Annie Baldwin pushed the wide brimmed bonnet up off her forehead and wiped the moisture with a fold of her long skirt. Haying was better than digging potatoes in the fall or hoeing rows in the garden, she supposed. But why was it always so hot and humid when it was time to mow the field?
“Annie, get a move on!” Her older brother, Steve, waved at her impatiently.
Not bothering to waste the energy to answer, she dug the three tined fork into the windrow and added the long stalks to the stook she’d already half finished. If the weather held and the hay dried well, tomorrow one of her brothers would drive the big hay wagon to collect the stooks.
Methodically, the hay crew worked its way along the wavy lines of the windrows. The rhythmic clacking of the mower reached her from two fields away where Father walked behind Benny and Bessie, the big patient workhorses who pulled the mower. It was a blessing that field wouldn’t require her attention until after it was raked in a day or two.
“Land sakes, haying does seem to take forever,” Annie muttered, stabbing the pale green hump of partially dried grasses.
“Water, Miss Baldwin?”
“Oh my Lord!” Annie dropped the hayfork and put a hand to her chest. “George, you scared the life out of me.” She bent to pick up the discarded tool and to avoid looking at the young man smiling at her.
“Would you like some water?” He held a wooden bucket with a ladle in it. “It’s some hot today.” George’s English accent was different to her ear than Father and Mother’s Irish inflections.
“Yes, I do believe I could do with some water, George. Thank you.” Annie dipped the metal ladle into the warm water and drank, allowing some of the fluid to overflow and run down her neck into her bodice. She glanced out from under the brim of her bonnet and met his grey-eyed gaze. Offering him a faint smile she replaced the ladle in the bucket.
George touched his cap with a finger and then trudged down the row where Annie’s older sisters were also tying bundles to build into stooks. She let her gaze linger on the boy. Father borrowed him from the Millers who farmed closer to Eganville. Her ears still blistered from Mother’s lecture last evening. Annie shook her head and returned to the task-at-hand, letting her thoughts wander as her body methodically went through the motions. She was at a loss to understand why Mother was so upset over Annie exchanging a few words with the English boy at the end of work yesterday. Heavens they’d known each other for years, attended the same one room school. Why should Mother suddenly get such a bee in her bonnet over an innocent conversation?
Why should it matter if he was basically nothing more than an indentured servant? He was nice enough and worked hard, harder than most of her brothers, and certainly George did more work than her sisters. Annie reached the end of her row and stepped across to work her way along the next windrow back the way she had come. In the distance the waters of the Bonnechere River glittered in the afternoon sun, trees lining its borders stood motionless in the muggy June afternoon.
“I’d give my eye teeth to go jump in the river right about now,” she muttered. Not much chance of that happening. Annie paused to stretch her back, straightening up she glanced across the field to gauge how close they were to finishing this field. If they kept at it, they’d be done by dusk, she calculated. With any luck, her sister Rotha would have milked the cows and fed the pigs and chickens. She always managed to knock off before the rest of them and head back to the house on some frail excuse or another. If those chores weren’t done, it would fall to Annie as the youngest, to make sure they got done. She sighed, there was no telling when the woman would decide to pull her ‘lady of the manner’ act and decide such chores were beneath her.
The red ball of sun in the hazy sky was just brushing the tips of the trees lining the river when Father stopped the mower by the gate. Annie stood the last bundle into her stook and trudged toward him. The two-acre field was dotted with upright cones of hay placed in wavering lines across the shorn grasses. She caught up to Steve and Evan, falling into step with her brothers. George joined them and they came to a halt where Father sat on the metal seat of the mower. Benny and Bessie stood hip-shot, eyes half-closed, tails swishing at the ever-present flies. It was odd how her father preferred to walk with the horses rather than ride, finding it easier on the body when the iron wheels hit gopher and rabbit holes perhaps.
“Time to call it a day,” Father declared. He clucked to the team and slapped the lines lightly on their rumps. With a jingle of harness and machinery the mower bumped down the grassy lane.
Steve and Evan outpaced Annie with their long limbed hill walker’s gait. Too tired to attempt to keep up, she let them draw ahead of her. She glanced up at George as he matched his stride to hers. He swung the empty water bucket in his hand. The uneven ground and tired muscles conspired to throw her off balance and she took a misstep, lurching a bit and bumping against him. Heat and electricity flared through Annie, she drew back as if she’d bumped into the pot belly of the wood stove. George caught her elbow and steadied her, his face colouring more than the heat and sunburn could account for.
“I’m so sorry,” she managed to say.
He shook his head and released her arm, avoiding her eyes. “Think nothing of it.”
When they reached the bank barn, Father handed George the lines with instructions to unhitch the team and make them comfortable for the night. A pang of sympathy lanced through Annie at the realization he would still have the mower to clean and oil before he would see any supper. Her eyes followed his progress to the barn, one hand resting on Bessie’s broad shoulder as he paced beside the big horses. Even though his shoulders hunched with exhaustion and his gait uneven, somehow he seemed happy.
“Annabelle!” Father growled. “Quit lallygagging about and go help with supper.”
She spun around and hurried to the house to change and wash. Please don’t let Father mention to Mother I was looking at George. I don’t think I can stomach another lecture right now. My belly is touching my backbone I’m so hungry. Annie hurried to the room she shared with two of her sisters and shucked her work clothes, taking them outside to shake the chaff and seed heads out of the long skirts and underskirts once she’d dressed appropriately for supper. Folding them neatly she left them on the clothes press by the wall. Tomorrow was another day.
* * *
Supper was a quiet affair, with everyone too tired to do more than eat. Mother sat primly at the opposite end of the table from Father looking like she was presiding over high tea. She appeared fresh as a daisy in spite of the fact she’d been adding rennet to the current batch of cheese for most of the afternoon. Annie rose when the men wandered off to take their leisure. In no time flat she had the table cleared. Piling them in the dry sink, she took the bucket from under the wooden frame and went toward the back door heading for the well in the yard.
“Annabelle!”
She stopped short at Mother’s summons and turned. A tin bucket covered with a square of cloth was thrust into her hands.
“Since you’ve got to go out anyway, take this out to the workers bunked in the barn. Mind you don’t dawdle and don’t be fraternizing with that orphan boy. You’re better than that, child. Heavens, the boy’s an orphan and came over as a Doctor Barnardo boy, who knows what he picked up on the streets of Liverpool. Or on the ship.” Mother shuddered genteelly and gave her daughter a push. “Get along with you, girl. Mind you stay away from the younger brother as well. You hear me?”
“Yes, Mother.” Annie hooked the water bucket over her arm and held the pail with the workers’ bait against her side. Might as well deliver the food first, she reasoned. The three hired men must be hungry. Thank the good Lord the others who lived nearer went home at night. Dusk deepened to a darker twilight, a warm spread of buttery yellow spilled out the part-open door of the barn.
“Hello!” Annie hesitated, not wanting to walk in on something she shouldn’t be seeing. “I’ve brought supper.”
Amos’ grizzled face peered around the door before he swung it open. “C’min, c’min, lass.” The stocky Irishman grinned at her and waved her into the dim interior. “There’s a crate over to the wall where you can put that there bucket.”
She moved carefully over the straw and hay strewn floor. The rich summer scent of fresh cut hay hung in the close air. It was slightly cooler now the sun was down, but the heat lingered in the sultry night. Annie set the tin pail on the crate and turned to go.
Her breath caught in her throat when her gaze fell on the long lean muscles of George’s back as he sluiced water over his head. The moisture gleamed in the lamplight, the waistband of his trousers black where the water soaked them. He raised his head, eyes wide like a startled deer. Snatching a ragged towel from a nail in the beam beside him, he held it to his chest like a shield.
“I’m sorry, Miss Baldwin. I had no idea you were here. Please don’t mind me.” The Adam’s apple bobbled in his throat.
“Of course,” she managed to stutter, tearing her gaze from his wiry frame. His ribs were visible; it was painfully obvious he could use more meat on his bones. Why Father feeds his dogs better. A wave of shame washed over her, although she had no say in how anyone was fed. “I brought supper.” She waved an awkward hand toward the cloth covered pail. “I must…I must go…” Without lingering further, she hurried into the night.
The pale light of the half-moon allowed her to pick her way to the well without too much trouble. She drew the oak bucket up by the windlass and dumped the contents into her own bucket. Letting the empty bucket slip from her fingers she waited to hear it hit the water below with a hollow thump. Her achy muscles complained when she hefted the full bucket and lugged it into the kitchen.
“What took you so long, Annie?” Her older sister Hetty demanded, hands firmly planted on her hips. “You weren’t out there sparking with that orphan English boy were you?”
“No, of course not!” She turned her back and heaved the water bucket onto the flat side of the dry sink.
“There’s no future in it. He doesn’t have a row to hoe except what belongs to someone else. You’ll never get a man to ask for your hand if you ruin your reputation by taking up with the likes of him,” Hetty declared.
“I just took the food out like I was told,” Annie muttered ladling water into the sink. She added soap flakes when it was full enough and started in on the supper dishes, fully expecting her sister to pick up a dishtowel to dry them, it being her turn to do so.
Instead, Hetty sailed out of the kitchen. “Father has things he needs me to attend to,” she called over her shoulder.
Her actions were nothing new, but the ease with which her sister escaped chores still scalded Annie. No sense appealing to Mother, Father’s word was law. No need asking where Rotha was either. She sighed.