“You finish chores,” said Ian after the milking was done. “I must go to a meeting at the church, and I’m late as it is.”
Donald shrugged and kept on working.
“I’ll not be late. Don’t forget to skim the milk and wash out the buckets.”
Donald didn’t reply.
Ian
turned away. He’s so sullen these days I don’t know how to approach
him. Ian reviewed the events of the last few months as he hurried into
the porch and poured a dipperful of water into the battered tin wash
pan. I wonder if I should trim my beard, he thought. I haven’t done it
lately. He regarded himself in the watery mirror and rubbed his hand
across his face. I don’t have time if I’m to meet Angus. He dipped his
hands into the cool water and rubbed a little soap on them. Clean will
have to do. We’ll soon be out of soap. Anna was just about ready to make
soap when she died.
His
heart seemed to turn over in his chest at the sudden memory of Anna
tending the soap kettle in the yard, her auburn hair, made a little
untidy by the wind and the heat of the task, shining in the sunlight,
her strong body bent and turned as she wielded the paddle. He remembered
his surprise that she knew how to make soap when he married her. She
seemed so young to know the things she knew. I thought I was marrying a
child and it was a woman I married. The knot of pain in his heart seemed
to tighten. He turned and scrubbed vigorously at his face with the
rough towel to banish the tightness. He forced his mind on to practical
things. I wonder would Mary make me some soap when she’s making her own
if I gave her the fat Anna’d been saving. He buttoned on a clean shirt,
the wrinkles in it a testament to his ineptitude with the smoothing
iron.
At
last he was striding up the hill and was soon passing the place where
so few months ago Anna had lain in such stillness. He hurried past the
spot and did not look at it. He shivered. A hint of night cold was
already on the breeze. Somewhere an owl hooted and the rustle of small
animals sounded softly in the stubble of the hay field. A twig cracked
in Old Rory’s wood. Ian’s heart raced then slowed. It’s nothing, he
comforted himself. He looked in the direction of the woods. The rustle
of leaves ceased and a faint glow seemed to disappear as Ian turned his
head to look directly at it. His heart raced again. He looked straight
ahead and strode on even faster. He looked out the corner of his eye.
The glow seemed to be still there but when he looked at it directly, it
disappeared. He hurried on until his shins began to hurt and he was
forced to slow his pace. I’ll walk backwards for a bit. He turned
around. The glow that wasn’t there turned with him and seemed to hover
over the path he had just traversed. He stopped his backward pace and
stood, frozen there by his imagination. The light continued on toward
him. Rough voices sounded on the night air but in his fear Ian was
unable to take them in.
Anna
Gillis, the midwife and neighbour in Mattie’s Story, has been found
killed. The close-knit community is deeply shaken by this eruption of
violence, and neighbours come together to help one another and to
discover the perpetrator. But the answer lies Anna’s secret, long
guarded by Old Annie, the last of the original Selkirk Settlers, and the
protagonist of An Irregular Marriage. Join the community! Read Anna’s
Secret and other novels by Margaret A. Westlie.
Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords
Genre – Fiction, mystery, historical
Rating – G
More details about the author
Website http://www.margaretwestlie.com
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