Fairchild Read Online Free

through the garden, swinging a stick through the flower beds, decapitating drying poppy heads. Every few minutes, she went to peer through the gate and down the road. Bertha had predicted the coach would arrive this afternoon. Bored, Sophy finally sat down on her corded trunk, occupying herself by scraping a rut in the dirt with her shoe.  
    Leaving home frightened her, yet she was anxious to go. Grief and the preparations for departure had drained her like a bloodletting. She hadn’t told a soul that she had thrown the chestnut that lodged in her mother’s throat. Every so often, the sickening guilt lifted enough for Sophy to feel fear.   She wasn’t certain they could accuse her of murder, but she knew it was her fault her mother was dead.  
    “Oy! Sophy!”  
    Startled, Sophy turned to see Fred loping through the garden, entering through the gap in the hedge. The loose hem of his smocked shirt was gathered in one hand, the front of his shirt weighted down with apples.  
    “Hello, Fred.”  
    He had the last remains of an apple in his free hand, nibbled down to its’ bones. Tossing the core into the lane, he handed an apple to Sophy and sat down beside her on the trunk.
    “So – you get to ride – in a – Lord’s carriage,” he said, between mouthfuls.  
    “Yes,” Sophy said, chewing slowly.
    “Wonder what the horses will be like.”
    “Dunno.” Her mother had hated it when she spoke like a farm girl. Sophy realized that wherever she was going, she ought to be more careful with her speech. Glancing guiltily at her dust-covered shoes and greying stockings, she straightened her back.
    “How long will it take to get to Suffolk?” Fred asked.
    “Mr. Lynchem said about three days.”
    Fred lifted his eyebrows, impressed.  
    “Will you thank your mother and father again for me?” Sophy asked.  
    “Sure. They heard you yesterday, though. And Mam’s coming with a basket. Some pies you can eat on the way.”  
    “Where is she?”
    “Went to see Bertha. We’ll miss you. I’ll miss you.” Fred wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. His tone was matter of fact, but Sophy was surprised Fred had admitted so much.  
    “I will miss you, Fred,” she said, horrified when her voice turned high and squeaky at the end.
    Fred leaned away from her, his eyes going wide.  
    “Yes, well, I might write you a letter. Every now and then.”
    Sophy didn’t cry and Fred relaxed. Hurling another apple core into the road, he asked, “What do you think he’ll be like?” He didn’t need to specify who. Lord Fairchild starred in both their imaginations.
    “He’s probably all stiff in fancy clothes with a pointy nose and a disappearing chin,” said Sophy, revealing her own inventions. Speculation had filled her thoughts in recent days.  
    “Like the villain in the traveling farce last year?”  
    Sophy scowled, realizing the resemblance. “Mr. Lynchem says I must be good and quiet. On the journey and after, too.”
    “Hmmph.” Fred’s frown told her he doubted she was capable of this feat.
    “He gave me this to read on the journey,” Sophy said, drawing a thin booklet from the drawstring bag beside her. She passed the flimsy sheets to Fred, who flipped through them.
    “Matilda Ann,” he read. “The tale of a wicked girl cursed with the sin of ingratitude who became a match seller.” He erupted into laughter. “Think you’ll end up a match girl?”  
    Occasionally, in Sophy’s dire imaginings, she ended up a starving figure huddled in a ditch, prompting brief storms of weeping over her own fate. A match girl sounded much worse. Sophy had heard some talk of cities; rife with disease, they were filled with thieves and disreputables who preyed on the unwary and weak.  
    Seeing the fear in Sophy’s face, Fred tried to reassure her by punching her in the arm. “Come on. Da says you’ll be looked after proper. Lord Fairchild’s sending his own carriage for you. Why would he go to such