Vital Secrets Read Online Free PDF Page A

recalled and a new one will follow the British government’spolicy of conciliation. There are moderate, decent men on both the left and the right: their voices will be heard.”
    Hatch tried to smile his gratitude. “And you count yourself among the moderates,” he said.
    â€œI do,” Marc said with some conviction. “It’s taken me a while, and I’m still learning, but I’ve come a long way, I think, in less than two years.”
    â€œAnd we all know it.”
    Marc was well aware whom the “all” was meant to include.
    â€œBut Winnifred’s luck hasn’t changed,” Hatch continued glumly. “Last Friday, Thomas was chopping wood out behind the house and damn near sliced off his left hand. Dr. Barnaby had to stitch it together like a rip in a glove. He’s got it wrapped in a great bloody bandage, with a splint on his wrist to keep him from using the hand for anything. He can’t even pick up a spoon to stir his tea with it.”
    This was more serious than Winnifred’s political leanings, Marc thought.
    â€œThe man has chopped a thousand cords of wood in his lifetime. But he’s exhausted and worried to death,” said Hatch. “Fatigue will lead to such accidents.”
    â€œThank God for Barnaby,” Marc said. Charles Barnaby was a semi-retired army surgeon who lived across from the Durfee Inn but kept a surgery in Cobourg several days a week or whenever it was needed in emergencies.
    â€œHe’s a splendid gentleman. They don’t come any betterthan Barnaby. In fact, you won’t get to see him tomorrow because he’s been in and out of his surgery since the fracas last Thursday night—setting bones and lecturing the participants on their foolishness. I lent him my cutter and Percherons on Saturday so he could transfer some of the wounded home, if necessary.”
    â€œI wondered why I didn’t see them in the barn.”
    â€œThat pair can haul a sled through anything. And we’ve had a bundle of snow this winter. The drifts are six or seven feet in the bush.”
    Hatch yawned. There was little time left. Marc cleared his throat to ask what had to be asked.
    â€œBeth is fine,” Hatch said suddenly. “She nursed Aaron night and day all through January, and for a while there we were very concerned for her own health—”
    â€œBut she’s—”
    â€œFine now, as I said. As soon as Aaron began to regain his strength, she did, too. And since Thomas became helpless last week, Aaron’s been strong enough to chop firewood and help Winnifred and Beth with the chores in the barn.”
    â€œHas she—”
    â€œEver mentioned you? Not by name. But you’ve come up in the general conversation several times this winter, and Beth’s been an avid listener. I’m sure she knows how much you’ve changed and that you still love her. But—”
    â€œThere’s always a ‘but,’ isn’t there?”
    â€œBut she’s just been too busy with Aaron and with the problems of the farm to turn her attention to her own future. You know how faithful she can be to a task she feels is important, and how selfless she is when it comes to helping those who need it.”
    Marc nodded.
    â€œEven if she is a Congregationalist.” Hatch smiled. “What I’m trying to say is, I think you’ve come at the right time to make your pitch.”
    â€œLet’s hope she feels the same way,” Marc said.
    But how far could he hope? How far did he deserve to?
    M ARC WAS AWAKENED SLOWLY AND LUXURIOUSLY by the mid-morning sun slanting across the counterpane. By the time he had completed the most rudimentary toilet and donned the scarlet, green, and gold of an officer of the 24th Regiment of Foot, the Hatches’ dining-room was well warmed by the fire in the wood-stove and suffused with breakfast aromas: bacon, frying eggs and potatoes, and fresh-baked