Chapter Eleven“Are you ready for church, Robyn? It's the Harvest Festival, remember.”
I looked up. “I'm coming.” Even nine days after the fall, my ankle was still delicate. “I'm ready.” Lifting my walking stick, I hobbled after Mother, too proud to accept the servants' offers of help.
As was the tradition, we carried baskets of fruit from the kitchen garden for the harvest festival, so the earthy scent of carrots, potatoes and the sharp tang of onions filled the coach. This month was one of my favourite times of the year, when the soil yielded its bounty, the larder filled, Cook was temporarily contented, and the farmers began to plough their fields. I always found it deeply satisfying to watch the ploughs with their attendant flocks of screaming seagulls.
“Remember, Robyn,” Mother held
