Mary Reed McCall by Secret Vows

Author:Secret Vows
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Pushing aside a thick bough that blocked her view, Catherine stepped into the clearing and gasped. A broad, green field sprouting with thousands of slender willows stretched before her. Swelling hills rose on three sides of the flats, providing the wetland with the protection and water needed to nurture the growth.

Speechless with pleasure, she stepped forward into the clearing. Her foot promptly squelched into the soft earth, and she jumped back with a shriek.

“Careful,” Gray said, laughing as he reached to balance her.

She stilled, suddenly aware of the way his palm cushioned the small of her back, supporting her. Warmth radiated through her clothing and sent a heated shiver up her spine. He was so good to her. His eagerness all during the ride hadn’t been over something he’d found for himself, but for a gift that he wanted to give her.

Tears stung her eyes, but she smiled through them. “This field is large enough to supply the castle for an entire year’s weaving.” Swinging her gaze to meet his, she was surprised to see an answering tenderness that made quivery feelings settle in her belly. “Thank you for this,” she whispered. “Thank you for everything you’re doing—everything you’ve already done for me.”

He was silent as he gazed down at her, his eyes soft with some nameless emotion. “’Tis nothing, lady. I’m happy to have pleased you.” He cleared his throat and stepped away, breaking their physical contact. “But tell me, how do you judge these withies for their quality and readiness for culling?”

A sudden sense of loss overwhelmed her excitement for a moment. Yet it bubbled up again when she envisioned all of the beautiful pieces she would be able to weave from the harvest of this field—chairs and tables, baskets, platters, bowls. ’Twas a dream come true. More carefully, she took a step onto the field, motioning for him to follow as she picked around the lesser of the soggy spots.

“Here,” she said, reaching for a supple strand. She bent it in toward them, pulling and testing its strength so that Gray could see it as well. “See the texture?” she asked, holding it for him to touch. “’Tis nearly ripe, and yet it must grow longer before ’tis ready for cutting. Then, once the strands are harvested, they must be boiled and peeled, which leaves them a deep golden color as they dry.” She let the rod go, and it swung back to dance gracefully with the others in the breeze.

“How much longer?” Gray murmured. “Until they can be cut, I mean.”

“Another week or two, when they reach above our heads. Willow ripens last of all, so that when the farmers are sitting back and surveying the wealth they’ve worked from the land, weavers are just beginning their harvest. ’Tis difficult, oftentimes cold work, with winter nipping at your fingers.”

“And yet you seem to relish the thought of doing it.”

“Aye,” she smiled as they walked further along the edge of the field. “Though ’tis not the harvest itself that I take pleasure in, but the fruits of that labor.

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