “I have to go home and tell Molly what happened.”
Jack shrugged. “All right, then. Be careful.” He waved and sauntered down the dirt path, while Blythe turned around to continue his walk home.
He tried to anticipate Molly’s response and fixed his mind on the most promising. “She’ll get angry with me and then sack me,” he muttered, hope now turning his dragging, reluctant steps into a light, perky trot. “Oh, God, I hope she sacks me!”