Don Gutteridge - Vital Secrets

Hatch tried to smile his gratitude. “And you count yourself among the moderates,” he said.

“I do,” Marc said with some conviction. “It’s taken me a while, and I’m still learning, but I’ve come a long way, I think, in less than two years.”

“And we all know it.”

Marc was well aware whom the “all” was meant to include.

“But Winnifred’s luck hasn’t changed,” Hatch continued glumly. “Last Friday, Thomas was chopping wood out behind the house and damn near sliced off his left hand. Dr. Barnaby had to stitch it together like a rip in a glove. He’s got it wrapped in a great bloody bandage, with a splint on his wrist to keep him from using the hand for anything. He can’t even pick up a spoon to stir his tea with it.”

This was more serious than Winnifred’s political leanings, Marc thought.

“The man has chopped a thousand cords of wood in his lifetime. But he’s exhausted and worried to death,” said Hatch. “Fatigue will lead to such accidents.”

“Thank God for Barnaby,” Marc said. Charles Barnaby was a semi-retired army surgeon who lived across from the Durfee Inn but kept a surgery in Cobourg several days a week or whenever it was needed in emergencies.

“He’s a splendid gentleman. They don’t come any better than Barnaby. In fact, you won’t get to see him tomorrow because he’s been in and out of his surgery since the fracas last Thursday night-setting bones and lecturing the participants on their foolishness. I lent him my cutter and Percherons on Saturday so he could transfer some of the wounded home, if necessary.”

“I wondered why I didn’t see them in the barn.”

“That pair can haul a sled through anything. And we’ve had a bundle of snow this winter. The drifts are six or seven feet in the bush.”

Hatch yawned. There was little time left. Marc cleared his throat to ask what had to be asked.

“Beth is fine,” Hatch said suddenly. “She nursed Aaron night and day all through January, and for a while there we were very concerned for her own health-”

“But she’s-”

“Fine now, as I said. As soon as Aaron began to regain his strength, she did, too. And since Thomas became helpless last week, Aaron’s been strong enough to chop firewood and help Winnifred and Beth with the chores in the barn.”

“Has she-”

“Ever mentioned you? Not by name. But you’ve come up in the general conversation several times this winter, and Beth’s been an avid listener. I’m sure she knows how much you’ve changed and that you still love her. But-”

“There’s always a ‘but,’ isn’t there?”

“But she’s just been too busy with Aaron and with the problems of the farm to turn her attention to her own future. You know how faithful she can be to a task she feels is important, and how selfless she is when it comes to helping those who need it.”

Marc nodded.

“Even if she is a Congregationalist.” Hatch smiled. “What I’m trying to say is, I think you’ve come at the right time to make your pitch.”

“Let’s hope she feels the same way,” Marc said.

But how far could he hope? How far did he deserve to?

Marc was awakened slowly and luxuriously by the mid-morning sun slanting across the counterpane. By the time he had completed the most rudimentary toilet and donned the scarlet, green, and gold of an officer of the 24th Regiment of Foot, the Hatches’ dining-room was well warmed by the fire in the wood-stove and suffused with breakfast aromas: bacon, frying eggs and potatoes, and fresh-baked biscuits. The chores had been completed: cows milked, fed, and watered; stalls mucked out; hens relieved of their night’s labour; kindling chopped; and the day’s supply of firewood lugged indoors. Marc tried not to look abashed when he was greeted by the household as if he were the prodigal son being treated to the fatted calf.

“Sit down, lad, and dig in,” Hatch said as he settled into his captain’s chair, then took Mary by the hand to stop her fussing with Marc’s plate and utensils, and eased her down to her own place next to him. Susie arrived promptly with a steaming platter of food.

“I apologize for sleeping so late,” Marc said.

“Nonsense,” Hatch said. “You’ve got a difficult day ahead of you, eh?”

Marc acknowledged the reference to the task at hand with a tight smile.

“How is the babe this morning?” Marc asked Mary.

“He’s as healthy as his papa,” Mary said.

Suddenly Marc felt his heart lurch. Seeing Erastus Hatch, so long a widower and so lonely just a year ago, happy and at ease here in his home made Marc realize how badly he wanted to change his own life, and how much depended on what might happen or not happen in the next few hours. He decided that he would need to take a long walk and consider carefully what he might possibly say to Beth that would make a difference. He knew also that he needed an hour or so to regain the courage he had imagined for himself when he had played out the reconciliation scene with Beth at least a hundred times since last summer.

Hatch was halfway through his request for more bacon when he was interrupted by the sound of the back door opening and closing. Susie Huggan set down a plate and hurried to answer the door. Seconds later she reappeared with a big grin on her face.

“It’s our neighbour,” she cried, “and she’s brung us a basket of duck’s eggs!” Susie stepped aside to reveal both the visitor and her gift.

It was Beth Smallman. She glanced at the figures seated around the table, and stopped when she came to Marc.

The basket fell to the floor, and the duck eggs with it.

“ so, you’re in our neighbourhood again-scoutin’ hogs and whatnot?” Beth said with that touch of colloquial teasing in her voice that Marc found irresistible. She was alluding to his visit the year before and to his rather inept attempt to pass himself off as an assistant quartermaster. The “whatnot” suggested that she knew full well the true purpose of his abrupt arrival this time.

“And duck’s eggs,” Marc said, “when they’re not broken.”

“Things’ve changed a lot here since last June.”

“Little Eustace, you mean, and Winnifred and Thomas?”

“I think you know what I mean,” Beth said.

They were walking slowly northward along the snow-packed path that linked the miller’s house with the Smallmans’. It meandered its way more or less beside the frozen creek on their left and the cleared ground on their right. The snow was so deep that no stubble showed through from the fall’s meagre harvest. Only uprooted, charred stumps marked the crude outlines of pasture and wheat field.

“Fewer pigs and more radicals?” Marc said, struggling to keep the tone of the conversation light. It felt so good just hearing Beth’s voice once again that he found himself torn between wanting the dialogue to continue at any cost and the fear that one wrong turn in its progress would kill it outright. And her physical presence here beside him-their footsteps in lazy unison, the breeze crisp and clean in their faces, the sound of their voices the only sound anywhere, the delicate frost of her breathing mingled with his own-left him so intoxicated that he was sure to blurt out some foolishness or other. He was tempted to reach over and take her elbow, as a proper gentleman should, but he dared not.

“Winn an’ Thomas had to keep what grain they took off last fall to feed the oxen, the three cows, and our pigs.”

“Erastus told me about their troubles.”

“They haven’t had it worse than any others in the township.” Marc caught the edge in her voice, but when he glanced over, she was staring resolutely ahead.