The seemingly benign offering represented a dig not lost on Kezia, who accepted with grace, kissing her friend on the cheek. “Dear Thea, how thoughtful of you.” The book was laid bare of its wrapping. “Oh. How . . . nice. The Woman’s Book.” She leafed through the first four pages. “Well, this has everything, doesn’t it? ‘Contains Everything a Woman Ought to Know.’ ” Kezia looked up from the book and smiled at Thea, unshed tears pricking her eyes. “Now you can be assured I’ll be the perfect wife for your darling brother.”
“I thought it might be something you could use—it has all you might need to learn about being a woman in the home. There’s a section on cookery, though I think you’ll find my mother’s old copy of Mrs. Beeton somewhere in the kitchen, just in case. She was a fair plain cook, so I doubt she ever needed it.”
“Then there will be nothing missing in my reference library of housewifery.” Kezia closed the book and patted the cover. “And there will doubtless be times when this will be a lifesaver,” she said, setting the book to one side, her smile forced.
She knew the gift was Thea’s comment on her life to come, as if any depth of intellectual inquiry on her part would henceforth extend no further than a list of ingredients for the next meal or the best way to black a stove. The book had hurt her pride, though she knew very well that Thea—she had a mind to call her Dorrit again, to get under her skin—was more than aware of her Achilles’ heel. Kezia had never had reason to cook, or clean, or tend house. Even while lodging in Tunbridge Wells after she’d taken up her position at Camden, every meal had been prepared for her, and at school she took her meals in the staff dining room. After she was married—in three days, nineteen hours, and fifteen minutes—and became mistress of Marshals Farm, the feeding of men and boys would be up to her. She would be stoker of the farm’s engine.
Thea thought Kezia saw the land through rose-colored glasses, never having paid attention to the running of the farm. For a farmer’s wife there was only toil from well before the first light of dawn, until the wick was turned down at night—even with help from Ada Beeney, the girl who came in from the village to light the fires, scrub the floors, and fetch and carry, it was a hard life. Kezia was an intelligent, educated woman; Thea knew that, and cherished the well of conversation that had been a hallmark of their friendship. But Kezia was also a dreamer. Once that ethereal quality had enchanted Thea—she had never met anyone like Kezia. Now her friend’s naïveté festered under her skin. It was as if Kezia saw her future on the farm in a bubble, a life in which she would spend her days with daisies in her hair, wandering across sun-drenched fields bringing bottles of fresh lemonade and warm scones to her strong farmer husband, her one true love, who would sweep her into his arms with joy and gratitude.
“By the way,” said Thea, flicking newspaper pages as if to underline the fact that she had better things to think about than white lace, and no need for books on keeping proper house and being a woman, “did you read about this business going on with Austria and—where was it?—yes, Serbia. It’s all to do with the archduke and his wife being assassinated in Sarajevo. Anyway, I do hope any trouble blows over before August. I don’t want my walking tour of the Alps ruined—Edith, Avril, and I have been planning it for such a long time.” She turned another page, having recited the names of her new friends to accentuate her separation from Kezia. Indeed, Thea had no real interest in what happened in the Balkans, or anywhere else on the other side of the English Channel, but the news gave her an opportunity to test Kezia. “Of course, what happens on the world’s stage won’t worry you, will it? After all, by the time I’m picking edelweiss, you’ll be dealing with that noisy coterie of women from the village who come to wash and mend pokes ready for the hops. There’ll be a multitude of piece-workers swarming the farm to put up with. And it’ll be down to you to keep the farm books—that’s after making breakfast for the men at half past five in the morning. Fortunately for you, they bring their own dinner, the men, which is just as well, because Tom’s like my father, ready to eat a horse when he comes in for his tea at six o’clock. You’ll need the best part of the afternoon to prepare a meal fit for a king.” She sighed. “I sometimes wonder whether you’ve ever grasped just how much hard work it all is. Three meals a day to be cooked, on top of everything else on your plate. Anyway, it’s a pity you’ll have your hands full—you might have liked to come to Austria. That is, if Tom would allow it. They say the Alps are beautiful beyond measure.”
Kezia, who was herself not above needling, picked up the book again, resting it on her lap. “Oh, I’ve seen the Alps, Thea—don’t you remember? I went with my dear father and mother when I was fifteen. For the whole summer. You might recall that you were invited to join us, but your father put his foot down—I think it was because my father’s a man of the cloth and we were the guests of an Austrian parson, an old family friend.” She smiled. “Anyway, Tom and I will be so thrilled to see you again when you come home—and when you come to stay, we’ll have your old room ready and waiting.” She paused and patted the book’s cover. “Do you realize that in four days you’ll be raising a glass to Tom and me? To our future, to the happiness we bring to the farm again, and the home we build together. The two of us making the house a home again.”
Thea turned away at the word again.
Kezia lay back on the narrow bed in her room, watching fronds of lilac blossom scratch against the window, framed in dawn light. A cotton robe was loose around her body, naked and still warm from her bath. She ran her fingers through her hair, free of pins and splayed across the pillow, and looked at the white dress upon its hanger, hooked on the picture rail. It was a fine piece of stitchery, with lace laid across soft lawn and petticoats underneath, cut to accentuate her slenderness. A high neckline embellished with pearls would draw attention to her prominent cheekbones, though she hoped a tiny scar at the side of her left eye, reminder of a childhood accident, was not too visible. In time her mother would come to wake her, though she must know that her daughter had hardly slept. Soon Thea, dear Thea, her best friend, would knock on the door, ready to be her maid of honor on this day, when she would be wed to Tom Brissenden. In six hours, I will be wed, thought Kezia. And in the silence of her room, her childhood room in her parents’ house, she loosened the robe and allowed her fingers to trace a line across her breasts, then downwards, traversing her belly to her thighs. Before this time tomorrow, before twenty-four hours had passed, Tom’s hands would grasp her, and his body would press against hers, and at last it would be done. She would belong forever after to Tom, beloved Tom whom she had known for years, even before it seemed they had seen each other at last. Until that moment, Tom had always been Thea’s younger brother—young Tom, capable Tom, sensible Tom. Tom who worked the farm, who brought home from college fresh ways of drawing income from the land, and who had toiled to win the respect of workers who were his father’s men. Tom who had a laugh like sunshine, and who had kissed her for the first time when he was twenty-three and she two years older, would be her husband, her spouse, her helpmeet and lover. Kezia rolled over on the bed and closed her eyes. This was the body she would give to Tom—the man who was still a boy when she’d first come to Marshals Farm. But Tom, now tall and capable, with hands callused and worn and shoulders broad from working the land, was her Tom, dear Tom whom she would love for the rest of her days.
Tom and his best man, Edward—Edward was a farmer in Sussex; they had met at the agricultural college—were staying at a local inn. He would have preferred to be married from the farm, but he could not argue with custom—and it was custom that the marriage took place in the bride’s parish. He had tried, once, to press his point, arguing that Kezzie—he had called her Kezzie, it seemed, since they first met—had lived most of her life in Kent, attending school and working at Camden after college in London. And though he knew she too would have chosen the village church, he did not wish to cross either her mother or her father, for to do so would be tantamount to arguing with
God, and though he was not a churchgoing man, he wouldn’t take a chance on anything untoward coming to pass on the big day. Now, while Kezia was awake, imagining the hours ahead, Tom slept. There were few days for him to call his own, but today he would rest his head until at least half past nine. Edward would wake him. In time, with Tom dressed in the suit he had bought for his father’s funeral, the two men would walk to the church to await his bride. Tom was not nervous; he had no qualms regarding his choice of the woman he would lie next to every night for the rest of his life. Old head on young shoulders, they said about him. When all was said and done, even Thea—grudgingly—agreed they were a good enough match. Despite Kezia having few skills to prepare her for keeping a house and being a farmer’s wife, the foundation of their union would be Tom’s solid nature and Kezia’s ability to lighten their days.
It might seem to some that Tom was one who kept his thoughts to himself, who would never be caught supporting this opinion, or that argument. He was solid even as a boy, someone who knew what he had to get on with, so proceeded to get on with it. The men who worked for his father had come to respect his straightforward manner, and—increasingly—the finality of his decisions. No one, not even Edward, not even his mother, who swore she could read both her children blind, had intuited the depth of his enchantment with Kezia Marchant.
At first it had been a crush, a boyish beating of the heart first experienced when his sister brought her friend home to the farm and introduced her to the family. His babyish name for Thea was Dorry, for that was all he could pronounce when he first began to form words, so the name had been kept, albeit with a Dickensian twist. Of late Tom had felt rather put out when asked to call his sister Thea. It seemed as if the childhood bond was lost, as if someone had snipped the fine yarn that had joined them from the moment he reached for her hand to steady his attempt at walking, saying, “Dorry, Dorry.” But Tom was not a complainer, so he called her Thea and referred to her as such ever after.
He had looked forward to Kezia’s visits to the farm, anticipating her noticing him, drawing him into the conversation.
“Hello, Tom. Dorrit tells me that you’ve your own flock now—you’ll have to show me.”
The boy had flushed; the mother noticed, and the father raised an eyebrow as he cast a glance towards the girl who would one day become his daughter-in-law, though he would not live to see the day. When the engagement was first announced, he accepted it with a smile, slapping his son on the back, though without obvious enthusiasm.
If Tom had been asked to explain, to describe to another, why he had chosen Kezia for his wife, he might—predictably—have shrugged his shoulders and said that he had better things to do than talk about private matters. But in his heart and soul, he knew very well why he wanted Kezia by his side. The childhood crush, a time when a single look from Kezia, just a comment of interest or observation, would flood his body with warmth, had developed into something more over the years. He admired Kezia; he took account of the way she held herself, of her confidence. Her dress was neither ostentatious nor plain, but always drew attention from passers-by—a second look by a woman, the raising of a gentleman’s hat. Her features might have seemed sharp on another woman—eyes that moved quickly from person to person in a conversation with family and friends—and she had dexterous hands, large hands, really, for a female; yet in her movements she was deliberate and thoughtful.
Whether walking on the farm or meandering around the shops in London, Kezia would stop to peruse anything that caught her eye, and would not be rushed. Thea had found this trait annoying at times, cursing Kezia as their bus pulled out in the distance or as they arrived late at the cinema, forfeiting the first fifteen minutes of the picture on account of something Kezia just had to see. Later, though, Thea found she missed those little things about Kezia that had once been the source of some frustration. Kezia had a throaty laugh that, when she came to know the family, seemed to have no governor. Jack Brissenden would laugh with her, and Tom would notice the sparkle in Thea’s eyes as she tried not to giggle, at which point he could not help but laugh. Only his mother executed control—her cheeks twitched, but her stare was less than warm. Tom knew then that his mother was jealous of Kezia, for it irked her that all her family was in love with this girl who seemed to know little of the country, and nothing of the farm.
What Tom knew, now, was that he wanted Kezia by his side. His work was hard, and despite his apparent success in managing without his father’s guidance, he often felt as if wolves paced the perimeter of his land. Not only had he been fortunate in his inheritance, but his father’s foresight had bolstered his chances of running a good farm in what were proving to be troubling times. Jack had realized that Tom would need more tools to serve the land than he had ever had in his day, if the land were to serve him in turn, and his son after him, God willing. He might have the theory of agricultural college under his belt, along with a deep innate understanding of the soil, but the days were long, and a farm could take its pound of flesh in return for a good harvest. Tom wanted to come home to a warm, fragrant kitchen, a fire in the hearth at night, and a woman with whom he could share his joys, his worries, his laughter—and he so wanted laughter. In truth, his parents had thought Kezia unsuitable, and would have preferred to see him paying court to a daughter of the countryside, to a girl who understood what it was to put her apron on in the morning and take it off at night only when her spouse had made his way up the creaking farmhouse stairs to the room above. She would bank up the fire, swab the red tile floor just one more time. Not before she had settled the wicks in flickering lamps would she take to the staircase and then to their bed. In marrying a Brissenden, Tom’s mother had set aside a desire to continue her education, and devoted her heart to the farm, had given her spirit to the business of her husband, her complexion to worry, and her hands to hard work. Though her formal learning had ended early, she had been a steady reader in her day, and now she harbored envy that Kezia, with her light touch in the world, the way she skimmed across the surface of concern, might find the softer way of being a farmer’s wife that had eluded her.
Edward nudged Tom as the organ bellows wheezed, drew breath, and exhaled fresh energy into the ancient church. The “Wedding March” filled the rafters with joy. Tom felt a line of perspiration run down his neck and along his spine, and fingered the starched collar that would leave a red horizontal stripe on his skin. He felt a warm blush reach his cheeks and ears, and thought the entire congregation must see this sign of his delight, fear, anticipation, and—yes—excitement. Edward nudged him again. And again.
“Look, you bloody fool. Look and remember. She’s right beautiful.” He pronounced the word “boodiful” in his rounded rural Sussex brogue.
So Tom turned his head, and at once a shaft of light seemed to render all others invisible as Kezia walked towards him, one hand on her father’s arm, the other clutching a bouquet of white garden blooms—her mother had begun to cultivate a bed of white flowers next to the house on the day Tom had called to ask for Kezia’s hand. No veil could keep the bride’s wide smile from captivating her groom, and no crown of orange blossom could shadow the coppery nut-brown hair drawn back in a braided bun. Kezia had been the wife of his heart for years, long before the minister asked who giveth this woman and her father lifted her hand towards his; long before he set a ring of gold upon her finger, and long before the bells pealed and they walked past a blur of faces as man and wife. And she would be his wife for as long as they both might live. God willing.
Chapter 2
A good housewife will not rest content with the fact that the meals in her house are well-cooked. She will also see to it that they are well-served, knowing that dainty table equipment and skillful service does much to enhance the enjoyment of the fare provided.
—THE WOMAN’S BOOK
Tom looked up from his plate and began to laugh.
“What’s the matter with it?” asked his wife of two and a half weeks, herself smi
ling, unable to resist her husband’s apparent amusement.
“Kezzie, love, what have you done with this cauliflower?”
“What do you mean?” asked Kezia Brissenden, rubbing her hands on a pinafore still bearing the crisp creases of newness amid a garland of stains. “What’s wrong with the cauliflower?”
She leaned across to look at the food she had set before him. There was a meat pie; admittedly, she’d had some trouble with the pastry, and it seemed pockmarked. The mashed potato was quite well divested of the lumps she’d fought against earlier, and the cauliflower appeared well cooked. Tom liked his vegetables well cooked, color drained from the green to the extent that it appeared bleached, with creamy white florets almost indistinguishable from the mash.
“I just wondered why there was string in it.”
“Oh, dear, you’ve got the string. I didn’t see it when I dished up. Here, allow me . . .” Kezia leaned towards him, pulled at the string he’d lifted with his fork, and removed it with a flourish. Gravy splattered the tablecloth. She giggled as she carried the length of twine towards the sink to wash in cold water and hang to dry on a pipe running from the copper at the side of the stove, which supplied hot water to the tap. “Waste not want not. Your mother would be proud of me!”
“I daresay she would, but why did you cook the cauli with string in the first place?”
“To keep the bits in, silly. All those little flowery bits might drop off, if you don’t tie them up.”
And with that Tom shook his head, tried not to laugh, and slipped his fork into the pie. They were in the first flush of marriage, and this was another source of fascination for the young husband, that this wife of his had no attachment to her prowess as a cook. She didn’t seem to care that pastry might be underdone, meat overdone, that bread was too doughy in the crumb, too hard on the crust, or that the men looked at their eggs and bacon and then at each other every morning. She seemed like a sprite assigned to a factory job, flitting from stove to table, then out to the kitchen garden, cutting rosemary to garnish an egg on toast—and not one of the farmworkers had ever seen garnish, nor would the word be part of their vocabulary.