Page 29 of Sunset at Embthwaite Farm
“He’s sleeping, the wretch,” Jane replied good-naturedly. “After being up for four hours last night.”
“Oh, Jane.” Anna gazed at her in dismay. “Maybe you should take a nap yourself.”
She shook her head resolutely. “I can’t, I’m afraid, once I’m up. Maybe later.”
Anna frowned, because she knew how important the sleep-when-your-baby-sleeps maxim could be…but she was also conscious that it was hardly her place to insist.
“Well, hopefully a cup of coffee will help, then,” she said instead.
“It was so funny,” Jane remarked as she set about making coffee, “how it seemed as if you knew my dad! He explained everything, of course.”
Did he?Anna thought. What, exactly, had he explained? “Yes, that was strange,” she replied after a moment. “We don’t know each other at all, actually. Just saw each other across a crowded room.” And were having a drink together in three days. It wasn’t, Anna felt, her place to mention that fact, and yet she felt uncomfortable intentionally omitting it, because she had a feeling James hadn’t said anything.
“Across a crowded room!” Jane let out a hoot of laughter as she poured boiled water over the coffee granules. “That almost sounds romantic.” She slid Anna a speculative glance, as if daring her to contradict it—or admit it? Anna felt as if she were flailing.
“Well, he obviously cares about you,” she remarked, and Jane nodded, seemingly satisfied, as if Anna had given the right answer.
*
Wereallrelationshipsfraught on some level? Anna wondered when she left Jane’s house for Embthwaite Farm forty-five minutes later. Henry had woken up right as she’d been putting her coat on, and she hadn’t missed the way Jane’s face had fallen.
“He barely slept at all,” she’d muttered, and then tried to rally. “Well, it’s better than nothing, I suppose.”
Anna had promised to pop in when she returned from the farm, but she had a feeling Jane was in for a long, tiring day. And when was Anna going to tell her about her drink with her dad? By not saying anything, it seemed to take on a greater significance than perhaps it had…although to be fair, it was feeling pretty significant to Anna already.
Still, a problem for later, she decided. She had to focus on her own daughters now.
The drive through Mathering and over the moors to Embthwaite Farm was beautiful on this sunlit, January morning, the grass sparkling with frost, the Derwent a winding, grey-blue ribbon in the distance. A few heavily pregnant sheep, looking rather stoical, munched on the icy grass, and Anna smiled to see them.
As she pulled into the farm’s drive, her breath came out in a long, slow sigh. She had no idea what this conversation with her daughters was going to look like. How much they would ask. How much she would tell.
For a second, she simply sat in the car, remembering the first time she’d come to Embthwaite Farm, how she’d fallen in love with it, how she’dwantedto fall in love with it. It was so easy to love things—and people—when your heart was crying out to. Back then, everything had felt like a fairy tale. Peter had been charming, in his admittedly rugged and taciturn way, and he’d been excited to show her the farm. He’d loved her at the start, Anna knew. He’d told her as much, even while confessing his love for another woman.Ruth.The name had always felt like a stone in her mouth, hard and gritty.
She remembered as they’d driven up in his old Land Rover, how the sun had been setting over the hill behind the farmhouse, bathing everything in gold. How when she’d stepped out, the air had felt as fresh as a drink of water, and she’d been able to hear the cattle lowing from the barn, an unfamiliar yet comforting sound.
Inside, admittedly, she’d faltered a bit. Squat, grey, and from the Victorian age, the farmhouse had seemed terribly dreary inside, full of dark, heavy furniture and thick, dusty curtains, faded, aged wallpaper and muddy-looking portraits. But the kitchen had been warm and welcoming, and she’d imagined how she could make it a home. She’d even romanticised its dreariness—she would transform this melancholy pile into something both beautiful and cosy. She’d fashioned herself as the heroine of a Gothic novel, Anna acknowledged wryly. That otherworldly excitement had lasted, for a little while.
The front door of the farmhouse opened, and Rachel poked her head out, frowning. “I could see you from the dining room,” she called. “Are you coming in?”
“Yes,” Anna answered, and shaking her head to banish all the memories, she got out of the car and headed inside the house, her boots crunching across the gravel.
Rachel was waiting for her in the hall, lowering her voice as she confided, “I haven’t told Harriet anything. Just that we need to talk.”
“All right,” Anna replied mildly. She suspected that would be enough to put her younger daughter on high alert. “How’s your dad?”
“The same, really.” Rachel gave an unhappy little shrug. “Sleeping a lot, talking a bit, although I can’t always understand what he says. He only eats about half of what I bring him up on a tray. The nurse upped his pain reliefagain.” She paused and then admitted quietly, “It’s all happening faster than I expected it to, except itisn’t, really. At the beginning, the doctor said three to six months. It’s already been over two.” She frowned unhappily. “But at the beginning…Dad seemed at peace with it. He said he had enough time to get things in order, and that was a—a gift.” Her voice wavered. “But lately, he’s just seemed…angry. Or confused. Or both. Or worse.” Rachel shook her head, blinking back tears.
“A brain tumour can change someone’s personality,” Anna told her gently. “And even if you’re not scared of death itself, I can imagine it’s still frightening to lose your capabilities. To not be able to talk, or to forget where you are…” She felt a rush of pity for her ex-husband, as well as her daughters, having to deal with him like this. He’d always been a proud, stubborn man, secure in how capable and competent he was. To lose all that…it had to be devastating, even if he’d been prepared for it, or at least had thought he was.
“I just…don’t want this to go on forever,” Rachel confessed quietly. “I know it won’t, obviously, but even—even a few more weeks like this feels like too long. I think Dad would want to go—to die, at this point, if he could say so.”
“He might,” Anna agreed. “But remember what he said before? That this time was a gift. It was a gift to him, and it can be to you, as well.” She glanced seriously at her daughter. “This is the time to make peace with your father, Rachel, both you and Harriet. And love him for who he was, not who we all wanted him to be, which I know is a big ask.”
Rachel wiped her eyes. “Youcan say that, even experiencing what you did?”
And her daughter didn’t even know the half of it. “Yes,” Anna said firmly, surprised by how much she meant it. A few weeks ago, she might have been in a different place, but now? When her life felt as if it were finally expanding, if only a little? She could, and she was glad.
Rachel drew a shaky breath as she composed herself. “Harriet’s in the kitchen,” she said, and Anna nodded and followed her daughter back.
