October 12th, 1823
Ive lived alone in these woods for ten yearsuntil this morning, when I found two babes left at my door.
As always, I rose with the dawn. Beatricefor thats my name herestepped into the garden. There was much to do: watering the vegetables, pulling weeds, tending the chickens, inspecting the apple trees. All tasks for one pair of hands. No helpers. No neighbours. Id grown accustomed to solitude, though sometimes it settled like a stone in my chest.
By evening, I meant to hunt. The larder was near empty, and the nearest market town was a fair distance. But first, I fancied a restperhaps a stroll, or simply sitting beneath the ancient oak by the cottage. Just then, my faithful hound, Cromwell, trotted over. A great, shaggy beast, he was both companion and guardian.
Shall we walk, old boy? Plenty of time before dusk, I said, scratching behind his ears. His tail thumped the ground as if to say, *Aye, rest nowtheres work ahead.* He flopped beside me, chin on paws, ever patient.
I fetched the pails and made for the well. This summer had been cruelhotter and drier than any in memory. The flowers wilted, leaves crisped early, and the earth split like old china. Watering was a daily struggle to salvage what I could. Id been alone for yearstruly alone. At first, my mother lived with me, but she passed, leaving me in this cottage where my grandfather once dwelt.
Grandfather was a hard man, near a recluse. He built this house himself, far from the village. The story went that hed turned his back on the world after my grandmother died in childbirth. Had there been a doctor, had the roads not been buried in snow, had the neighbours lent their horseshe mightve lived. There mightve been laughter in this yard, grandchildren at his knee. But it wasnt to be.
I begged him often to tell me what happened. He never wouldnot until I was grown, courting a lad named Edward. Then, his face darkened like a stormcloud.
Youll not marry him, he said, low and firm.
Why ever not? Hes decent. His folk dont drinkrare enough in these parts.
The lot of them are rotten.
Thats nonsense! Its not the Middle Ages. Youve shut yourself away so long, youve forgotten how folk live.
He sighed, as though bearing the weight of the world, and said, Sit. Ill tell you how your grandmother died.
I sat, breath caught.
He spoke of a bitter winter, when snow choked the lanes and only carts or horses could pass. My grandmother, Martha, delayed leaving, fearing to leave him alone in the cold. When her time came, the blizzard was so fierce no horse could be had. Grandfather begged the neighbourseven Thomas, a man whod once loved her but lost her to him. Thomas only sneered: Cant you even get your wife to town?
In fury, Grandfather seized him, but others pulled them apart. With his brothers help, he loaded Martha onto a sledge and hauled her through the storm. Four hours they struggledbut at the hospital, it was too late. Only the babe livedmy mother.
When he finished, I sat pale, fists clenched.
Its dreadful, Grandfatherbut whats that to do with Edward?
That Thomas was his grandfather.
The words struck like lightning. Did Edward know? His grandfather had welcomed me warmly. Did he know whose granddaughter stood before him?
My parents had opposed the match but never said why. Now I wondered: did Edward know our families history? I resolved to ask himbut first, I turned to Grandfather.
Is that why you live out here?
Aye. After that, Id no stomach for people. Built this place to be shut of them. Your mother left when she came of ageI bear no grudge. A man makes his own way.
I remembered visiting him as a girl, pedalling my bicycle down the forest track. Then, one day, I returned home to smoke thick in the air. Our cottage was aflame. I raced forwardbut folk held me back.
Steady, lass. Your mum ran in after the catsomething fell. Your father followed. Neither came out.
I fought, screamed, wept. They wouldnt let me near.
Grandfather took to his bed after the funeral and never rose again. I nursed himread to him, cooked broth, sang the old songs he loved. Edward came, time and again.
Walk with me. Ive missed you.
I glared. Missed me? And what of what I feel?
I only thought
Thought what? That my grief dont matter? That your familys sins dont weigh?
His face darkened. Thats ancient history. Whats it to us?
Everything. Leave. Dont come again.
He studied me. Youre grieving. You dont mean it.
I do. Go.
He left. I watched him vanish down the lane, biting back the urge to call him back. I didnt.
A week later, Grandfather slipped away in his sleepas though hed waited till I could stand alone.
After the burial, my auntMums sistersaid, Come live with us. Theres room.
No. Ill stay.
Like a hermit? Your grandfather was rightfolk are worse than beasts.
You cant mean that! Youre young yet. And what of Edward? That old quarrel neednt rule your life.
I turned away. There was truth in her wordsbut I couldnt face it. Did Edward know all along?
That evening, I knew Id no place in the village. Not for its cruelty, but because every glance, every whisper, was a reminder. Forgetting was impossible.
So I stayed. Alone. With the cottage, the garden, Cromwell, and my ghosts. Ten years passeduntil the village forced its way back in.
Last year, fetching supplies, I saw Edward by his gatea pregnant woman beside him. Worse still, his left leg was gone, replaced by a wooden peg. He felt my stare, turned. Our eyes met. Then I fled. After that, I avoided the village entirely, riding instead to the market town where none knew my name.
But fate wasnt done. At the coach station, I met an old friendMargaret. She prattled of village news: Edward had wed a nurse from the hospital where hed been treated. Shed expected a hero, not a cripple in a tumbledown cottage. His father had died while he served; his mother followed soon after. Now hed come home to nothing.
His wife despised her life, resentful of the coming child. Edward had taken to drink. And who wouldnt, said Margaret, with a shrew for a wife?
I said nothing. Let the past lie.
That evening, I watered the garden and dozed beneath the oakuntil Cromwells barking startled me awake. Not his usual cry. Danger. I grabbed my rifle and ran.
There, beneath the apple tree, lay two newborns. A satchel beside them held a note:
*Forgive me, Bea. For all of it. My wife left them. I cant raise them. I know youll be a good motherbetter than I could ever be.*
Edwards hand. I followed footprintsa womans, freshthen, God help me, the marks of a peg-leg. I ran to the riverbank, where wed once swum as children. Edward stood at the edge, the rocks below.
Edward! Dont!
He turned, startled.
Whatll I tell your children? That their father was a coward?
What else is there to say?
Have you tried? Or did you quit, like when I sent you away?
He wept. I cant bear it.
I took his hand. Come. Theyre alone.
At home, Cromwell guarded the babes. He bared his teeth at Edwardbut I whispered, Hes with us. The hound relented.
I handed Edward one child. He buried his face in the swaddling. Forgive me.
I took the other. Inside. Theyll be hungry. Youll show me what to do.
That night, watching them sleep, I remembered the hunt. I apologised to Cromwell. He licked my hand*This matters more.*
A month later, Edward sat me down.
We must talk. The children slept.
Aye.
He took my hand. I didnt pull away.
Bea, I dont know how to say it Its not just the children. Might I ask what I failed to, years ago? Im a cripple now, but Ill do my part. If you
