Wildflower bouquet on a thigh

You will think me soft for writing, but Mr Harcourt has let the lower wood go to seed and the lupins have come up taller than the gate. I walked the ride this morning before the dew lifted and cut what I could carry: lupin spikes, thistle heads gone purple, the lacy umbels of wild carrot, and a few stems of dog rose with their pink faces still open. Mother always said a bunch of hedgerow flowers was worth more than anything from the shop, because it had been earned from the weather.

Near the stile I found a cock pheasant's tail feather lying in the bracken, barred like a tiger's sleeve. Someone's gun had been about the day before, I think, though nobody in the village will say so. I tied the feather into the bunch with a length of green twine so that it swept up through the middle and the whole thing leaned, as if it were listening.

I took it to the Harrows' cottage yesterday, as you asked me to. Old Ada was propped up by the window, and when I put the bunch in her hands she didn't say a word. She turned the feather to the light and watched the bars go gold and brown, then asked me to set the rose on the sill where she could smell it from the bed.

I suppose that is all I wanted to tell you. Bring your good scissors when you come at Michaelmas. There is a whole ditch of teasels out past the mill, and I have a feeling we will need more before the frost.

Love, Mags