Homesick

When Ifan and the farm hands returned for lunch, Annabelle and Mirabelle carefully explained to the farmer and his wife that they wanted to be more helpful, that they were not afraid of hard work, and that their honor depended on repaying hospitality with contributions to the household. Although he objected at first, the twins had practiced all morning, developing a respectful and compelling argument and dredging up half-remembered vocabulary, and were able to counter his objections. Gwen stayed quiet throughout, but the triumph in her eyes was far more obvious than the relief in her husband’s.

He took Claire, Adolphus, and Annabelle to work in the fields with him, while Mirabelle and the younger children stayed to help Gwen around the house. Bettina had more peas to shell. Her nimble fingers were good for the task, but it was not absorbing work, and left much time for reflection. Gerhardt was hauling buckets of water from a hot spring near the house, and Mirabelle was darning socks, which she did very poorly indeed.

Gerhardt came in with two more buckets, sweating with exertion. He looked around for a sympathetic ear to complain into, and saw that Bettina’s cheeks were wet with tears. He emptied his buckets into the hot water barrel and sat beside her.

“What’s wrong? Are the peas hard to shell?”

“Mama’s peas shell themselves,” she said with a hiccup. She slid her thumbnail along the seam of the pod, and then pushed the peas out with her thumb. They rained down into the bowl in her lap. “Boom,” she whispered.

Gerhardt smiled. “And Chef won’t have Mother’s self-shelling peas in his galley, because they’re not natural, he says. I think he doesn’t like to be startled. You never know when they’re going to go off.”

He took her hands in his and massaged her thumbs.

“I miss them too,” he said.

“She’s not like Mama.” Bettina looked at Gwen, who was fussing over what appeared to be a box of straw. It was a tall box, coming up to Bettina’s chin. The farm wife had been fussing with it all morning, adjusting whatever was in the straw, and moving it around the floor so that it was always in the sunniest patch.

“No one is like Mother,” Gerhardt agreed. “Or Father, either. They’ll come, you know. We just need to stay alive until they do.” He peeked at Gwen. “I don’t know if I like her.”

“He’s nice though,” Mirabelle said from across the room.

Gwen’s large red head jerked in Mirabelle’s direction, then looked at the younger children. She spoke to Mirabelle.

“She wants that barrel filled, Gerhardt, and the peas finished.” Mirabelle looked at the jumble of thread in her hands. “Say, Gerhardt, how are you at darning socks?”

“Better than that.”

“Excellent. Show me where the hot spring is. I need a walk.” She threw down the sock and fetched the buckets. “Chin up, Bettina. If we can hold out a few days longer, I’m sure Father and Mother will find us.” She ruffled her sister’s ringlets and followed Gerhardt out of the hedge house, Gwen watching them.