Margaret tied Duchess up outside the healer’s, patting her thigh before grabbing her packages of herbs out of the saddlebags. The familiar bell chimed as she walked in the door. “Good morning, Healer Frederickson,” she said pleasantly.
“Lady Margaret.” He smiled. “What have you brought for us today?”
“About the same as before, but in higher quantities,” Margaret said. “My harvest has been bountiful this time around.”
“Mrs. Fraser has taught you well,” Healer Frederickson said. “We can use all the extra we can get this time of year when all come down with sickness.”
“I have more at home for you; you can get it upon your next visit to my father.”
Healer Frederickson shifted uncomfortably. “Lady Margaret…”
Margaret frowned. She did not like the tone with which he said her name, a pit growing her stomach. “What is it?”
“My lady…in the four years you’ve been here, your father hasn’t gotten any worse,” he said slowly. “He’s even improved enough that he can wheel himself around in his chair. I don’t see a reason to continue our visits; there’s nothing more we can do for him, and you’ve begun making all the draughts at home from your garden.”
“Oh,” Margaret said simply. “Oh.”
“It would be wrong of us to continue taking your money for no work.” Healer Frederickson grimaced. “If need does arise for us, we are happy to come, but it won’t be on a regular basis.”
“I see.” Margaret clutched her hands tightly in front of her. She would not allow herself to tremble in front of him.
“While you’re here, is there anything else we can do for you?”
“No,” she said quickly, her voice wobbling, “no, there’s nothing else I require at the moment.” Margaret stared awkwardly at the healer before finally saying, “A good day to you.”
“And you, my lady,” he returned, nodding.
Margaret left the shop in a hurry. She had looked forward to the healer’s weekly visits to break up the monotony of caring for her father, to talk to someone who could talk back without having to leave her father’s side to do so. Now that was being taken away from her in the name of kindness and saving funds.
She supposed she at least still had her monthly visits to the village to share the spoils of her garden. It was more than she and her father could eat, and the food would only rot if she didn’t share it. He couldn’t say it, but Margaret knew it pleased her father that she did so as well. She delighted in the brightness of his eyes when she told him of her plans, and would not stop as long as they lived in Silvica.
Margaret patted Duchess before she untied her reins and walked her through the village, stopping at a few vendors to parcel out vegetables and herbs from her garden. She took her time to visit with each villager she came across. They told her of their days, children, pets until they had talked themselves out.
Down to her last bit of food, Margaret squatted down to be level with the Widow Dover. She smiled, taking her hands. “How are you today?”
“Well, child,” she said, her voice frail. “I’ve strength yet in these old bones.”
Margaret squeezed her hands. “You do; I can see that. I’ve got some vegetables for your pot.”
“What do you have this time?” Widow Dover asked.
“Some cabbage, carrots, and a few herbs to go with your stew.”
“God bless you, my dear.” She kissed her hands.
“I’ll see you next month, all right?” Margaret said as she stood.
Widow Dover nodded wobbly. “Safe ride.”
Margaret took her time coming back to the cottage. It would be some time before she ventured out again, and she wanted to enjoy it. She closed her eyes as the sun beamed down on her. It was a nice enough day; when she arrived home, she would bring her father out to sun. He would enjoy it as much as she did.
The familiar pinks and purples of the wild lupine in the field leading up to their home came into view, and sadness crept down her spine. Margaret slowed Duchess when she saw the cottage and dismounted. She would walk the rest of the way to cool her mount. When she reached the stable behind the house, she unsaddled her horse and wiped her down. Margaret let Duchess out into the back to graze and filled her trough with water. That should do her for now, and she’d bring her back in before the sun set.
“Papa?” Margaret called when she entered the cottage. She didn’t need to; he never left the cottage when she was gone in case he fell from his chair.
He was in front of the back windows so he could look out and watch what would come out of the forest. Margaret came to his side and kissed his cheek. “Shall we go outside, Papa? The sun is bright, and the breeze is cool.”
He wobbly nodded, and Margaret opened the door before she pushed him out on the back path. Her father let out a sigh and leaned his head back.
Margaret sat on the grass next to him when she found the perfect spot. “Papa, Healer Frederickson has told me that they will no longer be coming on a regular basis. He says you’re doing too well for them to come, and they don’t feel comfortable taking our money for no work.”
Margaret looked down at her hands, letting the silence settle between them. She wiped away the tears that sprang, sniffling. Her father placed a shaky hand on her head and tried to stroke her hair, but his ailment prevented any gentle movement. Despite the comfort he tried to give, it made her feel worse. Margaret covered her face with her hands and took several deep breaths.
Finally, when she calmed herself, she said, “We should prepare to be alone for a long while.”