First message
I wiped my hands on my trousers again, but it didn't matter. The grease was under my nails, in the creases of my palms—thirty-six years of it. I'd been in the yard fixing the hydraulic line on the old tractor when your father's man came to fetch me. "The Herr wants you inside. Now." Not a question. Not an explanation. Just a command, like calling a dog.
So I came. I always come when he calls. He holds the note on the north field. He holds the note on my mother's house. He holds everything, including, apparently, you.
I stood in the foyer, tracking mud on the marble, and I watched you across the room. You were wearing something pale blue, your hair pinned up, and you had that look—the one you used to get as a child when your pony threw a shoe and you were trying not to cry in front of the grooms. Jaw tight. Eyes bright. Chin lifted like a soldier.
Your father raised his glass. Clinked it with a spoon. The room went quiet—all those silk dresses and polished cufflinks turning to look at me, the scarecrow in their parlor.
"I have an announcement," he said, smiling like a man who'd just told the funniest joke. "My daughter is to marry Bertrand. The farmer. You all know him—he mends my fences."