Chapter Text
‘I need someone to fold the sheet; someone to take the other end of the sheet and walk towards me and fold once, then step back, fold and walk towards me again. We all need someone to fold the sheet. Someone to hitch on the coat at the neck. Someone to put on the kettle. Someone to dry up while I wash.’
– Roger Deakin, Notes from Walnut Tree Farm
—
Nick keeps the parcel of letters folded and tucked in the pocket of his shirt, beneath his waistcoat, over his heart.
It’s a thin addition to his layers—three letters in total, all short enough that Nick needn’t have reached for them before he left the farmhouse. He’s long had them memorised; poring over the kick of each ‘k’ and the swoop of each ‘g’ when he’d absorbed and exhausted all the other information the letters had to give him, trying to find clues in each pen stroke. The letters are boldly sketched. Slanted, like the sender was in a rush to write them down. There’s nary an inkblot in sight, which is more than Nick can say for his responses. He lost track of the pages he had to crumple and feed to the range, ruined by letting the ink run while his thoughts tried to play catch up.
He wonders if Charlie has kept his letters, too. Whether he’s bent over them like Nick has, tracing each word, until the oil lamp guttered and died out, late at night at his kitchen table. Nick sent two back, in addition to the original advertisement, and from what he can recall he spent more time describing the set-up of the chicken coop and sharing stories about Mabel, the mare currently pulling the pony and trap towards the train station, and her penchant for brambles than he did talking about himself. Describing the farm felt easier, and after all, it was Charlie’s prospective new home. Surely he’d be interested to hear about it, Nick justified.
Outside the station, he ties Mabel’s reins to the railing provided and jumps down from the trap, kicking up dirt from the hard-baked earth. It’s unseasonably warm for early-September; the last dregs of summer hanging heavy in the air. On the ride over, Nick’s shirt has become tacky with sweat, clinging to his back where he was pressed against the hard wooden seat. He plucks it away from his damp skin and fiddles with the buttons on his waistcoat, doing them up—an attempt at proprietary, which he finishes by pulling on his jacket. It’s linen and lightweight, but even so, a new trickle of sweat gathers at his shirt collar as he makes sure Mabel is secure. His looking glass told him he passed as respectable before he left, but he fears an hour’s ride in the late afternoon’s blazing sun has undone his efforts. He resettles his cap on his damp hair—in need of a cut he hasn’t yet managed to find the time for—and wipes a hand over his face. His woollen trousers are coated with a thin layer of dust, and the scent of perspiration and horse has settled over him like a second skin. His cheeks are burning, even under the brim of his hat—although that has less to do with the heat, and more to do with the ladies and gentlemen milling around the station entrance, in stiff frocks and expensive suits, twirling parasols behind their heads. Nick feels a stab of self-consciousness, which he hastily sets aside. A farmer is what he is, with no need for extravagant clothes and no use for vanity, even if he wished he looked a little less bedraggled, for Charlie’s sake. The importance of first impressions is not lost on him.
Mabel’s tail swishes, swatting away the flies buzzing in the pockets of warm air. The heat is a smothering hand, pressing against Nick’s chest. He has never been able to properly conjure a face for Charlie, based on his letters. Every time he tried, the young man’s features shifted and morphed and faded away, smudged like oil paints in his mind. The boldness of his script sometimes inspired a sharp jaw, or a long, fine nose to take form. Other times, Nick could picture nothing but the outline of a man, a soft shadow only. He wonders if Charlie had been more successful at sketching an image of Nick from his words—woefully stilted, sadly too short, but carefully chosen, at least. His cursive is on the rougher side, but neat enough to convey a certain strength, he hoped. Though standing here, dusty and dishevelled and red-faced with nerves, he wonders if Charlie will be disappointed when imagination is forced to give way to real life.
He leaves Mabel with one last pat to her side, and strides, with as much confidence as he can muster, into the station waiting room, and out onto the bright, open platform. It’s a hive of activity. The train sounds its horn as it approaches, letting off a great hissing jet of steam before it judders to a stop along the glistening steel tracks. The heatwave makes the air around it shimmer and warp. Others are waiting, like him, but Nick keeps back as the carriage doors burst open, in a cloud of crinoline and swirling skirts. For a moment the platform is a melee of movement—well-dressed ladies and their attending gentlemen sweeping ahead, while porters balance hat boxes and travel trunks on their shoulders at the rear.
Nick waits for them to disperse, scanning the crowd for the description Charlie had given him—blue waistcoat, dark hair. Not much to go on. The platform is almost empty before he sees the figure, right at the other end, clutching a small valise and making his way slowly forward. A thin, delicate face, half-hidden under a flat cap, the hint of dark curls trapped beneath; a navy waistcoat on a thin frame.
“Charlie?” he calls, testing.
The young man looks up in recognition, and Nick discovers his half-formed imaginings of a sharp jaw are nothing compared to the elegant angle of reality. Charlie pauses, teetering for half a second, and then finishes the last few yards, with quick, purposeful steps.
“Mr Nelson,” he says, in a strained voice. “You’re here.” Dark blue eyes peer at him from under the brim—clouded with hesitation Nick can see he’s struggling to overcome.
That would make two of them. “Well—yes, I am. Hello. It’s wonderful to make your real acquaintance.” He holds out his hand for Charlie to shake. It looks pale and hideously sun-freckled, large and oaf-like, especially when Charlie slips his more slight and tanned palm against his.
A bustling porter hauling a heavy trunk chooses that moment to knock into them as he rushes past. They both stagger. Charlie’s light frame is knocked off balance easier than his, so Nick makes a dive to keep him upright, moving from a proper handshake to gripping Charlie with two hands around the waist to keep him steady. There’s nothing of him, Nick discovers. His hazy conjurings had, admittedly, mostly featured a broader set of shoulders, a frame better built for the hard labour the farm demanded. The boy beneath his fingers feels like he’s made of straw, ready to blow away in a summer breeze. Like a shaft of bright enough sunlight might be able to slice a hole right through the faded navy wool of his waistcoat and beyond, all the way down to the bone.
He sways, and Nick tightens his hold. No doubt Charlie’s journey has been long and arduous, probably begun at the cry of the rooster. The day has been relentlessly hot since the sun peeked over the horizon, and Charlie has been trapped in a stuffy train carriage for most of it. Perhaps it’s no surprise he’s unsteady on his feet.
“Are you alright?” he asks. “Would you like to sit—before we—?”
He looks towards a bench, off to their side, but Charlie shakes his head. He rights himself, gently slipping from Nick’s grasp. Nick has to refrain from reaching out again, hand on his hip, to make sure he’s truly recovered. “No, thank you,” Charlie replies. His voice is thin and quiet. “I am quite alright to finish the journey.” He pauses, before adding, “And I am keen to see Truham Farm.”
That, at least, helps lift some of the worries on Nick’s shoulders. He coughs to clear his throat. “I know this is all very irregular, but I am excited to welcome you to your new home. I hope you will find it to your liking.”
”I’m sure I will,” he murmurs. He looks, to tell the truth, on the edge of fainting. Standing hovering on the platform in the heat is helping neither of them.
“Right, let’s go and meet Mabel, then.”
The small valise Charlie is carrying is as lightweight as he is when Nick takes it from his hand. “I wasn’t expecting company,” Charlie says sharply.
“Oh—no,” Nick amends, at Charlie’s sudden panicked expression. “No, Mabel’s my mare, remember? There’s just us, I promise.” Despite the sun streaming over them, Charlie reminds Nick of a winter hare; body held tense, looking for a place safe enough to bolt and hide. He tries to gentle his voice as much as possible. “Shall we go?”
Mabel whinnies softly when Nick returns to untie her, smoothing his palm over her soft, velvet nose. Charlie watches him check over the tack before their journey, boring burn holes into his back through his layers, hotter than the sun’s rays. His skin itches beneath his coat.
He half expects Charlie to ignore the hand he offers to help him into the buggy, but Charlie takes it. There is the faintest tremor in his fingers. Afterwards, he pulls the cuff of his shirtsleeve over his palm and keeps his hands twisted in his lap, the entire length of the ride home.
As Mabel plods steadily down the lane, the clip-clop of her hoofs beating a steady rhythm into the dirt, Nick holds the reins loosely in his hands and watches the countryside pass by. They are not far from Truham Farm now. Every cottage, every field, every hedgerow they pass is familiar to him, shimmering in the slowly fading heat. As the road bends, the land running alongside the track becomes that of the farm. There is the apple orchard, starting to bow under its ripening fruits, with trees planted by Nelsons of many generations past. There is the far field, with its cut-through footpath heading back to the nearest village, down which Nick has spent many hours of his life walking in all kinds of weather, foul and fair. There is the gate he mended a year ago, when one of the farmhands, now dismissed, had enraged the bull by waving his hat at it—the man escaped unscathed, but the gate did not.
Not a thing has changed, of course, since he set out this morning. But now Nick feels as if he’s looking at it all with new eyes. The farmhouse comes into view, surrounded by the menagerie of outhouses and barns. The red brick glows warmly in the afternoon light.
Beside him, Charlie has finally lifted his chin and is looking up, gazing at the approaching house. His twisted hands have slipped from his lap.
“Nearly there,” Nick murmurs, for want of anything better to say.
Charlie’s eyes sweep across the landscape. He nods.
Ever since David had left, Truham Farm has been Nick’s, if not in name, then certainly in practice. When he had passed, their father had left both his sons the farm and everything that came with it—the old apple orchard, historically blighted by aphids; the ramshackle outbuildings and chicken coop; the dairy barn and the dwindling dairy herd; the stony outfields, cereal crop and the vegetable field beyond—more sprawling land than Nick knew what to do with and certainly how to manage on his own. And then there was the farmhouse itself. Nick had not realised, when he was growing up, taking everything blissfully for granted, how much maintenance the old property needed. The roof was liable to let the damp in if a roof tile was blown askew in high winds, and Nick was forever finding another hinge that needed oiling. He did not begrudge his mother remarrying, certainly to secure her own comfort in her later years, but without her guiding presence the additional upkeep of the house was a daunting task.
David had taken stock of the work in front of him, and flatly refused. The little money he had been left by their father, along with what he had managed to save over the years, he had invested in a friend’s venture—a furniture ‘emporium’ in town. He was to be a businessman, he declared, not a lowly farmer, and would not allow himself to be dragged down by the farm, like a millstone around his neck. If Nick wanted to waste his life trying to turn a profit where none was to be found, he was welcome to die, as their father had, trying.
It was not so much David’s abandonment that surprised Nick the most, but his betrayal of their father’s wishes. Of the two of them, it had been David who was groomed to inherit. It was no secret David was the favoured, eldest son. As a boy, Nick had a tendency to daydream—a habit that inspired his father’s ire. He was too soft, too tender, too liable to stand and watch the sunrise, when he ought to be out in the field already with a spade, hard at work. At ten years old, he cried when his father took the barn kittens and drowned them in a bucket in the yard, and cried harder when he was told to cease such nonsense. The expectation was always that David would be the one in charge. He’d often talked grandly about what he would do as ‘the man of the house’ and, while their father was alive, followed his orders to a tee, smug in the knowledge of his approval.
And yet, without the threat of their father’s ill-will, David had turned his back on the farm. If Nick were able to think more generously about his brother—which he oftentimes was not—it was perhaps more understandable than Nick wanted to admit. The fact remained that the farm needed someone to work it, and if it was Nick alone, then he would shoulder the burden.
He’d been doing well enough, during the summer months, but though it felt strange to consider now, wrapped in the humid air of the current heatwave, Autumn was closing in. It would be harvest time soon, and Nick knew back-breaking work awaited him. His neighbours in the village and surrounding farms were well settled, caught up with their own families and managing their own land. Nick did not suffer from a lack of places to find a welcoming smile and a cup of tea when needed, as a break from being out in the fields, but lately the loneliness had begun to burrow deeper. Balmy summer evenings alone—sitting on the rickety bench by the back door, a cool beer in hand, watching the purple haze of dusk roll across the land—were one thing. Long, frostbitten nights spent by himself, huddled over the gas lamp for light and warmth, were quite another.
His mother was the one who suggested marriage. A helping hand, she said. I worry come winter you’ll be buried in a snow drift up there, my darling, and none of us shall hear about it until it’s much too late. Her manner had been jovial, but the concern behind her words was genuine. Nick did not want to cause his mother undue anxiety.
But the local society was small and, in truth, Nick did not care to explore much beyond it. The ad seemed like a sensible idea.
WANTED: Capable Hand for Farm & Home
Seeking a partner to assist with upkeep of both house and land. Family farm is located close to amenities, and operates all seasons, with good yield. Desired qualities include steadiness, diligence, and an adaptability to country life. Generous lodging provided, with potential for a more permanent arrangement of matrimony, if both parties agree. Farmer is four-and-twenty years of age. Similar-aged inquiries are preferred.
Nick could not pinpoint exactly what about Charlie’s response had made the decision for him. His tone was polite, though certainly so were others. He did not simp and flatter, but presented himself honestly. There was an anxiousness woven between the words Nick found endearing and relatable. He professed to having no experience of maintaining a farm, but he had always applied himself well to his work, and enjoyed learning new skills. He wished to leave his current position and make a new life for himself. His favourite part of his day was baking in the early morning, listening to the bird song outside the kitchen window. With a glimmer of humour, he conceded that in the suburbs, the birdsong was mostly wood pigeons, but it bought him happiness nonetheless. He imagined there was a great variety of birdcall to observe on the farm.
There were other, more suitable, experienced offers, but Nick was drawn back to Charlie’s letter, again and again, shuffling it to the top of the pile—until he realised to accept anyone else would be unfair. His decision was made, for better or worse.
Nellie is waiting for them in the yard.
This time, Charlie’s hand does not shake as he allows Nick to help him down from the buggy. He allows Nick to take his valise too, though Nick has to hurriedly set it aside in order to intercept Nellie’s enthusiastic greeting. She’s vibrating with excitement, both at Nick’s return and the prospect of a new friend. Nick has to crouch down to hold her back, steady hand at her collar, soothing over her fur.
“Whoa, girl. Where are your manners, hmm? Calm, now.”
Dutifully, and with much effort, Nellie sits and attempts to restrain herself. Nick glances up. Charlie is standing above them, a curious slant to his small smile.
“What’s her name?” he asks softly.
“Nellie. She can be excitable, but she’s a good sheepdog.”
“Strong name, Nellie Nelson.”
Nick straightens, once he can be sure Nellie won’t jump up without him holding her back. “I was allowed to name her, when I was a boy. I liked the double letters,” he replies, shrugging.
Carefully, Charlie squats down. He presents his hand, palm out, stiff. Nellie sniffs at it, as obedient as he has trained her to be, before breaking free and laving it with one, long lick. Charlie squeaks in surprise.
“Oh, gosh, sorry!”
Charlie’s cheeks are pink with embarrassment. “No—no, it’s alright,” he replies, visibly regathering himself. He extends out his fingers again, reaching to stroke Nellie’s head. Nellie, of course, is delighted to have a new visitor to fuss over her, but he sees some tension slide out of Charlie’s shoulders too, the smile on his face fixing a little more firmly in place.
The meagre valise seems to be the only belongings Charlie has brought with him, so it does not take much effort for Nick to carry it into the house. He was expecting more luggage—a trunk, perhaps, or a chest. Two valises. But Charlie doesn’t mention any other luggage being sent on without him, and Nick is forced to conclude that the rather motheaten case in his hand, light as a feather, is all Charlie has chosen to bring to his new life. The thought makes his heart ache.
Nellie trotting at their heels, he guides Charlie through the kitchen, to be returned to later, and up the stairs. The floorboards creak in the same way, in the same precise spot, as when Nick was a child. Charlie’s head is bent as he follows, mop of dark hair falling over his face. He reminds Nick, head tilted just so, of the cherubs in the paintings at church, with their beautiful faces and corkscrew curls, though Charlie’s are brown instead of blonde, and his face holds none of the round-cheeked happiness of the oil paintings Nick gazes at each Sunday from his chosen pew. He wonders if the country air may well help with the colour, even perhaps the sleek, almost hollow, angles of his cheekbones. He would like Charlie to be well-provided for here. To never go without.
“I’ve set aside a room for you,” he says, leading Charlie to the door at the end of the hall. It used to be David’s room. Nick took perhaps too much satisfaction in sweeping the floor and rearranging the furniture, ridding the room of any trace of its former occupant. The dresser he moved in from his own room, while he takes possession of his parents' old master. It did not feel quite right to put Charlie in his boyhood bedroom, somehow. The opportunity to eliminate David’s lingering presence in the house was a mere bonus. “It’s not the biggest, but I hope you’ll find it comfortable.”
The door creaks as he opens it—another hinge he’ll have to re-oil—and he steps back to let Charlie past. The bed is simple, an iron frame, made up with clean sheets and a thin coverlet. He’s left a fresh candlestick by the bedside, and the dresser stands empty, on the opposite wall. He opened a window to try and coax in a breeze before he left, but to no avail.
He sets the valise down on the bed. Charlie drifts towards the window, as though in a daze.
“Is all that land yours?” he asks, in an awed voice.
Nick has to draw up behind him to share the view, stretching out across the orchard and beyond. He can just see the perimeter wall, backing onto the neighbouring property. In the bright sunlight, the field borders merge into each other, a washed-out patchwork fading in the heat. “Most of it,” Nick admits. “Truham Farm used to be bigger, but my grandparents sold land off a while back.”
He wants to amend his answer—yours too, now—but he knows he’s jumping ahead of himself. The banns are still being read, and though they both know the intention of the arrangement, Nick made sure Charlie would be able to back out, if he changed his mind. There would be a minor scandal, no doubt, but none bigger than the one Nick’s chosen method of selecting a spouse had already caused. Either way, it’s too forward, and he forces himself to hold his tongue.
Charlie turns. Nick is standing much too close. There is less of a height difference between them than Nick realised. Charlie angles his chin up. The sunlight streaming in filters through his eyelashes, throwing spiky shadows onto his cheeks.
“Thank you,” he says. There’s a softness to his tone Nick hasn’t heard in their few strained exchanges at the station, or during the ride home. He sounds genuine.
Nick blinks. He ought to step back and away, but Charlie’s upturned, fragile face has him rooted to the clean-swept floorboards. His eyes drop to the bow of Charlie’s lip; a pale, cracked pink. Nick should offer him a drink, some food, the space to freshen up, to sleep. He hesitates.
Something passes over Charlie’s face—a ripple of awareness. His whispered “oh” is almost too quiet to hear, if Nick were not still so damnably unable to move. He watches Charlie’s eyes cloud over. He can smell the faint twang of Charlie’s sweat, sticky from his travels, trapped under the collar of his shirt; can feel the hot puff of his breath. Charlie tilts his head and leans in.
Nick yanks himself backward so hard he has to shoot out a hand behind him to steady himself on the iron bedframe. It takes a split second to recognise he’s done the wrong thing. He should have been more subtle. Charlie has frozen in place, like Nick before, expression stricken. The winter hare has made a return, alert and upright. Charlie looks as if he’d like to take off running, if only he could convince his feet to follow orders.
“Sorry—did I—? I did not mean to presume—I must apologise—”
“You did nothing wrong,” Nick says, trying to soothe. “I should let you rest. You must be exhausted from your travels. I will leave you for a while.”
“If you wish,” Charlie responds, wooden.
Shame, bitter and spreading, curls up Nick’s spine. When they were young lads, Nick’s friend from school, Otis, used to declare Nick’s head could always be turned by a pretty face, though he usually laughed and added that it was a shame it took something a little more for him to open his mouth and do something about it. Charlie was more than a pretty face—he was here for a reason, of which they both knew, but Nick should not let his shallow, baser thoughts control him. Taking advantage of Charlie when he had just arrived, weary and in unfamiliar surrounds, would have made him the worst kind of cad. There were things to discuss first, a trial period of sorts to make it through, before Nick should be anywhere near considering what Charlie’s dry lips may feel like pressed against his. His advert had expressed the need for someone steady. What example was Nick setting, if he could not emulate that quality himself?
He closes the door without looking back to see if Charlie’s expression has melted away. The latch clicks. The mattress groans—Charlie must have finally sat himself down. Nick slips his hand away from the doorknob, unwilling to listen further, and whistles for Nellie to follow him back outside, into the warm, muggy yard.
The house at his back, familiar all his life, feels different with the knowledge there is another person—a stranger—inside.