northernmost parcel of Shaw land and ended in front of the house.
With the horses tied contentedly to a post out front, she lifted her skirts and hefted a rifle more comfortably than the day before. Riddled with potholes, the hike to the crude gun range proved dangerous to her heeled, leather encased ankles but Lenny seemed patient enough, and waited as she picked her way through the rugged terrain.
Vigorous hand motions and much pointing. Her teacher had decreed she must work on firing the rifle from a greater distance.
After she was comfortable with the weapon and a pretty decent shot, the dark headed girl instructed her with a longer, heavier rifle, which required better aim and a steadier arm to hit the targets. It would take time, but given enough practice, she might be a decent markswoman. What would she ever need the skill for, though?
Lenny took her rabbit hunting. The Indian girl’s buckskin pants and dark cotton shirt, her belt loosely keeping the waist tapered, and her soft moccasins quieted her footsteps when stalking their quarry. Drat the blasted things, her full skirts were not in any way stealthy or quiet, and rustled and swished like the rapids of some angry river.
Another rabbit raced away. The second one today, scared far too soon to shoot from a reasonable distance. Lenny gave her an exasperated glare, and Maggie smiled in apology and hiked her skirts up, revealing leather shoes with a small heel. Shaking her head, Lenny sighed dramatically.
Maggie stifled a laugh. “These will never do, will they?”
Lenny motioned for her to stay put and stalked into the brush. After sitting against a large tree for what seemed like an hour, a shot rang out, and her companion arrived shortly with one plump and very deceased rabbit dangling from her hand. Disgusting. What was she supposed to do with it? She attempted to school her expression so as not to look horrified, but likely failed miserably. Eyes narrowed, Lenny studied her then tossed the rabbit at her feet, took a knife from her belt and handed it, hilt first, to her.
“No, Lenny. I don’t think I’m ready for this. It’s just a little bunny. Nope. Hmm-mm.” She shook her head vigorously. Her task master waited, arms crossed.
Apparently the girl had a stubborn streak that rivaled even Garret Shaw’s, because it wasn’t long before Lenny showed her how to gut a bunny. While plodding back to the house, a much lighter bunny in her blood covered hands, something inside her shifted. It was as if she had sloughed off a layer of reserve. Like a sliver of weakness had been left in the pile of bunny innards. When she lived in the city, she never would have imagined in her wildest dreams having the courage or stomach to do something so base.
But she did. No longer was she the frightened woman who couldn’t do much more than dress herself. As she tried not to let the self-satisfaction show too terribly much on her face, Lenny smiled sunnily at her.
The triumphant feeling lasted only until they arrived in the kitchen, when Lenny goaded her into skinning the poor creature. Cutting the meat under her mentor’s direction, she started a rabbit and vegetable stew that simmered for the rest of the day. Though the rabbit stew was satisfying at the end of the long day of toil, having experienced the bloody work that had gone into making it, eating it was hard.
She would get used to it though. She hoped.
* * * *
Though I am not long for my bed , Maggie wrote the night of the fourth day, yawning with tiredness, exhilaration compels me to document my thoughts. Pride is a sin, Aunt Margaret always told me. No matter, I cannot help but find my accomplishments of the past few days thrilling. Is it a sin to take pride in the work of one’s hands? I think not.
From the housemaid who lays the fires in the morning to the butler who oversees serving dinner, Aunt Margaret’s servants performed their duties with quiet efficiency. Certainly they do not have a
With the horses tied contentedly to a post out front, she lifted her skirts and hefted a rifle more comfortably than the day before. Riddled with potholes, the hike to the crude gun range proved dangerous to her heeled, leather encased ankles but Lenny seemed patient enough, and waited as she picked her way through the rugged terrain.
Vigorous hand motions and much pointing. Her teacher had decreed she must work on firing the rifle from a greater distance.
After she was comfortable with the weapon and a pretty decent shot, the dark headed girl instructed her with a longer, heavier rifle, which required better aim and a steadier arm to hit the targets. It would take time, but given enough practice, she might be a decent markswoman. What would she ever need the skill for, though?
Lenny took her rabbit hunting. The Indian girl’s buckskin pants and dark cotton shirt, her belt loosely keeping the waist tapered, and her soft moccasins quieted her footsteps when stalking their quarry. Drat the blasted things, her full skirts were not in any way stealthy or quiet, and rustled and swished like the rapids of some angry river.
Another rabbit raced away. The second one today, scared far too soon to shoot from a reasonable distance. Lenny gave her an exasperated glare, and Maggie smiled in apology and hiked her skirts up, revealing leather shoes with a small heel. Shaking her head, Lenny sighed dramatically.
Maggie stifled a laugh. “These will never do, will they?”
Lenny motioned for her to stay put and stalked into the brush. After sitting against a large tree for what seemed like an hour, a shot rang out, and her companion arrived shortly with one plump and very deceased rabbit dangling from her hand. Disgusting. What was she supposed to do with it? She attempted to school her expression so as not to look horrified, but likely failed miserably. Eyes narrowed, Lenny studied her then tossed the rabbit at her feet, took a knife from her belt and handed it, hilt first, to her.
“No, Lenny. I don’t think I’m ready for this. It’s just a little bunny. Nope. Hmm-mm.” She shook her head vigorously. Her task master waited, arms crossed.
Apparently the girl had a stubborn streak that rivaled even Garret Shaw’s, because it wasn’t long before Lenny showed her how to gut a bunny. While plodding back to the house, a much lighter bunny in her blood covered hands, something inside her shifted. It was as if she had sloughed off a layer of reserve. Like a sliver of weakness had been left in the pile of bunny innards. When she lived in the city, she never would have imagined in her wildest dreams having the courage or stomach to do something so base.
But she did. No longer was she the frightened woman who couldn’t do much more than dress herself. As she tried not to let the self-satisfaction show too terribly much on her face, Lenny smiled sunnily at her.
The triumphant feeling lasted only until they arrived in the kitchen, when Lenny goaded her into skinning the poor creature. Cutting the meat under her mentor’s direction, she started a rabbit and vegetable stew that simmered for the rest of the day. Though the rabbit stew was satisfying at the end of the long day of toil, having experienced the bloody work that had gone into making it, eating it was hard.
She would get used to it though. She hoped.
* * * *
Though I am not long for my bed , Maggie wrote the night of the fourth day, yawning with tiredness, exhilaration compels me to document my thoughts. Pride is a sin, Aunt Margaret always told me. No matter, I cannot help but find my accomplishments of the past few days thrilling. Is it a sin to take pride in the work of one’s hands? I think not.
From the housemaid who lays the fires in the morning to the butler who oversees serving dinner, Aunt Margaret’s servants performed their duties with quiet efficiency. Certainly they do not have a
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