Helena awoke to find herself surrounded by her abductors in the warm kitchen of a humble farmhouse. Captain Brigand pressed a flask of brandy to her lips, forcing the burning liquid to spark her wits to clarity. “We have no time to nurse the nurse,” he explained. “Do what you can for our Tom.”
Helena turned to the wounded man, laid out upon a wooden bench. She realized at once that Tom was but a frightened boy, scarcely older than she.
She requested a blanket, boiled water, and a linen sheet cut into strips for bandages. Then Helena gently pulled away Tom's shirt, soaked with blood. The bullet had missed his heart, for the hole was somewhat lower on his chest. He flinched as her fingers probed the spot to discover that indeed the bullet was within him still and lodged between two ribs.
“He'll need brandy,” said Helena.
Joseph understood. He urged Tom to swallow several times. Helena worked swiftly; slipping her fingers beneath the flesh, she seized the bullet and pulled it sharply out of its trap.
Tom uttered a cry and then fainted dead away. She cleansed the tear again and wrapped it carefully, knowing she had done her best.
“I am not a real nurse,” Helena reminded the men. “You must find a doctor to dress the wound properly.”
“We have no doctor hereabouts to trust,” said Harry gruffly, touching the scar upon his own cheek.
“Send a fellow for some salve, at least,” she pleaded. “And be sure to change the dressing twice each day.”
“You'll be here to do that for him,” said Harry. “We cannot release you now.”
Helena bowed her head in an effort to smother her dismay.
While the brothers conferred with their compatriots in the next room, Helena hurried to the window, hoping to discover other dwellings nearby. Alas, the farm was on a hillside with no evidence of humanity in sight.
“Feather will go,” said Joseph, entering the kitchen with their fifth man at his side. “Tell him what you'll need to prepare our supper, too.”
Helena laughed. “Surely you do not think I am a cook as well as a nurse?” she said. “Who has cooked for you until now?”
“Young Tom.”
Helena laughed again. “It is your misfortune that you abducted an earl's daughter,” she said. “There is truth in the saying that a rich woman is a useless one. I have always had servants. I do not know how to cook.”
At that moment, poor Tom whimpered in his sleep and Helena's heart turned over. She realized he would need sustenance if he was to heal.
“Ask the butcher for bones,” she told Feather. “Perhaps together we can make a soup.”
And indeed, several hours later, the men had feasted on a rustic soup, bread, and cheese. Tom had revived enough to join the banter and to grasp his nurse's hand in thanks.
'Twas past midnight before the house was quiet and the men at rest. Helena had volunteered to sit beside the patient in case he should need her. He appeared to sleep soundly, however, and she knew he would make a full recovery if the bandits continued the treatment as she had instructed them.
Quietly, she tied her green velvet traveling cape about her neck, noticing how worn it looked after only twenty-four hours of adventure. As she stepped outside, she rejoiced in the clear night and looked to the stars for guidance on the next leg of her journey.
Before two minutes' walking, however, there came a shout. She turned to see Tom, waving from the doorway. He hobbled after her, wearing no shirt, his bandages lit by the moon.
“Please!” he called. “Come back!”
Helena thought she could outrun him, but as she watched, Tom stumbled and fell to the ground, where he lay unmoving.
To be continued …
Such a naughty thing I did this afternoon. I learned a trick; during the turn of a Hapless Hyphen to spell, I would grimace suddenly, as if wincing in sympathy at an error made, and thus rattle the speller's concentration and provoke the very error I wished for! I dared not overdo the operation for fear of being noticed, but the Cheering Commas are now leading the race!
As soon as I was home from school, Mrs. Goodhand found work for me.
“We have run low on butter,” she said, and gave me a quart-sized pickling jar full of milk that I might make enough butter to carry us through supper and breakfast. I took it outdoors, thinking to watch twilight descend while I tizzied the jar.
So there I was, shaking about at the garden gate like a girl with fits, and who should happen by on his bicycle?
Tommy Thomas! I must have turned the colour of a stewed tomato. Though I stood rigid in an instant, it took me a full minute to find my tongue.
“Why, Tommy!” (As close to squealing as a trapped mouse). “Where might you be going?”
He peered at me through those bent-up spectacles and then grinned.
“I heard there was a dancing show at the Goodhand farm,” he said. “I came early for a front-row seat.”
“Oh, you!” I pretended to clunk him with the jar of nearly butter.
He had brought his new birthday copy of the Wonderful Wizard of Oz to exchange for my Treasure Island, which I have been performing to much acclaim at lunch recess.
When my milk was transformed, I quickly poured off the buttermilk and rinsed the butter. I added a trickle of carrot juice for colour and served Tommy one of Viola's biscuits smothered in minute-old butter before sending him on his way. I pray the taste erased the sight of me making it!
“Mother,” said Alfred after luncheon, “you've had a difficult time of things and you look a bit peaked. I'm sure Viola wouldn't mind cooking the supper this once. Mable could help. Wouldn't that be a good way to keep her out of trouble?”
Mrs. Goodhand looked us over as if we had just met.
“Well, it might be nice at that, to be treated like a lady in my own home.”
“Have yourself a lazy afternoon,” said Alfred.
“There's a chicken waiting,” Mrs. Goodhand told Viola. “You know where to find the potatoes.”
Alfred winked at me and patted his stomach.
“I've been craving your sister's roast chicken with giblet gravy,” he whispered as his mother left the room.
Another Sunday gone and I did not visit Silver Lining.
“It's best that you stay home,” said Viola. “Nothing good has come from her direction yet.”
The sad truth is, I do not wantto go there. Am I a shivering coward? I cannot bring myself to seek out certain trouble.
Viola thinks I'm sulking, but it's not so simple as that. I am forlorn and thwarted. Like holding a pitcher full of feelings and having nowhere to pour.
I could not wait until Sunday. From school I walked to Mrs. Rattle's cottage despite having to carry my satchel full of books and spelling papers. It was dusk by the time I knocked upon her door.
“Mable Riley! How good to see you! I'm so glad you haven't been frightened off forever. Do come in. We are having an emergency meeting of the, er, Reading Circle.” She laughed and led me into the parlour, where Mrs. Watson and Miss Thomas were seated by the fire.
“Is it wise to have the child here?” asked Miss Thomas.
“She has shown us where her heart lies, has she not?” said Mrs. Rattle.
My heart, though, was heavy. On my journey there, I had imagined for us a reunion of great warmth, perhaps even giddiness. I had pictured us in an embrace of tearful rejoicing. We would drink lemonade out of crystal glasses and pop corn over the fire. I had forgotten she is a woman occupied with serious matters. She has no time for schoolgirl fancies. Thankfully, she could not read my mind and would not suspect my foolishness. I blush to think!
I bid myself to sit and pay attention to the conversation. And what should I discover but a plot for rebellion against the Bright Creek Cheese Company.
“There has recently been a strike at the Penning garment factory in Toronto, where the girls were going blind from sewing in bad light every day for twelve or fourteen hours,” explained Miss Thomas. “They stopped work for over two weeks, and finally the foreman agreed to hear their points.”
“Francis Forrest will not be expecting a rebellion from his brow-beaten girls,” Mrs. Rattle was saying. “We will have the advantage of surprise at least.”
My face must have expressed some of the distress I felt.
“Mable, you look as though you have something to say.”
“You may not want to hear it,” I said. “I know your complaints are justified, but my sister and I are boarders on the Goodhand farm. They have twenty cows and they sell their milk to Bright Creek.” I took a breath and rushed on. “No one should have to work as hard for so little pay as the girls. But it's not the farmers who should be punished. The Goodhands depend on the Forrests' factory. If work is disrupted there, it is they who will suffer. The milk will sour and they will lose custom. The farmers will be angry, not sympathetic to your cause.”
I had never said so much before. The ladies stared at me and then at one another.
“It's good you see more than one perspective, Mable Riley,” said Mrs. Rattle. “That is a sign of a maturing mind. All that you say is true, though we hope to have the farmers' support once they understand the situation. Sometimes we must perform a small wrong in order to do a great right. That is our justification. We are working toward a very great right.”
Ambler's Corners
November 7, 1901
Oh, Mable!
Quel scandale! How daring of you to cause a scene! Fancy entering a shouting match with a lady from the church committee! This is not the Mable I remember. Your sister must have wished to throttle you! Or drag you off to the doctor with suspicion of a brain fever! I hope you have recovered your reason by now and have returned to being the sensible Mable I know and love.
Though sensible does not describe your literary sketches, either! Where do you summon your ideas?! Our heroine digging out bullets and touching naked chests and whatever next?! Is your life catching up with your story or else the other way around?
Your spelling bees sound quite the entertainment.
Though you will not like me to say so, I think it might do you good to rely upon a team for your triumphs. There are times when humble pie should be digested. My news is quite tame. I received top marks in algebra (since you are not here to steal that spot) and a commendation for my report in French.
Jimmy Fender is carrying my books home from school each afternoon. There, I've told you! Please do not be jealous or try to win him back.
Your friend,
Hattie
P.S. If you smell this, do not imagine I have started to smoke. My brother put the writing paper into an empty cigar box my father has finished using.
I wish I had not told Hattie anything about the Harvest Social or Mrs. Rattle. She has made it all sound so sordid and silly. And as if I'd care about Jimmy Fender!
Good news: Dottie Blau was ill to-day! And Cathy Forrest not present, of course, thanks to the evil lurking in Miss Riley's schoolhouse. The Commas maintained our (slight) lead. If I were wicked, I should feed Dottie a bowlful of castor oil next Thursday evening!
One of Tommy's words was beautiful, and he looked right at me while he spelled it (correctly)! I was certainly crimson-faced and dared not look his way again until dismissal. Poor Tommy would never win a blue ribbon for Best Looking, but he certainly is more clever and fun than anyone else.