When he had held to the pact, the dale had been abundant with life. But he had not wished to see how dependent the folk of the dale had become upon his blessing. He did not know what fortunes of man’s world had challenged the people of the dale. Perhaps, like toy dogs bred from wolves to be man’s playthings, they had lost the ability to survive the harshness of the outside.
Eden, too, had been like a flower from warmer climes, unable to thrive where snows fell. London had been her hothouse. Now she was thrust into a snowdrift, but she intended to do more than merely survive.
He—yes, he admired her for that, as much as one of his kind could admire any human. And he was grateful for her kindness to his son. Admiration and gratitude, in proper measure, were not too great a peril.
Wetness kissed his cheek. A light snow had begun to fall from the darkening sky. Eden shivered, pulling Donal close to adjust his coat.
Hartley looked up and willed the clouds to thin. The snow stopped, and the edge of cold faded.
“It can be made well again.”
Eden’s face turned toward him, and he realized that he’d spoken aloud. Hope—another human emotion—transformed her eyes to the color of the lake in summer.
“Hartley—” She hesitated, waging some inner battle. “You are not of this dale, but you know the district. You are clearly a man of some education. Until we employ a new steward, perhaps you can… assist me in speaking to the tenants, and learning what they need. They may trust you more than they would—”
A Fleming? It must have taken courage for her to admit that to him, to ask for his help so humbly. She even went so far as to recognize how much she had to learn.
“I’ll do all I can to help you, your ladyship,” he said with more sincere warmth than he had expected in himself.
“Of course there is nothing to be done about this dreadful weather,” Eden said with a short laugh. “We shall muddle along as best we can until spring. Meanwhile, we can determine which of these houses most needs repair, and what may be done to help the poorest tenants. At least they should not lack for wood!”
Indeed, there were coppices aplenty that the dalesmen could visit for fuel, as long as they didn’t invade Hartley’s own forest. But many of the coppice woods were untouched or sickly.
Guilt and shame returned, closing up his throat. He wouldn’t help Eden only to win her trust and liking. He had his own misdeeds to mend, if only to rid himself of this all-too-human burden of conscience.
At long last they drew into Birkdale. It was much like any country village in the north, surrounded by farmhouses scattered across the fells. There was only one road—linked to the neighboring dale—and nearly every building lay along it.
But it was apparent that many houses were empty, and those yet occupied appeared dreary and run down. The alehouse had a board nailed across its door, and the few shops were closed.
“Please stop here, Shaw,” Eden said. Her voice was quiet, chastened. “Mind Donal for me.”
Hartley felt, absurdly, as if she’d handed him a precious gift. He stopped the cart, jumped down, and offered his hand to her.
She took it and permitted him to help her to the ground.
Her riding boots gave her some protection from the muck and slush, but her skirts dragged no matter how she tried to arrange them. With a shrug, she let them fall and set out for the nearest stone cottage.
Smoke meandered in a thin line from the chimney, the only sign of life. Eden knocked on the poorly fitted door. She waited for several minutes before it opened.
The woman who answered was thin save for an immense belly declaring her expectant state. A stained apron barely covered the expanse. Brown hair hung in straggly clumps about her face, and Hartley could not guess at her age.
Eden greeted the woman, who stared as if she gazed upon a two-headed calf. Eden’s small figure, every bit as vulnerable as that of the daleswoman, aroused unwonted pity in Hartley’s chest. For a woman so sheltered, this must take great courage.