The Purpose of Miss Shepley

Chapter Seven (part II)

Days passed, and the air remained tense and uncomfortable. Mr. Wentworth made several unusually valiant attempts at conversation, telling me all about the books he'd found in Ewert's library, his admiration for Miss Goodwin, his own little farm -- he raised pigs and grew apples -- but my grandfather was terse and tended toward an ill humor. The poor Actons just tried to smile and pretend they hadn't noticed anything out of sorts.

By and by, I began to wonder if my grandfather wasn't angry so much as he was grieved. He might have given up his hopes for the match with my cousin, but I supposed that still left him with a problem he couldn't be sure to solve.

Unhappily, the subject of Charles Shepley could be avoided only for so long. Less than a week since the day my dear cousin had come courting, my grandfather called me into his study again and informed me that Charles had filed his suit. It seemed he'd had the papers drawn up quite some time ago.

My grandfather left Ewert the next morning, off to Northpoint to meet with our lawyers. Our remaining guests left with him.

The letters began again shortly afterward -- inevitably, word got round that Miss Shepley's fortunes were imperiled, and every day, the post brought me apologies, first from the wealthy merchant families, then the poor nobles. A dozen plans with a dozen families unraveled one by one, pulled apart about urgent business, unavoidable repairs, a veritable epidemic of sickly aunts... Within a fortnight, out of all my prospects, all my plans, only Earnest Grimmond and Doctor Brown remained.

I suddenly found myself with very little to do, aside from writing a dozen forgiving replies. There were no guests to entertain, no governess to tutor me... Even my maids more or less left me be, since there was no one to dress me for. It should have been glorious, save for the one, small, ever-niggling worry about what, under the Moon and the Stars, would become of me without Ewert.

I would have to marry, of course. I had to, anyway -- it was my duty to Ewert -- but if I lost Ewert to Charles, I really would need to marry. I reckoned my flock might make a fair dowry in the eyes of some yeoman farmer or another... But I couldn't imagine who would want to marry a freckled mutt who looked like a boy in a frock.

Worse yet, I couldn't imagine who I would ever want to marry. In truth, whenever I thought on it, I found the prospect of being some man's wife really quite an unnerving one. Every morning, I walked past the portrait hall, wondering how I could ever bear it. I checked my flock and visited Darlene, pulled up weeds, picked berries and cherries, read, rode, knitted... And then every night, I picked up the guide for young brides and put it down again, still tightly wrapped in brown paper.

A week or so passed in this routine, more or less unchanging, and then one morning, late in Midsummer, I encountered an anomaly. I went out to the pasture, and there I found my flock, but I did not see my shepherd. Instead, I found Bram, stretched out along the roots of an oak, the brim of his hat pulled down low over his eyes.

I called, "Hello, Bram," as I neared him.

Bram pushed up his hat and gave me a lazy nod. "Edie."

I peered through the oaks, trying to see if the sheep had gotten across the creek again.

"Where's Thatcher?"

Bram said, "Lily Baxter's just come back from Cheapworth," as if it was any kind of answer.

"So...?" I perched on a tall root beside him. "I asked about Thatcher."

Bram smirked. "So he's with Lily Baxter, you busybody."

"Busybody? I'm paying him to be here" -- though, admittedly, I wasn't paying him very much. "If he wants to talk with Lily Baxter, he can bring her out here while he does his work."