up.”
“It’s not that,” Sorcha replied. “Elizabeth died and I’m not up to going to school today.”
“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry! Oh, Sorch…how awful. I know you haven’t wanted to talk about it, but I’m here for you whenever you do.”
“Thanks…same thing goes for you – you know, with Dalton.”
Paula let out a short laugh. “There is no Dalton and never has been. I’m over it, I swear.”
Sorcha secretly thought it was easier said than done, but responded, “Good. He doesn’t deserve you.”
“He’s irrelevant. What’s important are friendships that really exist. I wish I could do something to make you feel better.”
“Time heals all wounds.” Sorcha tried to say it with conviction. “And Elizabeth died two hundred and thirty-six years ago.”
“Too bad to you it feels like yesterday.”
It was yesterday , Sorcha thought. Paula’s empathy was real, but the way she expressed it, the actual wording she used, hinted that no matter how often Paula assured her she believed Enid existed – she didn’t – at least not unequivocally. But that wasn’t fair to Paula and she knew it. Her friend had been nothing but loyal, and look what she’d done: blabbing to Ben yesterday about Paula’s crush on Dalton.
Paula said, “Hey, I gotta go, but you want me to come over after school?”
“No, that’s okay. I think Grammy Fay has plans for me today.”
They rang off, and Sorcha soon discovered that Fay did, indeed, have plans for her. The morning had dawned warm and mild, in stark contrast to the storm that had blown through the day before. After feeding Sorcha a hearty breakfast that Sorcha did her best to eat, Fay dragged her out to the garden greenhouse, a dainty cedar wood and glass structure built against the side of the house. She handed Sorcha a pair of gloves and some snippers and gestured to her prized container rose bushes.
“I think these would look better gracing Elizabeth’s headstone, don’t you?” she asked.
Chapter Eight
Enid
She put the grey dress and black hose on again and walked out to the lone mound of fresh earth as the sun made its appearance in the eastern sky. She felt encapsulated in a bubble of grief that kept the beauty of the sunrise from touching her, but there was too much to do today to dwell on her sadness.
Chores they’d fallen behind on needed attending to, particularly the harvesting of the last of the late apples from the seven trees in her father’s little orchard. Enid enlisted the aid of Sarah and Ezekiel, who picked up the fallen fruit and sorted the rotten ones out to give to the hogs, while she, Aggie and Bess plucked what remained from the branches. Once the apples were stored in the root cellar, they took their mid-day meal.
Enid ate in the kitchen with the children, again attempting to engage them in conversation and again failing to get much out of them.
“Do you know how to read and write?” she asked.
Ezekiel, with his hair a shade or two blonder than his sister after a summer in the sun, shook his head no.
“Do you know your alphabet?” she asked.
Sarah, the eldest by one year, dutifully recited the letters up to ‘J,’ but couldn’t recall the rest. Enid was not surprised. The poorer the household, the less likely the children could be spared from chores to attend school. Not that the village schoolhouse was any great shakes unless you wanted your catechism pounded into you. Enid had gone sporadically, but in the areas of reading, writing and arithmetic she’d relied solely on Sorcha’s education. Thus far, very few of the things Enid had learned to simply survive on a farm in the eighteenth century had been of use in Sorcha’s world.
One of those things was making tallow candles, another chore that had been neglected until the last candle in the house had burnt down to a stub, but one in which the children would be of no help. Enid went up to her room and rummaged through her chest until she
“It’s not that,” Sorcha replied. “Elizabeth died and I’m not up to going to school today.”
“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry! Oh, Sorch…how awful. I know you haven’t wanted to talk about it, but I’m here for you whenever you do.”
“Thanks…same thing goes for you – you know, with Dalton.”
Paula let out a short laugh. “There is no Dalton and never has been. I’m over it, I swear.”
Sorcha secretly thought it was easier said than done, but responded, “Good. He doesn’t deserve you.”
“He’s irrelevant. What’s important are friendships that really exist. I wish I could do something to make you feel better.”
“Time heals all wounds.” Sorcha tried to say it with conviction. “And Elizabeth died two hundred and thirty-six years ago.”
“Too bad to you it feels like yesterday.”
It was yesterday , Sorcha thought. Paula’s empathy was real, but the way she expressed it, the actual wording she used, hinted that no matter how often Paula assured her she believed Enid existed – she didn’t – at least not unequivocally. But that wasn’t fair to Paula and she knew it. Her friend had been nothing but loyal, and look what she’d done: blabbing to Ben yesterday about Paula’s crush on Dalton.
Paula said, “Hey, I gotta go, but you want me to come over after school?”
“No, that’s okay. I think Grammy Fay has plans for me today.”
They rang off, and Sorcha soon discovered that Fay did, indeed, have plans for her. The morning had dawned warm and mild, in stark contrast to the storm that had blown through the day before. After feeding Sorcha a hearty breakfast that Sorcha did her best to eat, Fay dragged her out to the garden greenhouse, a dainty cedar wood and glass structure built against the side of the house. She handed Sorcha a pair of gloves and some snippers and gestured to her prized container rose bushes.
“I think these would look better gracing Elizabeth’s headstone, don’t you?” she asked.
Chapter Eight
Enid
She put the grey dress and black hose on again and walked out to the lone mound of fresh earth as the sun made its appearance in the eastern sky. She felt encapsulated in a bubble of grief that kept the beauty of the sunrise from touching her, but there was too much to do today to dwell on her sadness.
Chores they’d fallen behind on needed attending to, particularly the harvesting of the last of the late apples from the seven trees in her father’s little orchard. Enid enlisted the aid of Sarah and Ezekiel, who picked up the fallen fruit and sorted the rotten ones out to give to the hogs, while she, Aggie and Bess plucked what remained from the branches. Once the apples were stored in the root cellar, they took their mid-day meal.
Enid ate in the kitchen with the children, again attempting to engage them in conversation and again failing to get much out of them.
“Do you know how to read and write?” she asked.
Ezekiel, with his hair a shade or two blonder than his sister after a summer in the sun, shook his head no.
“Do you know your alphabet?” she asked.
Sarah, the eldest by one year, dutifully recited the letters up to ‘J,’ but couldn’t recall the rest. Enid was not surprised. The poorer the household, the less likely the children could be spared from chores to attend school. Not that the village schoolhouse was any great shakes unless you wanted your catechism pounded into you. Enid had gone sporadically, but in the areas of reading, writing and arithmetic she’d relied solely on Sorcha’s education. Thus far, very few of the things Enid had learned to simply survive on a farm in the eighteenth century had been of use in Sorcha’s world.
One of those things was making tallow candles, another chore that had been neglected until the last candle in the house had burnt down to a stub, but one in which the children would be of no help. Enid went up to her room and rummaged through her chest until she
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