"Get down here," she ordered.
There was no jest upon her face—she was clearly serious. So why, then, did he feel the urge to laugh?
"Did you not hear me? I said get down from—"
"Not when you smell like an uncleaned stable."
The insolent man! She had not expected a response from him, yet he was, as always, rude—deliberately vexing!
He was irredeemable, this one.
"If you do not get down from there this instant, I will take what remains of my manure and smear it upon the walls of your bedchamber!" she threatened.
He was such a loathsome creature through and through.
"How could you sit there all this time and not say a word? How could you watch me struggle to drag those heavy baskets inside—baskets that bear gifts for you!"
Oh the more she thought of it, the more vexed she became.
"No one charged you with the duty to—"
Her sandal went flying through the air, narrowly missing his head.
He blinked. "Have you lost your mind, woman?" he asked, twirling a finger beside his head.
"Oh, you have no idea, man!" She snatched up the other sandal and hurled it. He ducked.
Her gaze swept around until she spotted smooth round stones—perfect for a projectile.
She gathered them into her hands.
"Get down."
His response was plain.
"I will not."
The battle she had come prepared for was finally going to take place.
With no mercy, she began to throw.
Normally, her aim was flawless—she could hit a bird thirty feet off ground without fail.
Yet that afternoon, it seemed the wind was not on her side.
No matter how high she threw or how precise she tried to be, he seemed to simply glide from side to side. Her stones struck leaves and branches, entirely missing her target.
She wanted to scream. Her arm was starting to ache and she was yet to land a single blow.
It was infuriating.
"Are you not weary yet?" he mocked.
Damaris held her bottom lip between her teeth and stared at him with so much disdain, clenching the last stone in her hand until her knuckles turned white.
She lifted her hand to throw—but a faint pain in her shoulder caused her to pause…
With fiery eyes still set on him, her hand slowly lowered.
Her grip loosened.
The stone slipped from between her fingers and fell to the ground.
He was sitting there dressed in a simple white tunic, yet he still managed to look so dignified. Damaris looked at herself and, for the first time, the pride she felt upon completing her day's work began to fade.
He did nothing but stare at her with those gray eyes, yet she was starting to feel so little. Perhaps it was because he was so far above ground.
Perhaps…
Whatever it was, she did not like the feeling.
And she disliked him even more for making her feel that way.
With bold steps, she walked to the base of the tree, picked up her bag and, foregoing her sandals, turned toward the forest path and walked home.
Upon reaching home, she gave Milcah a half-hearted greeting, went straight to the bathhouse, and washed herself.
Carefully, she took her time removing every speck of dirt she could find—even those hidden deep beneath her toenails.
When she was satisfied, she slipped into a faded blue dress and collapsed unto her bed.
She had been tired already. Her encounter with him only made it worse.
Annoying swine.
Milcah entered the room and saw her lying there like a wounded puppy. "What? Was work too hard for the almighty Damaris today?" she teased. But when she got no response, she knew something was wrong.
"Are you alright, Damaris?" she asked concernedly.
Damaris only curled further, pressing her face deeper into the pillow.
"Come to think of it, you told me the cottage on the land you are planting is occupied by your red-haired friend. And you left so early this morning to make war…"
She tilted her head. "Did you lose, by any chance?"
Immediately Damaris sat upright and turned to Milcah.
"I—" she had been about to say she did not.
She definitely did not lose…
And yet—she felt like did.
She fell back onto the bed and turned her back to Milcah once more.
"So I am right! This is about the fair mutt again—and you did lose!" Milcah chuckled, gently tapping Damaris' shoulder.
"But tell me, Damaris, what exactly about him infuriates you so? Hagar and her sister Hannah stopped by earlier, and they would not stop singing praises of the new gardener… From what I heard, he is a kind gentleman, so—"
"Those are all lies, I tell you!" she burst out. She turned and sat upright again.
"Lies! He is the most inconsiderate bastard I have ever met! A wicked soul! Everyone is being fooled! Lord Naman, Fredah, Hagar, Hannah, Priscilla, even little Peter! Every last one of them is being fooled!"
Her words came out in earnest as though she were begging for someone—anyone—to believe her.
"He did not deserve all that warmth shown to him today. They all came bearing gifts for him, yet he—he just—"
He did not care at all.
He simply sat there in that tree, ignoring every single one of them.
She breathed out and fell back onto the bed, turning her back to Milcah yet again. "He does not deserve the Wisteria welcome…" she whispered into the pillow.
"Oh, Damaris…" Milcah murmured, gently stroking her hair.
"Are you certain you do not feel this way because he is the only man in Wisteria who does not swoon over—"
"Milch, that is not it!" she cried out.
"Very well. Very well, if you say it is so, I believe you," Milcah said, surrendering with her hands raised.
"I am going for an evening walk. Would you come with me?" the older woman offered.
Damaris simply shook her head.
"I will be going down to the market square too. Are you sure you do not wish to come?"
"I just want to sleep," Damaris muttered and Milcah knew whatever had happened that day must have truly unsettled her.
Damaris would never say no to going out. Never…
"Rest then. I already made dinner. Have some when you wish." Leaving her with those words, Milcah stepped out of the house, bearing a little gift of her own.
"Shall I finally meet him…" she muttered as she ventured into the woods.
"The one who has so stirred our dear Damaris."