Aunt Mildred snapped. “Sit down. You are drawing attention to yourself.” “I am going for a walk,” Norah said quietly.
“In this heat, you will ruin your complexion.” “My complexion is the least of my worries, Aunt.” Before Mildred could object further, Norah stepped to the trolley. She didn't hesitate. She grabbed theavy silver pitcher by the handle, snatched one of the clean tin cups, and walked off the terrace.
The grass was dry and brittle, crunching under the thin soles of Norah's boots as she walked away from the shade of the house. The moment she stepped out from beneath the canvas awning, the heat hit her like a physical blow. It pressed against her skin, heavy and relentless. She kept her eyes fixed on the trench. She could feel the stareins burning into her back from the terrace.
She knew what she was doing was social suicide in her aunt's eyes. A lady didn't approach the laborers. A lady didn't acknowledge the dirt, the sweat, or the suffering of the working class. A lady remained above it all, pristine and untouched. Norah didn't care.
The cynicism she harbored toward her own society had long ago curdled into a quiet, stubborn rebellion. If she was a ghost to them, then she would act like one. She would haunt their perfect afternoon. As she neared the work site, the smell of turned earth, crushed roots, and sour sweat filled the air. The sounds of metal hitting rock were deafening up close.
Mr. Croft spotted her first. The steward pulled sharply on his horse's reins, turning the beast to face her. His eyes darted from her faded dress to the silver pitcher in her hand. He didn't know exactly who she was, merely one of the poorer relations of the wealthy guests, but he knew she belonged to the house. “Miss,” Croft said, his tone a mix of deference and annoyance. “The grounds are not safe for a stroll today. There is dust and loose earth.”
“I am not strolling, Mr. Croft,” Norah said, her voice steady, though her heart was hammering against her ribs. She didn't stop walking. She walked right past the horse, stepping directly to the edge of the jagged trench. The laborers stopped. Ten men, covered in a thick paste of dust and sweat, stared at her in stunned silence. To them, she must have looked like a mirage.
A woman in a pink dress holding a pitcher covered in frost. Norah scanned the trench until she found him. The dark-haired man. He was leaning against the dirt wall, his chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged gasps. Up close, he looked worse.
His lips were cracked and bleeding. The knuckles on his hands were raw. She knelt in the dirt. She didn't care about the muslin skirt. She let it drag in the dry dust.