Page 30 of Beloved Enemy
“So...” Charlotte prompted, holding back a grin and gambling a bit, “do you have anyone in mind?”
Una’s cheeks reddened instantly, and she shook her head with a stiff laugh. “Och, nae, lass.”
But Charlotte nudged her shoulder against Una’s, pressing with a knowing look. “Come on. Spill the tea. Who’ve you got your eye on?”
It took a long moment, but eventually, Una’s blush deepened to a bright crimson, making her appear years younger. Finally, and with hardly any more prodding, she muttered, “Well, ye ken, Lachlan, the barber-surgeon, is a fine man.”
Charlotte's grin stretched wide with delight. She scarcely knew Lachlan at all, but the thought pleased her immensely."Yes, I’m sure he is.” She didn’t imagine Reid Nicholson surrounded himself with either dishonorable or disreputable men. “Hm, I wonder what might be done about this?” She teased. Playfully, she tossed the dandelion she’d been twirling in her hand at Una. “I think you need to take a tumble, Una, or maybe even sprain a limb—daily, if need be. We need to put you in Lachlan’s orbit.”
Una huffed in mock exasperation but couldn’t quite suppress another smile threatening to break free. “Och, dinna be gettin’ ideas, lass.”
Charlotte grinned, knowing she already had at least one idea in mind.
Chapter Eight
In those first few days, Charlotte had made enough faces at the silly goats and squawking chickens inside the house that Una felt the need to defend the animals. She advised Charlotte that come winter, she’d be glad to have them under the same roof, as they provided extra warmth. Charlotte gave a vaguely polite response but kept to herself the hope that she’d be long gone by then.
During the day, the chickens were put out into the yard, where they fed on insects, worms, and any kitchen scraps—especially grain, though there was little of that to spare. The two goats were taken outside to a vast stretch of land that Una called the common field, where the other villagers also brought their animals to graze. Several times, Charlotte had accompanied Una and the children to retrieve the animals. Often they ran in to other villagers doing the same thing, collecting their livestock to bring them in for the night. A young boy, not more than ten years old, scruffy and barefoot, whom Charlotte assumed might be a shepherd, would single out Una’s goats and prod them down the hill with a stick, to where Una waited with two ropes.
Charlotte stared in horror at the boy’s filthy feet, wondering how much manure he must have stepped in during the day. She humorously thought the goats seemed like children being dropped off and picked up from daycare. Only a few people used ropes as leashes, which prompted a comment from Charlotte.
“They ken where to go,” Una said of the goats, “but they’re sometimes mischievous, and I’ve nae wish to be giving chase—not with the bairns. 'Tis easier simply to lead them.”
One morning, Una had asked Charlotte if she wouldn’t mind taking the goats out to pasture. Eager to be helpful, she readily agreed. The morning air was frigid, so she threw on her sweatshirt over the gown Una had lent her, thinking the plaidwool might be too cumbersome or get in the way. With the goats leashed, she set out for the common field.
Charlotte knew next to nothing about farm animals, having only ever seen them up close when her grandmother used to take her to the county fair as a child. She had expected the goats to walk on leashes as well as dogs might—as they’d seemed to do with Una—but her expectation was quickly dashed. The larger of the two goats insisted on walking behind her. If its narrow hooves weren’t catching on the back of her sneakers, it was bumping its head and horns into her hip or rear, constantly crowding her.
“Mind the personal space,” she muttered to the animal, having no idea what they were named, or if they even had names.
She continued prodding at her—Charlotte assumed they were females since Una had asked her to milk them—so that she turned and tapped at its nose. “Stop that.”
She tried to bring the goat in front of her, but it would not comply, and then, without warning, the smaller goat in front of her jerked its head and pulled hard against the rope. Before she could react, the leash slipped out of her grasp, the rope snapping through her fingers like a whip, leaving a burning skid mark on her palm.
“Oh no, no, no!” she yelped, lunging after the creature and the trailing length of rope as it bolted down the lane, zigzagging wildly.
Charlotte took off after it, dragging the other goat behind her, but who suddenly seemed determined to plant itself firmly in the ground. The larger goat dug its hooves in with surprising strength, turning what should have been a simple chase into a tug-of-war. Charlotte stumbled forward, half-pulled by her own momentum, half-held back by the stubborn goat trailing behind her.
“Come on!” she urged the beast who was now shuffling along as if it had all the time in the world. “You were just trying to trample me two minutes ago,” she grumbled at the stubborn goat.
The escapee, meanwhile, darted toward the edge of the woods, its tail flicking as it disappeared between the trees.
"Great," she muttered under her breath, tightening her grip on the remaining goat’s leash and picking up her pace. “My first day on the job and I’ve lost Una’s kid.” She kept tugging but rolled her eyes. “And now I’m talking to myself.”
She pretended to sprint, hoping the goat would want to follow, as children often did. To her surprise, it worked, and she was able to reach the edge of the woods into which the runaway had fled. She peered through the shade of the trees and spotted a flash of its long, white and brown coat.
“Let’s go,” she prodded the other one still in her grasp, pulling it into the woods with her.
She approached the wayward goat directly, only to have it skip away every time she got near it. Charlotte would have sworn the goat was enjoying herself, since she stopped and stared at Charlotte, watching her approach, only to bolt at the last second.
“You are so grounded, young lady,” she scolded, even as she was frustrated by the game being played. “No daycare for a week,” she threatened.
The game went on so long that Charlotte chased the stupid goat out of the woods on the far side, onto an open field that was not the pasture as far as she knew. Her shoulders sank. At this rate, she feared she might pursue the animal across all of Kingswood.
But then she recalled something of her limited knowledge of goats—some of which had been recently acquired from different TikTok accounts detailing farm life; Charlotte had no idea how those reels had been introduced to her social media feed—thatimplied goats were actually very social animals, that they could be very affectionate.
Supposing the goat would only keep running every time she got close, Charlotte sat in the tall grass of the field and waited. She thought she might try to cajole the animal with song and began humming softly. When she decided the goat might not be able to hear her, she started singing, and added some volume, belting out what she hoped was a soothing, non-threatening version ofBaa Baa Black Sheep.
“Sorry,” Charlotte prefaced the song. “I don’t know any goat songs.”
