The Misplaced

C h a p t e r ° 1

"Alright ladies,' she said, straighting at her wrinkled print gown, ' am quite regretful to announce that we must now be on our way home, for we've been visited with an unexpected emergency,".

An all brown shade of goat tween an identical dirty whites raised it's head from the shrubbery and bleated aggressively. Emma sighed and readjusted her tattered bandana that covered her thick curls of chestnut mare. 

" Of course not, Almira. Believe me when I say I would've loved to keep you folks here as long as I can, but you need to understand that urgency of the situation,' she said, ruefully, ' however, you've nothing to worry, cause by morrow, I shall endeavor that you continue from whence you've left off,"

Giving no chance to attend to more brooding, Emma picked up her crooked stick from the contented, sun-warmed ground, and ventured towards the domesticated livestock, with weed scrabbling at her dress, longingly nibbling onto her skirt, and with her old shabby walking boots, shuffling against the grass-decked path.

Upon witnessing her arrival, the livestock obediently started down the small hill of the woodland, well except for Almira, who so displeased with their sudden dismissal, acted intransigent as she deliberately slackened her pace behind the twin.

Emma ignored the ungrateful she-goat,  as she threw her thin shoulders back, and held her head high in an air of insouciance, whilst affectionately stroking at the head of the wounded willow warbler that was poked out through the cracks of her battered haversack.

Right after rounding down the steep hill with perishing furze bushes, skinny fir trees and with temperature resistant moss colony growing in the cracks of grey and yellow rocks along the trodden footpath, Emma espied her supposed destination, a draughty, impoverished miscellany of compacted miniature settlement, situated on the outskirts of the beautiful town of Castle Combe.

With their abode in view, the livestock began charging with asperity towards it whilst bleating in synchronicity as they went, and hence, left Emma to coast down after them, grumbling expletives and waving at her crooked disciplinarian.

Before she could catch up with the animals, and cajoled them, especially Almira, who had decided to play a game of hide-and-seek, to their loafing shed, she was quite exhausted.

Her granny, Sussanne, a stout lady with weathered skin, and with wrinkles, etched on her forehead in a permanent expression of displeasure, who was sitting on her worn out and chipped away caned-rocking chair in the small wooden porch of their house, knitting on a tweed blazer, and who had witnessed the entire ordeal, narrowed her honey-hued eyes over the rim of her glasses that hung down the bridge of her nose at her as she dragged herself towards the physically dissipated house.

Now she was sure that thier surrounding neighbors and gossip mongers, the Moores and the ugly widow, Mrs. Peg, were throwing displeased looks at her over thier tiny windows, and muttering disparaging words at her strange disposition of coaxing a goat.

" W'at's in t' bag, gell,' her older woman interrogated, warily eying at the bag Emma was gingerly cradling whilst she desperately clung onto the dwarf, wooden porch railing as she tried to catch her breath.

" A willow warbler,' Emma responded breathlessly, ' it got injured last dusk when he and his flocks were migrating to the south. The poor thing was left behind,"

Sussanne snorted, " 'ow do ye 'now that. P'r'aps 'cos 't bird told ye so?,"

Emma straightened, looking quite offended, " Ay, it'd,' she agreed, ' I know you'll not believe me, but the willow told me about it's plight and asked for my help, and I'd help it."

" THERESA!,' the old lady bawled, staring incredulously at her as though she had suddenly grown two heads, ' hurry, I th'nk t' gell 'as lost it 'gain,"

And then her mother, a tall, compact woman, in a long, grey gown and a stained flowery patterned bib apron, came barreling out of the small scullery door where Emma presumed she had been busy cooking lunch, for she was reeking of garlic.

Mrs. Barnes, a still attractive looking woman with dark blonde woebegone curls escaping from her tight bun, and with sharp blue eyes, narrow nose and thin, pursed lips, impatiently assessed the situation.

"Oh hush, mother,' she tutted tetchily, before turning to narrow her eyes intimidatingly down at Emma, ' and whatever am I going to do with you, eh. For god's sake, you know how the neighbors lay their ears down so as to listen to this nonsense and then feed on it,". Now, her mother was very livid.

A hot feeling spread even to Emma's ears, and she shamefully looked down at her feet as she wrung at her hands. " But, Mamma-,"

"Enough,' Mrs Barnes stated sassily, ' I don't want to hear more on this subject. And now look, you've ruined your dress. You misbegotten fool!, do you know how long it took me to sew that dress?, do you know how many times I pricked my skin while I made that?,"

Emma stood mousey-still, wallowing in embarrassment, as she allowing the guilt to sour her gut, for she loathed to disappoint her mother. And now, as her world went water-blurred and hazy, she wished earnestly for a possible approach to appease her mother's wrath.

" Why can't you be more like your sister, ' her mother apprehended, her clenched fists now resting on her ample hips, and her eyes hard, " at least Maggie's responsible and not at all behave in such a manner as you do. Why don't you try to follow her footsteps, eh?,"

" Am sorry, mamma. I didn't mean to offend you," said Emma gloomily, her teeth gritted together in an attempt to refrain her tears from falling.

" Of course, you're sorry,' Mrs. Barnes sighed with fine disdain, ' now, be good and go beat the laundries. And don't go 'bout rubbing and scrubbing those expensive muslins of Mrs. Lowe. Shake and squeeze them out from the hot frothy-lathery. And make sure you finish on time before your papa and Maggie's lunch break,"

"Ay, mamma," Emma replied, resignedly.

"Hush, you go,' her mother said, prodding her towards the entry. Emma went grudgingly, her heart quite heavy,  as the heels of her walking boots treaded quietly on the wooden floorboard that appeared to be in need of great polishing, and upon a five wooden steps leading up to the small boudoir on the gable end of the house, which she shared with her one and eight year old sister, Margaret.

The room had two cot on either side of the squarish wood walls, which there was a quiet rustling, scrambling sound of mice within, an old desk by the only small window, where her sister loved to sit up at the young hours of night, by her dwindling candlelight, penning love poetries to her secret crush, Mr. Patrick Halls, a very nice looking beau, quite tall, and had a fresh-coloured, clean-shaven face and dark hair, and the owner of the printing press in town.

Of course, she was the only one aware of this, for Margaret was quite fretful that mother wouldn't condone her penning such scandalous letters to an olive-coloured man. Emma wouldn't tell this to her mother, that her favorite daughter was enamoured with an olive-coloured. She would never betray her sister, for she was always good, kind and patient with her.

Quickly, Emma relieved herself from her possession, eased the wounded willow into an abandoned clay, flower pottery at the foot of her bed, and after saying some kind, reassuring parting words, blundered out of the room to her proffered, awaiting task.

~~~
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