Chapter One

M id-September 1809

Papa was a man of his word, if not a particularly successful tenant farmer. “Aye, Squire Banford, I’ll have the oats in before the weather changes, just like me father and his father before him.”

He did, enlisting Mary Cooper, his daughter, plus other field hands to scythe and winnow. When all was done to his satisfaction, tenant farmer Cooper on the Banford estate lay down and died.

Mary never knew what caused his death, beyond a stomach complaint. There was no money for a doctor. Like many of his social sphere––non-existent––Frederick Cooper was not a man to rail against fate; he didn’t put up a struggle. Besides that, Mary knew how much he missed Mama.

She sat beside her father’s bed a long while, aware that her days were numbered in the crofter’s cottage where she was born. She was also aware that she would soon have no home, no prospects, nothing. Because of this, she continued her vigil until morning, then gave herself a shake. Perhaps it was a reminder that she was alive, and full of fortitude, even if no one knew it except her.

She straightened Papa’s nightshirt and brought the blanket up to his neck, because she couldn’t bear to cover his face. She sat a moment more, then felt her resolve return. She searched their cottage and found one sheet of paper, torn in half. She smoothed the edges, then found her prized possession, a drawing pencil.

“I won’t forget you, Papa,” she told him as she sketched his peaceful form, “but I do know that after a few years, the memory dims. I need your image.”

She had done all she could for her father. Now it was time to notify Squire Banford, knowing what would happen to her when he knew her father was dead, and had no son to follow in the work of the land. True, she helped around the estate whenever needed, but it wasn’t the same as having a son.

Outside, she raised her face to the sun, equally aware that the harvest was over and winter on its way. She felt the smallest edge of the season’s change, knowing that next week might bring falling leaves. She had an instinct about trees and small animals, and when it was time to fly away, burrow in, or shed.

It was a short walk to the manor. She was used to walking. What will I do? she asked herself. She stared up at the squire’s manor and her courage nearly failed her––nearly but didn’t, Mary reminded herself as she walked around to the servants’ entrance and knocked.

She told her story simply to the housekeeper, who ushered her in, sat her down, and provided tea. She sent word to the squire, then handed Mary a cleaning cloth and pointed to a row of knives. She set to work polishing, noting the housekeeper’s nod of approval.

“Do you have any family around here?” the housekeeper asked.

“No, mum,” Mary said, and couldn’t overlook the worry-frown on the woman’s face.

When the knives sparkled and Mary had started on the spoons, the butler signaled for her to follow him upstairs. Her own unease increased when the housekeeper had a whispered word with the butler, who shook his head. Mary heard, “Too many here as it is,” and she knew there wasn’t a place for her in the squire’s household, even though her father had been raised on the estate and Coopers had farmed here for three generations.

She had never been upstairs. She kept her eyes down as she followed the butler through the immaculate corridor and into the squire’s bookroom. Before the butler left, Squire Banford told him to get some men to help at the cottage. With a sinking feeling, she knew when she returned home, Papa would be gone.

The squire didn’t say anything for a few minutes. He finished some work on his desk, then looked up. “Mary, I am sorry for your loss,” he said. “Fred Cooper was a good and loyal worker.” He didn’t smile, but his eyes were sympathetic, to her relief, which gave her the smallest, tiniest hope. “He never said much. Not a waster of words, he.”

She nodded. Papa was a man of few words––even fewer after Mama died––who worked with his hands and not his mouth. When he dispensed praise, Mary never forgot it.

His expression changed and she braced herself for the worst. “Mary, there is no place for you on my estate now,” he said. “What with the war on, times are tough all around.”

N ot in your house , she thought, but not with any rancor. She knew her place well enough. She said nothing, and made herself look him in the face. I won’t beg , but please, Squire, please .

She knew her greatest fear was unvoiced, but the squire seemed to hear it anyway. “Mary, I…I hope I can find a better place for you. No guarantees.”

At least he didn’t say the word poorhouse. “I hope you can, too, Squire Banford.”

“I’ll think on it,” he said, then made a slight shooing motion. “All the same, better pack whatever you wish to take with you. We’ll bury your father tomorrow morning after breakfast. Good day.”

He left unsaid where she would go. Mary gave him a grand curtsey, but the squire had already returned to perusing his ledger and didn’t see it. Other crofters were removing Frederick Cooper when she came home.

When you have nothing except another dress, apron, chemise and your mother’s brush, packing takes no time, particularly if there is nothing to put it in. Mary remembered Papa’s canvas seed bag that he carried over his shoulder during sowing time. Perhaps it belonged to the estate; she decided she didn’t care. Papa’s only possession of any value were his boots, but she had no use for them, and left them beside the now-empty bed. Her clothing went into the seed bag, followed by Mama’s Book of Common Prayer, where she stashed the two small sketches of her parents.

She debated whether to add Shakespeare’s sonnets. Years ago, in a deed uncharacteristic of her, Mama had stolen it from the squire’s library, where she had been sent to dust. It was the book she used to teach Mary to read. No one ever claimed it, but Mary squashed it deep into the seed bag, where it couldn’t possibly be seen. She couldn’t leave it behind.

That was that. She would pack Mama’s teacup tomorrow after her breakfast of toast and water and go…somewhere.

She didn’t expect any of her neighbors to offer her supper and none did. She knew they preferred to ward off death by keeping its closest relatives away, too. She read a page in her sonnets. The sun set and she was in darkness. She cried for Papa one last time, or maybe she cried for herself, since there had been no word from anyone about work.

Papa was buried in the morning at the back of the squire’s large plot. There was space beside Mama, so in he went, wrapped in a winding cloth, fair game soon for worms, which were more ambitious than ashes or dust. The pastor rattled off something about ashes to ashes, and man born of woman. In minutes, she was the only one standing in the plot behind the church.

Where to go? Mary had seldom been off the estate, but she knew the village of Liddiard could be reached by walking east. For years, she had seen people going that way, and now it was her turn.

She slowed down as she passed the squire’s manor, hoping he might send a servant out to invite her in, because they had found a place for her, but no, that was wishful thinking.

Still, the day was warm and the sun shone down on her, which she considered nature’s kindness. The last thing she wanted today was rain.

After a half-hour’s walking, she came to Liddiard––houses closer together, and then a few shops on a single street. There was an inn or public house, a church, a tearoom, and four other businesses. She looked in each window for a placard advertising for workers; no again.

It was then that panic set in. She swallowed and swallowed, uncertain what to do. She had no money. Papa had certainly earned something from his last harvest of oats, but the squire had said nothing about payment. She looked up at the modest spire of St. Andrews––Liddiard was modest in every way––and knew it was time to throw herself on the mercy of the church. She never attended much. She remembered the frowns of other parishioners who assumed they were better––at least better dressed––than her or Mama. Without question, she knew the vicar would send her to the poorhouse.

“No, please, God,” she whispered. “I need something else.” She stopped. It seemed like a wicked thing to ask for. She never asked for anything, because there never was anything. This day, in the deepest part of her heart, she knew there had to be something else.

Mary looked across the street at another store. She looked closer. A simple sign overhead announced, Notions . I’ve had plenty of notions , she thought, wringing wry humor out of a terrible day. None of my notions have got me anywhere .

Was that a placard in the corner of the display window? She crossed the street for a better look. “ Help wanted, but you’d better be useful ,” she read. She couldn’t help a slight smile. “I am useful,” she declared out loud, after looking around to make sure there was no one else in sight. “I never met a more useful human than me.”

She tried the doorknob. Locked. If the sun wasn’t fading from sight, and she wasn’t desperate, she never would have knocked. Nothing. She knocked louder.

Mary cocked her head, listening, and heard a firm tread. “Please, God,” she whispered.

The door opened on an old lady even smaller than she was. “Well? Well?” the woman asked, and none too kindly. “Mostly your sort just knocks, throws dirt clods, and runs away.”

“I would never do that,” Mary said, more forcefully than she should have. “I saw your placard and I…I think I am the help you want.”

The woman looked where Mary pointed. “I should have taken that down years ago. I thought I had. Hmmm. That’s a bit of a mystery.” She glared at Mary as if it were her fault that the sign was there. “I don’t need help.”

“The sign says you do,” Mary persisted. “Whatever it is you need, I can do it.”

“No one visits my store. All I get are arguments and contention when they do.”

What did she have to lose? Mary looked into the store. “I would start by dusting and tidying a bit. Perhaps a better arrangement in the window display.” She turned her attention to the woman herself, whose lace cap was skewed at a strange angle. “You could use some tidying, yourself.”

Before the woman could object, Mary straightened her lace cap. “There now. That’s better. I’d call it a world of difference.”

Obviously no one had spoken to the woman like this before. Mary persisted. “I think you need me.”

“I need someone who can make things beautiful again so people come to my store,” the woman insisted. “I don’t think that’s you. You’re shabby and belong in a poorhouse. Go away.”

P lease, God , Mary thought again, in utter desperation. Please .

“Take this sign with you!” the old woman demanded. She yanked it from the window. “There is nothing beautiful in Liddiard.”

She thrust the sign at Mary Cooper, who had suffered all the indignity she ever wanted. All she had was another dress even more shabby than the one she wore, and a drawing pencil. She took the placard and turned to leave.

As she turned, she noticed the sunset, reminding her all over again how lovely Devonshire could be, when it wasn’t treating her cruelly. She took the pencil from her seed bag, wishing for crayons to do it justice, but possessing none. She turned over the placard and drew the gentle slope of the terrain, and the sun setting behind the church. She smiled to see the River Plym in the distance, a ribbon of water sparkling as the sun reflected and made it dance.

It was only a rough sketch, but her heart started to beat again after the sorrow at Mama’s death and now Papa’s, and the scarcity of everything except worry and want. There now. She had done all she could. She would leave this rough-drawn landscape with the old lady, and keep walking.

“Here you are,” she said, handing it over. “Something to remind you that Liddiard is beautiful. Good day.”

Was there another village farther on? Mary had run out of village here, but she was a good walker. The idea of the poorhouse was as repulsive as ever. She was hungry, but not so hungry that she couldn’t keep walking.

“Wait there, you.”

Her mind already on what lay ahead, Mary stopped in surprise. “Me?”

She stood her ground when the old lady came closer and closer. Her heart softened when she realized that the woman’s eyesight was rudimentary at best. “Yes, ma’am?” she asked, in a kindlier tone, because one old woman was no one to fear.

“Don’t just stand there. Come inside.”

“Why?” Mary asked. “You said you didn’t need any help.”

“Possibly, I was wrong,” the old woman said. “I am Miss Wainwright.”

“I am Mary Cooper.”

“Well, get inside, Mary Cooper!”