This Soil ⌖ n.h. [slow updates]

chapter five

It had been three days. Three days since Malcolm Brady, the odd yet not extraordinary project assignment, and the telling of Mae's predicament. Being that had been Tuesday, it was now Friday, and Helen had just entered her home. Bethel, one of just a few servants the Saxton's employed, greeted her as she walked in.

"Good afternoon, Helen," Bethel greeted her cheerily, gently taking Helen's bag from her.

Helen smiled a small, warm smile at the middle-aged woman as she handed her the books from her arms as well. "Good afternoon, Bethel."

"What homework shall we be working on today?" Bethel inquired as she followed Helen into the kitchen, the older woman's small, scurrying steps exaggerated next to Helen's long, striding ones. Helen seemed to always walk with purpose; she did not float, as was considered proper for ladies of that time. She marched. She enjoyed the sure, heavy smack of her shoes on the ground beneath her.

"Hm," she said as she finally swept into the kitchen. "A short paragraph on America's involvement in the Civil War for history, a clipping from the newspaper of a current event for patriotism class-" As she said this, Bethel snatched up The Times from the dining table where Helen's father had left it this morning and offered it to her. Helen took it with a smile. "Yes, thank you- and I must write a letter," she finished.

"Helen, you're not usually one for correspondence," Bethel offered with a surprised grin.

"It's a school assignment," Helen quickly asserted, though she was smiling as well. Bethel was loud, and usually quick to please others, but nevertheless, Helen adored her. Perhaps it was that Bethel had taken care of her all her life. Or perhaps Helen subconsciously admired something within the woman. However, Helen's viewing of the matronly woman was the same no matter the reason.

"Ah?" Bethel prompted curiously, as she retrieved for Helen an apple as a snack.

Helen received the small offering graciously, and took a loud, satisfying bite. She wiped her lips and chin with the back of her hand before continuing. "We're to write to a soldier on the front lines," she elaborated, then sat the apple down on the table to retrieve paper and a pencil.

"Intriguing," Bethel said, chipper as always.

"Perhaps," Helen replied with a grin and a raised eyebrow, shaking her head good-naturedly.

As Bethel went back to the task she had been engrossed in before Helen's always-punctual arrival, and Helen went to work, they fell into a silence that Helen found comfortable. She simply enjoyed the pleasant company; the barely-there sound of a rag being swiped across the smooth, shining floor, combined with Bethel's tuneless yet optimistic humming was oddly comforting. However, Bethel was a person who could hardly stand silence, and after a minute or so, she inquired, "What do you plan to write to him?"

"Pardon?" Helen asked, having been too absorbed in homework to hear Bethel's question. She put her pencil down and turned to look at Bethel.

"What will you write to him?" Bethel reiterated.

"I'm not quite sure," Helen admitted. "Ms. Ralston suggested we mention a few things going on at home, as they might be curious. But..." she trailed off.

"But what?" Bethel prompted.

"I see no point in that. Will that not simply make them homesick? Besides, I've heard that the soldiers stationed near France can get The Times just one day later than we do," Helen said.

Bethel shrugged. "You make logical points," she acknowledged. "Did Ms. Ralston voice any other thoughts on what to write?"

Helen sighed as she returned to
her work, her hand busily scribbling away. "Only to describe our everyday lives. And does that not sound horribly mundane, Bethel?"