When the rooster crowed its shrill song, Beatrice wondered as she did every morning why she hadn’t yet strangled the wretched beast.

“Be quiet,” she moaned, pulling the feather pillow over her head in a pointless attempt to block out the piercing call. “Please. Just be quiet.”

Nothing could hold back the dawn, of course. Nothing could hold back the endless amounts of work which constituted her lonely days.

It was something to do, anyway. Anything to drive out the constant, aching loneliness which pressed in harder and harder as each day progressed.

Why did she have to start so early, though? It felt as though she’d only just closed her eyes moments ago. Perhaps the beast was confused. Hope sparked in her chest as she lifted the pillow just enough to peer in the direction of her bedroom window.

No. The sun was already on the rise.

She tucked the soft, thick pillow more firmly around her head and resolved to ignore the burgeoning day. She would go back to sleep and pretend she hadn’t heard the rooster’s penetrating cry, that she had slept through sunrise in complete innocence of the facts. For once, she would rise from her bed feeling well-rested and ready to face another day.

But then… Poor Bess would bellow mournfully in her stall, udders full of milk. Her bawling would upset the chickens, who would run around and fret and generally cause noisy commotion as a result. Old Cecil would become agitated over this, and a horse of his advanced age didn’t need the aggravation.

Beatrice squeezed her eyes shut, willing all of this perfectly rational imagery out of her mind so she could go back to sleep. She deserved sleep! Of all the little pleasures of life she’d been denied, sleep was the one whose absence she felt most acutely.

It was no use. The animals depended on her, even if no one else did. She couldn’t let them down.

And so she tossed the pillow to the floor in an attempt to rouse herself. If there was no pillow to block out the light which slowly crept in through the window, there was less chance of her falling asleep again. The same with the thin blanket she used at that time of year, she kicked it off before the sleepy, lazy part of her mind convinced her to pull it over her head.

When her feet hit the floor, she was already well awake and determined to face another day.

Would there ever come a time when something would happen to her? For her? Something to break up the monotony of life?

To break through the ever-present grief which she wore about her like an invisible cloak?

Another day without Margery. She’d stopped counting once she’d reached one hundred, only a few days hence. It didn’t seem worthwhile to continue the count, what with each day only increasing her loneliness and the certainty that her sister hadn’t lived through the journey to London.

She splashed her face with cool water from the basin near the window and dried it on the linen strip folded on the surface of her dressing table. What would Margery think if she knew how her sister worried? She’d probably laugh herself sick before teasing Beatrice, calling her a silly old woman for allowing fear to get the better of her.

But it had been so long. So long, with no word from her.

Anything could’ve happened. Beatrice surveyed the fields beyond her window as she unwound the long, dark braid with hints of red and gold over one shoulder and combed it out with her fingers. It was a big, unknown world out there. Margery might not even have made it to Silloth.

Her hands shook a she ran a wide-toothed comb through her tresses. She noted the tremor and chided herself for it. What had become of her? In such a short time, she’d gone from being the mistress of the household and a bit of a nag—her sister’s chief complaint—to a trembling, frightened old maid.

There was work to be done. She squared her shoulders and quickly rewound her braid before slipping out of her nightdress and into one of two everyday kirtles she owned. Both were in need of replacement, worn thin in the elbows and the seat, but there was little she could do about that in the immediate future.

What was Margery wearing in London?

It was easier to imagine her being there, living a vibrant life in a vibrant town. Better than the alternative, that she’d died weeks earlier.

Did Margery ever miss the fresh, clean air of the farm just after dawn? Beatrice filed her lungs with all the air she could as she walked to the barn, using the footpath that had long since been worn between the house’s rear door and the long, ramshackle building. It needed work. Everything needed work. But there was no one on the farm to do it.

“Good morning, Bess,” she murmured to the tawny cow as she entered the barn.

It had once been full of life, every stall occupied. There had been young men on hand to do the milking, to clean the stalls and feed the animals. It was the same with the stables. Theirs had been a thriving enterprise, one her father was proud of.

But pride was a sin.

Mother had reminded her and Margery of this nearly every day of their lives. She’d held up their very father as an example of the sin of pride, of what it could do to an otherwise God-fearing person’s life. If Papa hadn’t been so proud, hadn’t always wanted to expand his land holdings and grow the farm’s prosperity, God would not have struck him down.

Even as a child, this hadn’t made sense to Beatrice. She’d always questioned things, silently, rarely including Margery until she was certain her sister was old enough to keep a secret. It made little sense that a man who only wanted to provide a secure future for his daughters would be struck down for it.

What was so sinful about working hard and taking pleasure in the results?

From what she’d heard in the years after her father’s death, mostly from friends such as old Cedric Miller, he’d been a fair man. Modest, kind, generous. He hadn’t built wealth for sake of his pride.

He wasn’t like the noblemen, including the one whose land abutted her own. He hadn’t merely bought up all the land around him in a show of power.

And he hadn’t forgotten the good of his soul, either. Deacon Eddard had assured the sisters on more than one occasion of their father’s godliness, how he had always placed his duty to God above all else. Just slightly above his duty to his family, who were granted him by God and therefore deserving of the remainder of his devotion.

Beatrice sighed over this as she finished milking Bess, who let out a deep moo. Beatrice wondered if this was the cow’s way of thanking her for relieving the pressure in her udders.

“And thank you, my friend,” she whispered, running a hand over the silky flank. “Thank you for the cream and milk and butter.”

Mother had been wrong. Beatrice was certain of it, more certain every time she remembered all the whispered admonishments and warnings of an eternity spent in hellfire. Papa’s sin wasn’t pride. If anything, he had worked too hard and compromised his health in order to assure his daughters that they would have enough to their names when it came time to find husbands.

What a laughable prospect that was. She chuckled over it as she carried the full milk pail to the house and left it just inside the door before fetching the bucket of dried grain for the chickens and the basket for the eggs. A husband? Where, exactly?

Perhaps when she reached London…

The chicken coop was alive with activity when she stepped through the creaky wooden gate which enclosed the birds.

“Good morning, ladies.” She scattered grain over the ground. The half-dozen surviving hens pecked at their meal, chattering among themselves as always. She liked the sound, liked feeling as though someone on the farm wasn’t painfully lonely.

Not like her.

The sound of hoofbeats reached her ears as she finished gathering the eggs. Stepping out of the coop, picking straw from her hair, she recognized the deacon on the back of his old gray mare riding up the road.

“Good morning, Deacon Eddard!” she called out with a wave. It was nice, seeing another person so early in the day.

It didn’t take long for her to realize he wasn’t smiling. She hurried down the dirt path leading from the yard to the trail leading to the road and met the horse at her front gate.

The man’s thin face looked markedly more pinched and sallow than usual as he gazed down at her from above. As always, he wore dark clothing and kept his head covered. She wondered what his graying hair was like underneath. Thin, most likely. As the rest of him.

“Would that I were bringing you better news, my child.” His mouth drooped at the corners, as though something was weighing him down.

An icy hand closed around her heart and she realized she couldn’t breathe. No, it wasn’t possible. Not Margery, not the only other person she had in the entire world. It was one thing to convince herself of her sister’s death in an effort to prepare herself for what seemed like the inevitable, but another to face it as a fact.

Her hands closed around the worn, old fenceposts as she fought to remain on her feet. When she squeezed, the splintered wood sent a jolt of pain from her palms to her arms and revived her somewhat.

No. Not Margery.

Swallowing back the panic rising in her throat, she whispered, “What is it?”

“I’m afraid I’m on my way to Cedric Miller’s. Word has it, he went to his heavenly reward last night.”

It wasn’t Margery. He wasn’t there to tell her about Margery.

Relief nearly took the knees out from under her, even as her heart ached for the loss of her friend. Margery would be crushed. The two of them had become quite close, with her sister looking at the older man as a father figure in the absence of her own father.

“I’m so sorry to hear of this,” she whispered, her voice shaking.

The narrowing of the deacon’s eyes told her he mistook her deep relief for sorrow. “It comes to all of us, my dear. Cedric Miller was a good man, an honest and true servant of the Lord. He is undoubtedly in the Heavenly Kingdom this very morning.”

“I have no doubt.” Her voice was stronger, clearer, even if she had merely rattled off the words she knew he expected her to say.

It wasn’t Margery. He wasn’t there to tell her about Margery.

Her senses returned. “Would you like company on the ride to the mill?”

“No, thank you. I understand the miller’s daughter has come in from the village and there is no telling whether she would appreciate the additional company. But I will extend your sympathy to her.”

“Yes, please, do.”

Winifred Baker was a rather unpleasant woman on a good day, the two of them having crossed paths several times. Always going on about her husband and their bakery and their children, then remembering aloud how Beatrice would have no knowledge of such things.

As though she needed the reminder of her loneliness and the fact that she was past marriageable age.

She’d wondered to herself on these occasions, as she’d ridden home on the back of old Cecil, if Winifred thought the visits between her father and a young, unmarried woman were improper. Only a woman with a nasty, cunning mind such as hers would come to such a conclusion.

Better Beatrice stay home, for certain.

As the deacon lifted his reins, about to continue on his way, Beatrice added, “If you would, please, join me for a cup of tea on your return. I’m always grateful for the company.”

“I look forward to it,” he assured her before continuing his ride.

She sighed heavily, leaning against the fence for another few minutes as the mare and her rider grew smaller and smaller in the distance. Another loss, one which she hadn’t imagined hurting as much as it did.

Her heart clenched when she called to mind the pleasant hours she’d spent with the miller, sitting in front of his hearth as he’d regaled her with memories of her father. They were young men together, and he seemed to sense her unspoken craving to know more about the father who’d left her far too soon.

As unpleasant as Winifred Baker was, Beatrice was moved to offer up a silent prayer for her sake. They had both lost their father.

Except Winifred was a full-grown woman with a husband and two children. Security. And memories of a kind father which didn’t need to come by secondhand, through his old friends.

What did Beatrice have? She thought it over as she walked to the house, no longer in the mood for the morning meal she’d planned to prepare for herself before spotting the deacon’s horse on the road.

There was nothing but the remnants of what was once a thriving farm. She would never cease expressing gratitude for the roof over her head and the land which was still theirs, even if it went unused. It was still considered prime land and would’ve gone for an attractive price had she decided to sell.

But she couldn’t. It would mean letting go of the last bit of her father and her family. And there was no telling how Margery would feel about it, imagine finding out one’s land was sold out from beneath them! Even though Beatrice would share the proceeds evenly, it would feel as though she’d stolen something from her sister.

And there were no buyers. This was an important factor, one which had sealed Margery’s decision to forge a new destiny for the two of them. No one wanted to buy the farm, and neither woman knew how to arrange such a deal. There would be no telling whether they were receiving a fair offer even if someone were to express interest.

She sank into a chair at the table in front of the kitchen hearth, and the silence stretched out around her yet again. The silence that had become her life and would be her life until it ended.

One word pierced the silence, whispered by a brokenhearted sister. “Margery.”