"Marina Fitch - The Scarecrow's Bride" - читать интересную книгу автора (Fitch Marina)

I took her hand. “Mother—”
She started, turning from the window with a haunted look. “Your father and I
didn’t wait. He said nothing would come of it. He promised.”
I let go of her hand. “Didn’t wait?”
“She was ill, Mollie Scarecrow was ill, on our wedding day. Everyone said we
should wait until she was well enough to come, but your father said no. And when I
conceived a month later, he claimed Mollie Scarecrow had no more power than a fly
in a web. We never asked her to bless you.”
A chill invaded my very marrow. “How could you—”
“You were a fine, healthy baby,” she said. Her voice faded to a whisper. “My
only baby.
“You grew strong ... Then the illness came.”
Mother stared out into the night. “You must go.”
She rose, jarring the table. Both cups spilled. She pulled her shawl from the
peg by the door and wrapped it about her. With her back to me, she said, “I must
go.”
I made no move to stop her. In the deep, aching silence that followed, I
watched the once-straight candles twist and melt into pools of wax.
****
The scarecrow wasted with neglect. By late autumn, it hung in tatters from the
pole. Its head split, straw spilling from the gash like golden blood. I thought to go to
it then, but as I gathered my mending basket, Ger and his wife strolled past, hand in
hand, through the stubbled corn. They stopped beside the pole. Ger’s wife fingered
the scarecrow’s sleeve. The wind whipped her dress, pressing it against her rounded
belly. She rested a hand on her stomach then let Ger lead her away.
A week later, Emma Grey said, “The scarecrow is old and useless. It is
fortunate it survived the harvest. Now you must make preparations for a new
scarecrow.”
“A man of my own creation,” I said. “No doubt I must call this one husband
too?”
Emma gazed at me evenly. “Just treat your new husband better than you did
the last. The fields would be barren without a scarecrow to watch over them. Is there
anything special that you wish?”
When my cheeks stopped burning, I said, “A blue jacket and white trousers.
And two buttons, the color of black sheep’s wool.”
An indulgent smile crossed her face. “And wool?”
“If possible.”
Emma’s milky eyes disappeared in the wrinkles of her smile. She nodded,
then picked up an onion from my table. “Such a lovely garden, Chloe Scarecrow,”
she said, “and every bit as bountiful as Mollie’s.”
****
Emma and Thomas brought the bundle of clothing, rags and wool hours
before the first snow. My excitement surprised me. I held the jacket to the window
and wondered at the broad shoulders that would fill such a coat. Of a deep royal
blue, the jacket showed wear only at the elbows and along the hem. The white
trousers were fine and unpatched. A ball of uncombed wool peeked from the top of
one glove.
“Will they do, Mrs. Scarecrow?” Emma said.
I folded the trousers. “They will.”
“If you need anything else,” Thomas said. He gazed at me, his eyes aflame. A