Light fell across my bed in uneven patterns of flippancy. I was sunk deep into the old mattress and down pillows. My nose was cold but my feet were a bit too warm. Somewhere a dog was barking, cutting into the frosty morning, and a cart was rattling carelessly down the road. I sighed. The birds were anxiously conversing in the trees; someone was missing and Madge the cat was the most likely suspect. I knew this because last night she had come into the kitchen with a telltale feather hanging on her whisker. I rolled onto my back, but my hair was itchy. I had been too tired to braid it last night. That's life on an insecure farm for you. My hair would be one massive tangle this morning, but it didn't matter, there was no one to see it except Mistress Ellen and Katherine. An annoyed "moooo" suddenly exploded from the barn. I could have screamed something indelicate back, but I'm a lady, even still. I threw off my five quilts and stepped onto the icy wooden floor, which I felt particularly by way of the hole in the heal of my right stocking. I made my way to the window that looked to the hills and the sunrise while drawing my shawl more tightly against my shoulders. I peered through the ivy that covered the glass panes and tried to tell what the day would hold. The fuzzy clouds spelled out what I already suspected: cold and dull. I hurried into dress and petticoats and all other clothing articles necessary for warmth, sighing once again at the texture of homespun fabric in a homespun life; monotone, repetitive and, most distinctive, chaffing. I tied back the gnarled hair with a string. I'd deal with it later. I came down the creaking stairs and recalled how the first time I climbed up them and heard their wailing, I thought it was my own bones sending out an audible complaint. "You certainly took your time coming around this morning," greeted Mistress Ellen. She was hogging the best place in front of the fire. I was sure she would give some excuse about having to stir the porridge. Peasants. Her cap was set at a jaunty angle and the loops in the knot of her apron stings were as uneven as her moods. "I knew you'd think eight o' clock was an improvement." My derrière revolted when I sat cautiously on the wooden bench. Honestly, was everything made of wood on a farm? Mistress Ellen raised an eyebrow. At least, it looked as through she raised an eyebrow from the way her head moved slightly to one side. I couldn't see her face as she was still firmly standing directly in front of the fire. "Um," said Katherine, looking down at her feet. "The cows are waiting." I grimaced. Nothing was more revolting to me than gripping a pink, fleshy, jiggling udder and actually forcing milk out of it with my bare hands. It was most shockingly indecent! But I had to do it, for I really felt there was no way I could possibly bring myself to clean up exploded cow, which is what Mistress Ellen explained would happen if they were not regularly extracted. That would be more than I could ever bare without hysteria. I followed Katherine out the heavy kitchen door and stomped my way across the dead grass to the barn. Katherine went right to her favorite cow, who was a timid heifer with a white spot around one eye and answered to the name of Bessie. I watched her seat herself comfortably on a stool and begin squirting the milk out. She leaned her head tenderly against Bessie's large stomach. I felt ill. I shuffled across the floor to the other cow, Dandelion. She was sarcastic. I was sure it was her I had heard bellowing earlier. She turned to look at me expectantly. Her tail flicked and I pulled up a stool. I sat staring at the thing for a few moments. It looked heavy and uncomfortable. I finally wrapped my fist around a teat and started pulling. The milk in the pail steamed in the cold morning air and I felt that was most uncouth. After my neck was completely stiff, my hands completely frozen, and my patience completely gone, it was finally over. I staggered along back to the house with Katherine, being careful not to slosh much milk over the sides of the bucket. I had been scolded severely the first morning for that. I was envious of Katherine, who could carry a full bucket with ease, never spilling a drop. "Don't you feel as though your arms will pull out of your shoulders?" I asked her. "Um," she said. "No." I hadn't thought so. Back inside the house we had porridge out of wooden bowls with wooden spoons. The porridge tasted a bit salty this morning, but I kept that opinion to myself. I had learned not to voice my thoughts on Mistress Ellen's cooking early. Katherine sat across from me, looking golden and rosy. I wondered how her hair could possibly be so yellow. I also wondered what color her eyes were, as she was always looking down. I thought they were probably brown. I tried to imagine what she would look like in a deep blue satin with pearls around her neck and her curls pinned delicately. I spooned up a bite of porridge thoughtfully. Katherine was entirely too quiet and hesitant. I might have liked her had she actually been outgoing. "You didn't spill much milk today, did you?" Mistress Ellen's voice cut through my musings. "No more than yesterday," I said, truthfully. "I guess that will have to do." I wished someone could provide more conversation at meals, the sound of my own chewing made me nervous. I'd been here for two weeks - shouldn't we all be old friends by now, sharing gossip and sewing patterns? I looked first at Mistress Ellen and then Katherine. No, never mind, that could never be. We continued on in monotonous silence, each bite of my porridge growing increasingly cold and lumpy. I had to finish it all, though, Mistress Ellen's first rule of table manners. You could belch at the end if you wanted, but you could not leave a grain of porridge in your bowel. Backwards country folk. When it was all over, my next task was to wash the dishes. Mistress Ellen went to iron the laundry and Katherine went to sew something by the window. I looked into the murky brown water skeptically. There were blobs of grease floating on top. Dishwater had to be used more than once. I rolled up my sleeves and sloshed around, trying to look as busy as possible. To take my mind off the slimy feeling of the cold water, I thought about how I should like to be making lace or embroidering. I glanced up for a moment and saw Katherine staring out the window, her head tilted a little to one side. She must have been far away in some imaginary place because she didn't even notice me looking at her. Her face wore the general ponderous expression that people put on when they day-dream. I wouldn't have thought Katherine to be the sort to do such a thing. I wondered what she could be thinking about; dresses? beaux? balls? More than likely she was thinking about leading Bessie out into a warm pasture on a spring day and making daisy chains. The moment of interest was gone, and I looked back down at the water, finding it less uncultivated than Katherine ...
