Sometimes she’d try to speak out loud to Caleb, to tell him of her life, just as she did with George, but it was never the same. To speak to Caleb carried an unsettling sense of finality. Hardly anyone asked of him in town, knowing what had transpired, but when they did she could only give a glazed smile, wish them well, and excuse herself. The memories of her son and of Prentiss were preserved for things far more valued than casual conversation: a prayer late at night when the loneliness crept over her, when she would pull her knees to her chest and ask God to keep them from harm, wherever they may be. Or sometimes she’d bring them to mind in the morning when she needed that extra push to keep going, to get dressed for the day, to go forth with the pride she demanded of herself and meet whoever was waiting in the field to help with the work there. The boys would want her to carry on living, she thought. So she aimed, by every means, to do just that.
Indeed, she’d had herself a typical day and was exhausted when she returned home one evening to find Mildred on her porch, pacing ceaselessly. She was in her riding wear, black trousers and white gloves, and she faced Isabelle with a fervency much in contrast to the slow pace of the past hour in the forest.
“You are quite dirty, aren’t you,” Mildred said.
“Had to fix the water pump in the morning. I’ve been in the fields ever since.”
“Of course you have. A man dropped by with some turnips and said they were for you.”
Isabelle came up the stairs and Mildred pulled her in for a kiss on the cheek. She could smell Mildred’s sweat and was sure Mildred could smell the soil on her, though neither shirked from the other. The turnips in question were beside the door. Isabelle picked them up.
“It must have been Matthew. He hardly has his own crops in but he told me he’d give me a bit of what his mother was growing over in Campton. A taste of what’s to come on his own land. I didn’t think he’d follow through but he’s kept his word. Will you come in?” Isabelle asked. “I don’t have much to offer but company, unless you want a turnip of course.”
Mildred was already following her through the door.
“You must take better care of yourself,” she said. “You look slight.”
“Without George, I live on not much more than the plants in my own backyard and a few eggs here and there.”
The big room had many of George’s planting books laid out on the table in front of the couch. On a large piece of parchment on the floor she had drawn a map of the land, with names representing the plot she’d given to each person who’d agreed to take it.
“Good Lord, Isabelle, it gets worse by the day.” Mildred shuddered. “We’ll need to get you a maid.”
“I suppose I won’t show you my bedroom, then.”
“Joke all you want, but you’ll come screaming for assistance when vermin are tramping around the place.”
Isabelle lit a candle on the dining-room table, then went to the kitchen and washed her hands and her face before removing her sun hat and returning to the table. She sat down and unlaced her boots and Mildred took a chair beside her. Since George’s death her friend had visited quite a few times, and always they talked late into the night, invigorated by their own private musings, with neither having anywhere to be come morning. Recently Mildred had announced that her son Charlie was getting wed, and it had come as both a shock and a delight, although Isabelle got the distinct sense that Mildred was taking it as a loss—a gesture of abandonment—and so didn’t ask any more about it.
“It’s going well?” Mildred asked, taking her gloves off.
“I’d say so. They need nothing of me and it’s comforting to know I’m not alone out here. Elliot is a friend. I believe we get on. He introduced me to his wife and children. And I’m friendly with Matthew, too.”
“Yet you are alone in your house, miles from town. I don’t like it. What if someone has ill intentions? You don’t even lock the door.”
Isabelle nearly laughed. “Please. I sleep more peacefully than ever.”
“Better than with George?”
“Oh, George is here,” Isabelle said, sighing. “He’s everywhere. He’s in the fields, in the forest. I can’t get rid of him. But much as I begrudge him, I can’t wait to see him each day. No different in that way from when he was alive.”
Mildred stood to resume the pacing that had occupied her on the porch.
“You no longer need to dote on him, you know. You could retire from here. We would be wise to move to Europe, start anew. That was a thought I had. The Italian countryside would welcome us, I’m sure.”