Page 26 of Miss Dashing
The crew proceeded by halves, with every other worker stepping forth to swing a blade in a slow, sweeping rhythm. When the first cohort had gained a few yards of progress, the second half of the crew would start on the spaces between them. The pattern minimized the likelihood that a tuft of grass would be missed, or that a trouser, skirt, or ankle would be inadvertently sliced.
Phillip approached Mrs. Riley, who waited with the second half of the crew. “Good morning, ma’am. Mr. Travers has asked that you take on the blade sharpening.”
Blue eyes looked Phillip up and down. She was pretty, blond, and clearly determined to earn her day’s pay.
“I can keep up,” she said. “Been scything since I was a girl. My granny and dam scythed, and I know what I’m about.”
Most haying crews included women wielding blades. The heavier work—forking the hay into wagons and ricks once dried—usually fell to the men.
“You are doubtless an expert, while I am a dabbler,” Phillip said. “Humor me. Please.”
She took off her straw hat, plopped it on Phillip’s head, and muttered something about daft gents out from Town. Her gait had acquired the seafaring roll of a woman burdened by approaching motherhood, and yet, she managed to stomp away.
“Let’s have a song!” Phillip called, taking up the scythe. “Henry, give us a tune!”
Young Henry was blessed with a fine baritone, and he chose well. Scything was best done at a relaxed pace, letting the natural swing of the blade do the work. Not a skill learned quickly, and one acquired at the cost of many blisters and aching muscles.
And yet, Phillip had known two brothers in their eighties who could wield a scythe all day next to their great-grandsons and great-granddaughters.
The work felt good, as did the heat, the sense of accomplishment, the pause at the end of the row for a pull from a flask. Mrs. Riley brought him a canteen, and Phillip half drained it at one go.
“Don’t fall behind,” she said, snatching her canteen back. “Ye’ll rush to catch up and make a hash of your patch.”
“Aye, ma’am.” Hecate would like Mrs. Riley. Phillip took up his scythe and joined in the next song.
By the time the field was half done, he’d removed his shirt, as had every other fellow on the crew, and a second wagon had pulled up, this one bearing the nooning and a small keg.
“Who be ye?” Mr. Travers asked when Phillip had downed his first tankard of fine summer ale. “Ye know what you’re about with that blade, and the other lads are bound a gent from Town won’t show them up.”
“Phillip Vincent. I have a small property up in Berkshire. I’m a guest at Nunnsuch. You’ll see that Mrs. Riley is given appropriate compensation?”
“If that’s your pleasure.” Travers sipped his ale. “Berkshire folk go scything for a lark, do they? Have a taste for blisters on your hands and chaff on your neck?”
“I’m a farmer. I have a taste for getting the crops in and ensuring my livestock have enough fodder for winter. How far behind is Nunnsuch with the haying generally?”
“We got about half done when himself says his ha-has must be tended to. That were over a week ago. Damned foolishness, and if we don’t get rain before the end of this day, my name is not Hiram Hercules Travers.”
“No rain today,” Phillip said. “My shoulder tells me when a storm approaches. You’ll get this field in.”
“Nah,” Travers said. “We’ll get it cut and possibly raked, and then it’ll be soaked through. Himself will tell us to gather it up anyway, and we’ll spend the next six months waiting for the wet rick to catch fire. Happens about every third year. We place bets down at the Pig and Pony with half the proceeds going to the ladies’ charitable fund. Steward tries to reason with Nunn, but there’s no reasoning with one of the anointed. Henry, lad, go easy on that ale. It’ll kick you in the head come sundown if you keep at it like that.”
“I’m thirsty,” Henry said with the mulish logic of the young and vigorous.
“Mrs. Riley!” Phillip called. “Might you offer Henry some water?”
She gave Henry a look that spoke volumes, about stubborn men, foolish displays of pride, and a fine pair of shoulders worthy of some grudging appreciation. She passed him a full dipper of water drawn from a pot on the wagon bed.
“That’s from the spring. It’ll be cold. Mind you don’t gulp.”
Henry grinned—and gulped. “Thanks, Mavie.”
“Mrs. Riley to you, Henry Wortham.” She stalked off with her dipper and waterpot, offering a drink first to the other women on the crew.
Travers watched this interaction with a faint smile. “We’ll none of us have much starch by the end of the day, save for Mavis. You never met a more stubborn lass. Shame about her husband. He were a good lad and worshipped his missus. Didn’t leave her much, though.”
Travers’s tone implied that stubbornness was a fine quality in a woman, and Phillip agreed.
“If the haying is behind,” Phillip said, “what about planting and harvest? Does Lord Nunn interfere with them as well?”
