The Potato Farmer’s Wife

CHAPTER FOUR

Stories of Faraway Places

Sarah noticed Jake’s hands were still bound in cloth, as they had been the day they met. He had a way of fumbling with things, as though pain kept him from holding on.

“What’s wrong with your hands?” she asked.

Sally quickly responded, “His blisters aren’t healing, and he won’t let me look at them. He’s stubborn, just like his father was.”

Sarah left her seat and went to where Jake was sitting.

“Let me see,” she said, standing close beside him. He caught the faint scent of fresh, clean soap, like spring water over stone. Without a word, he laid both hands face up on the table. She unwrapped the cloth with care, her touch light as linen, and he felt the ache rise as air met skin.

The moment ended suddenly as Sally roughly grabbed one of his hands. The blisters were red, raw, and full of pus. Dirt in the wounds was stopping them from healing.

“This is bad. You’re a fool, Jake. Could you not smell them? Another day, and you might have lost the use of these hands for months, or worse. Now wash and scrub them clean. I will get the honey and some fresh coverings.”

His eyes followed Sarah’s as he rose from his seat.

“You’d best do as she says. I’ve seen this before. If we don’t fix it now, the poison could spread through your body.”

Patrick had come from Charlotte’s room and caught the tail end of the warning, so had Dan.

“How long?” asked Dan. “Three days if he keeps them clean and dry,” Sally replied, placing the honey and dressings on the table.

“Three days?” Jake repeated. “What do you mean, three days?”

“You must rest your hands and keep the wounds clean and dry for three days. Now go wash them.”

“It looks like we are going to be one person short,” said Dan. That will slow the planting down.”

“I can take his place. I’ve spent many a day behind Patrick on the plough.”

“I don’t think you are strong enough yet. The work is hard, and the days will be long.”

“Don’t worry, Sally,” said Patrick. “Sarah can drive a team of horses as well as I can; she can ride the plough tomorrow.”

Patrick headed for the door. “I’m off to the cottage. We have an early start in the morning.”

“I need to clean up and dress Jake’s hands. I will join you shortly.”

Jake had returned and sat at the table.

Sally gathered the plates. “You can fix his hands now. The table is clear.”

“I hear you have been living in London for some years.” Sarah started to apply the honey. “Do you miss England?”

Jake cast his eyes downward, avoiding her gaze, fearing he might get lost in her graceful beauty.

“No, England has no appeal, but how I miss London. It’s like living in a different world. All the streets are cobblestone, there is a gas light on every corner, and you can go to the music hall or theatre every night of the week.”

“I would like to hear more about London. There, finished, try not to get it wet or dirty. I will dress it again tomorrow, but now I must go. Perhaps you can share some of your stories with me then?” Sarah smiled as their eyes met.

“Yes, but be ready to be bored. I don’t think my life has been exciting enough to tell stories about.”

“Just the word London sounds exciting to me. I have never been to a big city.”

Sarah was humming as she walked down to the cottage. Their fortune had changed. Food, warmth and a dry place to sleep had revived their bodies, and Charlotte had recovered from her illness.

Patrick met her outside and swept her off her feet into his arms.

“Close your eyes until we get inside.” Patrick carried her through the open door.

“All right, you can open them now.” Six lanterns lit the room; her eyes adjusted quickly. There was an open fireplace with a wood fire burning. Four chairs, a small table, a dresser with some crockery, and a double bed took up almost half the room.

He set her on her feet. “Come see.” He held her hand. “This will be Charlotte’s place.” It was small but big enough to fit a single bed. They went outside.

“We have a privy, a washstand and a pump for water.”

“We will be safe here for as long as we want.” It had been a long time since they had shown each other affection. He took her in his arms, and their lips met. Patrick lifted Sarah off her feet, and carried her back inside, their lips still entwined. This should have been a night of passion, but they both knew it was not to be.

Patrick fell into a deep sleep; Sarah lay beside him, but sleep eluded her. The last two years had been a downhill rollercoaster of bad luck, and it was hard for her to believe it could be over. She thought about the hardships they had faced and the sacrifices they had made. Yet, despite everything, they had found their way to this place. She felt grateful to be by his side. Sarah realised that sometimes life is not about the destination but the journey.

Patrick was a good man; she loved him deeply, but some things had changed between them that had left her longing.

Her thoughts faded as she closed her eyes and finally drifted off to sleep,

* * *

Jake walked out of the farmhouse, wondering how he would fill his day. Sarah had been right; his hands had swollen, and any movement was painful. Another day, and the infection could have turned to gangrene, and he might have lost some fingers.

He sat on the porch steps, looking out over the farm. For the first time since his return, he felt a sense of belonging. His childhood memories flooded back; they were fun, happy times when his mother was still alive. But when she died, her loss was a pain his father could never overcome. The happiness faded, and Jake moved to London.

A noise at the end of the porch caught his attention. Charlotte was sitting in Sally’s rocking chair, reading a book.

“It’s good to see you out in the fresh air. How are you feeling?” Jake asked.

Charlotte looked up. “Much better, thank you, sir.”

“Just call me Jake.” Charlotte didn’t answer.

“What are you reading?”

“The book is called The Black Tulip, sir; I mean, Jake.”

“What’s it about?”

“The book is called The Black Tulip, sir; I mean, Jake.” “What’s it about?”

“I don’t think you’ll like it. The story is about a man in Holland.”

Charlotte was sixteen, growing from a girl into a young woman, but Jake felt comfortable in her presence.

“Holland sounds like a faraway place. Can you tell me more about the story?”

Growing up on the farm, Jake had little schooling. Sally taught him what she could, but he had never heard an adventure story from a book before.

“Well, the story is about a man called Cornelius, condemned to life in prison. Falsely accused of high treason by a bitter rival, his only comfort is Rosa, the jailer’s beautiful daughter, who helps him grow the black tulip secretly.”

Jake was caught in the softness of her voice, every word holding him still. Something in the way she read, steady, unhurried, drew him in deeper than he expected. “Would you read a little more?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost reluctant to break the moment.

Charlotte studied him, noticing the pull in his eyes. “Shall I start from the beginning?” He let out a slow, deliberate sigh. “I’d like that very much.”

Jake rested on the porch as Charlotte started the story again. With the warmth of the sun and his body, he closed his eyes and let his mind drift into the adventure.

* * *

The day had drained every ounce of strength from them, but by nightfall, three full acres lay planted behind them, neat rows of hope etched into the earth. Sarah moved with quiet strength as she unhitched the horses. Their coats were damp with sweat and dust, their sides rising and falling under the weight of the day’s work. She stroked their necks and led them down to the barn, whispering her thanks. She laid fresh straw and filled the troughs.

Dan and Patrick followed the path toward the farmhouse, shoulders heavy, boots caked in soil. The promise of warmth and supper pulled them forward, tired and aching but satisfied.

“Well, look at this man of leisure,” Dan remarked, seeing Jake lying on the porch.

“Don’t mind him. He’s just jealous,” Jake joked.

Jake was reluctant to leave the story, but Charlotte had been reading to him all day. As the air cooled and night descended, it was time to get her into a warm place.

“Charlotte!” Sarah called. Jake looked up and saw her walking from the barn. “Have you been outside all this time?”

“I’m sorry, it’s my fault. Charlotte’s been reading to me, and we lost track of the day.”

Sarah placed her hand on Charlotte’s forehead.

“It’s all right, Mama. Jake made sure I kept warm and fed me well.”

“I’m sorry,” Jake repeated.

Sarah could see genuine concern on his face.

“No harm done; the fever hasn’t returned, and the fresh air probably did her more good than harm,” Sarah replied. She needed to break the awkwardness of the moment.

“How are the hands? I’ll change the dressing after supper. Now let’s go and eat.”

No more words were needed as they entered the house.

— Cecilia May