Grabbing the saw, Peter scrambled so fast to the ground Catherine was surprised he didn’t send the ladder flopping into the mud. His eyes darted between them with a discomforting intensity, a barely restrained madness. Catherine and Mary Ann both drew startled steps backward.
‘I didn’t ask you here! You’re not welcome, and I’m not about to do business with entitled, condescending trollops like you, what think you’re better than me, no matter I been knighted by the King himself, right as anyone. You want a sugar pie pumpkin, you can grow it yourself, get your own pretty hands all dirtied up for once.’
Heart hammering, Catherine stumbled back another step, pulling Mary Ann with her. Her eyes kept darting to the saw and its rusted teeth.
‘I . . . I’ll beg of you,’ Mary Ann stammered, looking almost bricky with her newfound heroism, ‘not to speak of m-my lady in such a—’
Catherine tightened her grip on Mary Ann’s elbow, silencing her. Mary Ann seemed relieved to be silenced. ‘I am sorry to have intruded on your privacy, sir, but if I’ve shown less than a tablespoon of respect for you, it’s because of the shameful attitude with which you conduct yourself.’ Though her legs felt weak, Catherine held her ground, refusing to be cowed by ill manners. ‘I was under the impression that this pumpkin patch was open for business and if you’ll behave with decency, I do wish to be a patron of yours.’
Peter bared his teeth at her, which did cow her somewhat.
‘I – I don’t wish to take up too much of your time, but I am willing to pay your price if you’ll just show me where the sugar pie pumpkins are. We could harvest our own—’
She was cut off by a loud thump. She jumped and glanced past Peter, to the pumpkin already carved with slitted windows. The thump was followed by scratching, nails carving into rotting wood. The sound reminded her of Cheshire sharpening his claws on her mother’s finest upholstery.
Beside her, Mary Ann squeaked.
‘What was that?’ Cath asked.
‘What’s what?’ Peter said, though Cath was certain he must have heard it too. His question was followed by a breathy snort from the pumpkin shell, like a horse struggling against its bit.
‘Is there something . . . ?’ Catherine took a step towards the pumpkin, but Peter put himself in her path. He was as big and unmovable as a boulder.
‘Were my uneducated words not clear enough for all your fancy learning?’ he said. ‘I do believe I told you to get off my land.’
‘But—’
‘Catherine.’ Mary Ann tugged at her elbow. ‘He doesn’t want our business. Let’s just go.’
Cath ground her teeth, meeting Peter’s glare with one of her own, part of her wanting to shake off Mary Ann and slap this man for his crude behaviour, the other part of her grateful for Mary Ann’s intrusion and a reason to leave.
She glanced once more at the large pumpkin, which had fallen silent. She allowed the tiniest of respectful nods. ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you. Please give Lady Peter my regards.’
‘I’ll give her no such thing,’ he growled, but Catherine pretended not to hear him as she and Mary Ann began picking their way back along the gravel path, pebbles and beetles scattering in their wake.
It was not until they had turned the cottage corner again that Mary Ann let out a strained breath. She took to tying knots into her new bonnet’s yellow ribbons. ‘That’s the last time I let you drag me here,’ she said. ‘The very last time.’
‘That won’t be a problem. What a horrible, horrible man. And that strange noise – what could it have been?’
‘An animal of some sort, I’d guess,’ said Mary Ann, shaking her head. ‘With those windows cut into it, the pumpkin reminded me of a cage. But why would anyone keep a pet inside a giant pumpkin?’
They passed by the scorched picket fence and Cath’s eye caught on a spot of orange amid the wreckage. She came to a halt.
Mary Ann turned back. ‘What?’
‘I think I saw . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Wait here.’
The fence was short enough that she could climb over it when she lifted her skirts.
‘Cath!’ Mary Ann glanced back towards the cottage. ‘What are you doing?’
‘One moment.’ She picked her way through the squishing mud and scattered ashes, the coils of burnt vines. A pile of brush was in the corner, vines and leaves hacked to pieces. They all but crumbled in her hand as she pushed them to the side, uncovering the small orange pumpkin that had caught her eye.
A sugar pie pumpkin, with bright, unblemished skin and not a wart in sight. It was a beautiful, dazzling survivor amid the destruction.
Beaming, she dug the kitchen knife from her boot – she’d come prepared to harvest her own in case Peter proved less than helpful – and hacked away the sturdy green vine that tethered the pumpkin to its smashed kindred.
Cradling the dirt-smudged pumpkin against her dress, Catherine picked her way back through the ashes and hauled herself over the fence.
‘Are you mad?’ Mary Ann asked. ‘He’ll kill us if he notices it missing.’
‘He won’t notice. This patch was obviously meant to be destroyed. And look.’ She held the pumpkin up in the dim light breaking through the fog. ‘It’s perfe—ow!’ Something hard and sharp jabbed her through the thin sole of her boot. ‘What was that?’
Mary Ann leaned over, bracing herself on her knees, and picked something out of the mud with a slurp. Whatever Cath had stepped on, it was small; small enough to fit into Mary Ann’s palm.