Of Needles and Haystacks by Ann Fryer (the beginning after the end novel read TXT) 📕

He gave a slight nod.

“Might I see the receipts again?” I wanted to fix this jumble. Restore some peace that had flown out the windows like a stray dove.

“Miss Trafton, I beg you for privacy. Conversation closed.” No room for discussion. He began to unbutton his shirt, and I swirled around with burning cheeks. But not before I’d seen the solid breadth of muscles beneath.

I left in flame and confusion. Attic dust smeared across my black skirts and sleeves. Some say that black never shows dirt. That’s a falsehood. I believe it shows more.

When Aunt and I walked to town later, I tried to ignore the mental constraints of the day and have friendly conversation. But we each lugged large baskets of linen-wrapped butter meant to be sold at the mercantile. Talking was difficult. I tripped twice. The second time, one package went rolling ahead and ended with a splash in a puddle.

Aunt simply shook it off and placed it back into the basket. “We’ll use that one ourselves.” Simple solution.

I wondered why Uncle did not offer to drive us in the wagon? I couldn’t help but wish that he were as genteel as my father had been. Perhaps one cannot be both a gentleman and a farmer.

I decided to avoid butter over the next week...or at least dip from the center. I would have used my coin to pay for the butter and avoid this shopping trip altogether.

Buying farm boots actually means buying work boots. Mine, I suspect, are meant for helping Helen and Kirsten in the vegetable garden. I can’t think of anything more despairing than bending to pluck beans in smothering heat while wearing heavy boots.

I do like beans, but at what cost do we enjoy them? Mother always bought everything from the market stalls and mercantile. Perhaps I should spend my last dollars on canned beans and save us the pain.

My mood was doleful. I must admit, I don’t want to be told to work, or what to work upon. I wished my moments to be of my own design. When to wash and iron, when to start the bread dough, and when and if to pluck those beans. I am lazy and proud. Is the world’s purpose captured within a bean? To work and eat and work again?

Lovely Mrs. MacDonald at Cedar Gate—her dashing figure and fine home—her life is not mine, but at least we can empathize with each other’s losses and grief. Yet my inheritance in no way compares. I imagine she does not own a pair of these sturdy boots that now weigh heavy upon my ankles. Ernest said I should wear them around the house to help break them in.

Uncle looked proud when I strapped them on. “Now you are a true farm girl!” As if putting them on had been a good work in itself. I suppose it is a step in the right direction. I thought of mother’s dainty ankles shackled by such as these and laughed aloud. She must have worn them! And this gives me pause. If she wasn’t too good for them, who was I to complain?

“Foals’ comin’!” Little Ruby yelled through the back door.

Aunt sent me a troubled look when I followed the rest of the children to the barn to watch the birthing. I hadn’t a clue what I was in for. The children remained silent as if in church. I held my handkerchief over my nose. Mr. Bleu rolled his eyes at me while Ernst, brows knit, worked with swift, sure hands. Minutes passed and finally, Uncle gave gentle directions as they helped the mare birth by pulling its forelegs together in one great haul. They tore the sack away from its face and body— my goodness, the smell!

The shimmering new life made the children smile. I became ill. Ironic how Mr. Bleu seemed completely unaffected by all the...mess. Ernest’s accident sent him tottering over some unseen edge, yet this...

Ernest swept the afterbirth into a wheelbarrow while Mr. Bleu briskly rubbed down the mare. My stomach clenched. I ran to the opposite fence. No one seemed to notice me except for Aunt who kindly placed a cup of mint tea in my hands. At day’s end, I was able to laugh with the children while the foal tottered around its mother sniffing for milk.

We are to have several more days such as this, but I’m told not be surprised if I wake to find a foal already born without any assistance. I think this must be the best way. Ernest and Mr. Bleu will sleep in the barn and keep watch. On hand, just in case. I can’t imagine what might go wrong with horses in labor.

This was the perfect time to climb back into the attic and look for those receipts. How foolish I was to give them back to Mr. Bleu—so thoughtless. Now I tempted myself to sneak among a family whose trust I desired more than anything else. Would I be stealing if I took them? If they belonged to my father once, didn’t they belong to me now?

After waiting two, long hours, no sound was heard save the distant tick of the mantle clock. I stood at my door, candlestick in hand ready to do mischief, hesitating at every instant. Just when I lay my hand on the door knob, light footsteps trotted past to the attic stair.

I sank into bed, relieved that I had been prevented. Sweet, sweet relief! What had possessed me? Maybe Father’s private business matters should remain his alone. I snuggled into bed. Ignorance is bliss—at least that’s what everyone says.

Along those lines, I wish I’d remained ignorant of Chess’s supposed inclination towards me. Why should he discuss this with Ernst? Suppose the MacDonald family desires more property? Well. I won’t be won over by all the scheming that happens around me.

I’ll apologize to Mr. Bleu, tend to strawberries, and stick to sewing. Move along quietly, owner or not. This