Page 87 of Broken Country

The words are out before I can stop them.

“I had a visitor yesterday who gave generously to our donation fund for the new science block. She was most anxious your delicate situation should not be found out in school. Better to have you off-site as soon as possible, before the rumors started.”

“She bought me off, too,” I say, tears stinging my eyes. “You can do that when you’re rich.”

To my surprise, Sister Ignatius laughs. A genuine laugh that appears to have actual warmth in it. “You’re better off without people like that, in my opinion. You know, I’m not too worried about you, Elizabeth. You’re smart. You’re full of grit. You’ll come out on top in the end. I don’t doubt it for one second.”

Frank arrives at our cottage a few days after Christmas. How different he looks without his school uniform, as if the mundanity of black blazer and gray trousers concealed the well-madeness of his form. His hair is still damp from his bath, and the scent of soap clings to his skin.

“There’s something I’d like to show you,” he says.

“What is it?”

When Frank smiles his eyes scrunch so tightly together, they almost disappear. I’ve never noticed that about him before.

“If I told you that would ruin the surprise, wouldn’t it?”

Outside the cottage is an old Land Rover, its original color hidden almost entirely beneath layers of dried-on mud.

I notice Frank’s hand on the steering wheel, tanned and strong looking but with surprisingly elegant fingers, thenails cut short. When he changes gear the muscles of his forearm move beneath his skin.

We turn into a long dirt track leading to the Johnsons’ place, Blakely Farm. I know where Frank lives even though I haven’t been here before.

“We’re going to your house?”

“Nope.” He parks the Land Rover beside an iron gate. “We’ve arrived,” he says, grinning at me.

I follow him around the perimeter of a long, sloping field until we reach a vast oak tree at the far end. “What a tree,” I say, to be polite. “It’s enormous.” If Frank Johnson thinks I’m a tree-hugging kind of girl, he’s got another think coming.

He points to a dark hole at the throat of the tree, just above my eye level. “Look in there,” he says. “But don’t put your face too close.”

At first, it’s so dark I can’t see anything but then I begin to make out the shape of a nest and within it two tiny birds, barely covered in fluff, their minuscule yellow beaks open.

“A nest. Isn’t it the wrong time of year? It’s so cold. What are they?”

“Blackbirds, probably. They’ve come early. I think they’ve been abandoned. I’ve been checking in on them for a couple of days. They’re starving.”

“Will they die?”

“Not if we save them.”

“We?”

Frank smiles. “Or you? I thought you might like looking after them. It’s kind of a full-time job at the beginning. And I’m working all day on the farm. But I’ll take the nest home and chance it, unless you want to.”

“I’ll do it,” I say, decisively. “Why don’t we take them now? They might not last the night out here.”

“I had a feeling you’d say that. I’ve got everything we need in the back of the Land Rover.”

He makes to go but I reach out to halt him, my hand on his arm. “Do you love me, Frank?”

He doesn’t seem in the least surprised by the question, even though I have asked it out of the blue.

“Yes. But I’d settle for being friends.”

“I’d like that.”

“Friends, you mean?”

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