Ch. 168 Garrick likes Horses

Chapter 168: Garrick likes Horses

Aurelia chose a brown mare.

The mare chose the groom’s pocket.

By the time we reached the stable yard, both appeared satisfied with the arrangement.

Tessa stood beside them, tightening a strap.

“Does she bite?” I asked.

“The horse?” Tessa said.

Aurelia looked at her.

I decided to examine the saddlebags.

The supplies had already gone through to Northwatch.

Salt and lamp oil.

Needles wrapped against damp.

The saw blade fitted between two thin boards so it would not cut through everything beside it.

Ilyen had replaced one requested medicine with a letter asking the local healer several questions. The other she had recognized and supplied, with instructions written large enough to read by poor light.

Tessa had listened to all of it.

Then repeated the instructions back without being asked.

Aurelia carried considerably less.

A change of clothes.

Her comb.

A book Evelyn had found for her.

When I noticed the book, I smiled.

“What?”

“Nothing. I don’t think you’ve taken one on a journey before.”

“I expect there will be evenings.”

There would.

For once, we had made no plans for what she must accomplish during them.

Evelyn came down with the children.

Our son had apparently decided that his two steps entitled him to travel everywhere upright.

Since he could not manage that, my wife was carrying him.

He objected whenever she stopped moving.

Carol watched the horses with solemn attention from Helena’s arms.

Aurelia kissed them both.

Garrick caught her cloak fastening.

She loosened his fingers one at a time.

“You may keep your mother occupied until I return.”

“He has accepted that responsibility already,” Evelyn said.

Aurelia laughed.

Then embraced her.

My wife held on for a moment longer than usual.

“Have a good journey.”

“I mean to.”

We watched them ride toward the gate.

Tessa turned once to say something.

Aurelia leaned closer to hear.

Then they were gone beyond the yard.

I remained beside Evelyn.

After a while, she touched my hand.

“You’re waiting.”

“For what?”

“I don’t think you know.”

I looked at the empty archway.

She was right.

Usually, when Aurelia left our sight, some part of my attention followed.

Was she tired?

Had the connection weakened?

Would she be able to return?

This time, she had gone riding with a friend.

I drew a breath.

“Breakfast?”

“Please.”

Garrick reached toward the gate.

Apparently he had preferred the horses.

Abigail found us before we reached the stairs.

She had a folded sheet tucked into her sleeve and the expression of someone who had rehearsed an explanation.

“I can come back.”

Evelyn shifted Garrick to her other arm.

“Walk with us.”

Abigail did.

For several paces, she said nothing.

Then she held out the paper.

“We need another teacher.”

I glanced at the sheet.

There were names.

Beside them, days.

Some had little marks against them.

“More children?”

“Yes. But that isn’t all.”

We spoke in the small dining room.

Abigail accepted tea.

She did not touch it until Evelyn pushed the cup closer.

“The older children are helping,” she said. “Some are very good at it. But they miss their own lessons when I keep asking them to listen to the little ones read.”

“How often?” Evelyn asked.

Abigail looked down.

“Too often.”

I unfolded the paper fully.

She had divided the pupils according to what they could do.

Read a passage without help.

Form letters.

Count beyond the sums they knew by memory.

There were children older than some of the confident readers who were still struggling to recognize their own names.

“Their ages won’t give us useful groups,” Abigail said.

“No,” Evelyn replied.

“And the evening lessons?”

Abigail hesitated.

I thought of Rona sitting beneath the lamps, working carefully over her aunt’s name.

“They’re going well,” she said. “That is part of the difficulty.”

We visited the long room that morning.

A small boy near the door was attempting to write his name with enough pressure to go through the slate.

Two girls shared a book.

At the far table, an older child explained a sum while watching Abigail over his shoulder.

She noticed.

“Finish your own work, please. I’ll come.”

He nodded at once.

Too quickly.

Evelyn watched him bend over his slate.

Then she looked at me.

We had furnished the room.

Made it warmer.

Brought in benches that did not rock.

I had been pleased with how much we had accomplished.

Across the room, Abigail was being asked three questions at once.

Mary had a name for us by afternoon.

“Lysa?” I asked.

“Merrowden’s clerk is rather far away.”

“Then which name?”

“Della Marr.”

She put a letter on the table.

“Widow. Two children, both grown. She kept accounts for a grain merchant in Westmere and taught his younger apprentices to read the weights and entries.”

“Has she taught children?”

“Her own. Several neighbours’. She asked about work when she came here.”

“What is she doing now?”

“Keeping the linen tallies.”

Evelyn looked toward the door.

“Does Helena know we may be about to steal someone?”

“I told her.”

“And?”

“She asked whether the school would like all the linen as well.”

Della arrived the next morning.

She was a broad woman with greying hair and a small burn on the back of one hand.

She had brought a slate.

I liked that before she said anything.

Then she looked from me to Evelyn.

“I’ve never taught in a proper school.”

“Neither had I when I began,” Abigail said.

Della turned toward her.

That helped more than anything I could have offered.

They spent the next half hour discussing children who guessed words from their first letters, numbers written backward, and the difficulty of finding enough daylight after supper.

I understood perhaps half of it.

Evelyn asked questions.

Mary wrote down what Della would need to leave her present work.

At last, Abigail asked whether she would spend the morning in the long room.

Della rubbed her thumb along the slate’s edge.

“Yes. I would like that.”

I went back near midday.

Della sat beside the boy who had been trying to break his slate.

He had three wooden counters in front of him.

She gave him two more.

He counted them.

Then she took one away.

He frowned.

“Where did it go?”

“I’ve bought an apple.”

“With my counter?”

“With one of your pennies.”

“It isn’t a penny.”

“No. That would make these lessons expensive.”

He considered that.

Then counted again.

At the other end of the room, Abigail was reading with the older children.

For the first time that morning, nobody was waiting beside her chair.

We offered Della wages for regular mornings, with time to finish handing over the linen accounts.

She asked for the amount to be repeated.

Mary did.

Della looked at Abigail.

“Even while I’m learning?”

“You will be working while you learn,” Evelyn said.

Della folded her hands.

There was a long pause.

Then she said, “I’ll need someone to show me where you keep the books.”

Abigail smiled.

“Come with me.”

After they left, I looked at Mary.

“How much linen trouble have we caused?”

“Your mother-in-law has already selected a replacement.”

“Of course she has.”

Aurelia returned on the fifth evening.

She appeared in the passage carrying her saddlebags and a covered dish.

I had just come out of the nursery.

For a moment, we looked at one another.

Then she smiled.

“Am I late?”

“For supper?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Good.”

She lifted the dish slightly.

“I was told this should be eaten warm.”

I took it from her.

It smelled of onions and something baked beneath a thick crust.

“How was the journey?”

“I shall tell you after I’ve changed.”

Then she walked toward her room.

I stood in the passage holding supper.

She had left the mare with Tessa at Northwatch.

“The groom knows,” she told me when we sat down. “Before you begin arranging a search.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

Evelyn glanced at me.

“I might have asked.”

Aurelia served herself potatoes.

Then began telling us about the road.

The first night’s lodging had been comfortable.

The second had involved a mattress she described with remarkable politeness.

There had been sleet.

A wheelwright had mended a pack saddle.

The woman who sent the cheese was named Hanne.

She was small, sharp-eyed, and had inspected every needle before expressing satisfaction.

“Did she remember the old bridge?” I asked.

“Very well. She remembers being frightened of the gaps between the boards.”

“And the drying shed?”

“Gone.”

Aurelia took another mouthful.

“There is a mill there now. A boy showed me how they lift the sacks.”

“Did they know who you were?” Evelyn asked.

“Tessa introduced me.”

“How did that go?”

Aurelia set down her fork.

“Awkwardly, at first.”

I waited.

“Hanne tried to stand. Her knees troubled her. I asked her to remain seated.”

“And?”

“She informed me that she was standing to fetch another plate.”

Evelyn laughed.

“So I moved out of her way,” Aurelia said.

After supper, Hanne’s grandson had asked whether a goddess could repair a cracked tooth.

Aurelia had examined it.

She had helped with the pain, and left instructions for a healer to look at the damage.

Then Hanne had asked whether she could peel turnips.

“Could you?” I asked.

“Yes, Uriah.”

“Successfully?”

Aurelia reached for the bread.

“I was permitted to remain for supper.”

Later, she brought out a folded drawing.

The mill boy had made it.

There was a river.

A wheel.

Three figures beside a building with a chimney almost as tall as its roof.

One of the figures had a circle around its head.

“The miller?” I asked.

“Myself, apparently.”

“What are you holding?”

“A sack.”

Evelyn leaned closer.

“He’s drawn your cloak.”

“He was very particular about it.”

Aurelia smoothed the paper.

At the bottom, the boy had written his name.

The letters climbed toward the edge.

She asked Evelyn whether she knew how to flatten a crease without damaging them.

My wife went to fetch a board.

When the others had gone, Aurelia remained by the fire.

I sat across from her.

The journey had brought colour to her face.

Or perhaps it was the fire.

“Did you find anything you remembered?”

“A bend in the river. The hill above the mill.”

“Was that difficult?”

“For a little while.”

She rested her hands in her lap.

“Then Hanne wanted to know whether I took more gravy.”

I smiled.

Aurelia looked toward the covered dish on the side table.

“She packed that before I left. Said the people at home ought to have some.”

The people at home.

I let the words settle.

“We did appreciate it.”

“I told her you would.”

Upstairs, Evelyn was waiting beside the nursery door.

Our son had walked again that afternoon.

Three steps this time.

I had missed them.

“He was trying to reach Helena’s sewing basket,” she whispered.

“A dangerous ambition.”

“She moved it.”

“And he stopped?”

“He sat down and shouted.”

I peered into the nursery.

Both children slept.

Carol had one foot outside her blanket.

I tucked it back beneath the wool.

When I straightened, Evelyn slipped her hand into mine.

From farther down the corridor came the soft sound of Aurelia opening her wardrobe.

A drawer closed.

Then footsteps.

She appeared carrying the boy’s drawing and the board Evelyn had found.

“Would either of you have a spare ribbon?”

My wife smiled.

“What colour?”

“Anything will do.”

Evelyn drew her into our room to look.

I followed them.

Behind us, the nursery door remained open a little way, so we could hear the children.