Twenty pounds of sweet potatoes for two people wouldn’t last more than a few days.
The new harvest hadn’t come in yet. Once Whitaker Chris returned, he would undoubtedly demand Elizabeth go back with him. But would the Whitaker family forgive Scarlett? Elizabeth was already considering visiting her parents’ home the next day to find a solution. Her family was poor, but Scarlett’s uncle, though often overly generous despite his own poverty, wouldn’t let his niece starve to death.
As she mulled over her options, Scarlett returned with a bundle of dry twigs, her eyes shining as she suggested roasting sweet potatoes. Seeing her daughter’s bright spirits, Elizabeth couldn’t refuse:
“Alright, I’ll roast some sweet potatoes for you.”
But Scarlett cleared the firewood aside to reveal a stash of wild duck eggs.
Elizabeth was delighted. The eggs, about the size of chicken eggs, were clearly scavenged from the marshes. With these, Scarlett could nourish herself—she was so thin that the wind might blow her over, and Elizabeth’s heart ached for her.
“I’ll boil one for you.”
The old, run-down house lacked proper cookware, but rural folks made do. Boiling an egg in an enamel cup would suffice. Scarlett, however, stopped her mother.
“We can’t eat the eggs now. These duck eggs are our ticket to better days. Right now, everyone in the village is focused on the fields and doesn’t have time to cut reeds. I want to gather more duck eggs and sell them in the city. Tonight, let’s head back to the marsh. If we can catch a couple of ducks, even better.”
Elizabeth hesitated. She had never done anything like this before.
The Whitaker family hadn’t split households yet, and any eggs they saved were typically taken to the city by her mother-in-law or Aunt Veronica. The journey from Larkspur Village to the county seat took two hours on foot, and villagers only went when absolutely necessary. Scarlett, however, was persuasive, and Elizabeth, accustomed to yielding to her daughter, couldn’t argue against her plan.
Mother and daughter each ate one sweet potato. Thinking ahead, Elizabeth realized they would need baskets to sell the eggs. She went outside, gathered reeds, and wove two small baskets.
“These won’t last a month without tools or soaking,” she commented, submerging the reed baskets in the river under a rock. Despite her self-criticism, Scarlett was impressed—it seemed like an artisanal craft compared to her own lack of skill.
That night, the mother and daughter prepared for their stint as “egg thieves.” After finishing the baskets, they went to sleep early. The front door was secured with a wooden beam, and the house had no bed—Scarlett laid clean reeds on the floor as a makeshift mattress. Luckily, it was August; otherwise, the drafty old house would have chilled them to the bone.
Without an alarm clock, Scarlett woke at the sound of rustling. Elizabeth had already retrieved the reed baskets from the river.
“You rest a bit longer. I’ll go first,” Elizabeth whispered.
Scarlett shook her head. “We’ll go together.”
Two people searching together would be faster and safer. Without a flashlight, they relied on the moonlight, which was fortunately bright, promising clear skies the next day.
Carrying their small baskets, the two ventured into the more remote areas. Wild ducks scattered from the reeds as they approached. After considerable effort, they finally found a nest—only to discover it was empty.
Their luck turned when they stumbled upon a clutch of eggs, but their activity startled the cowshed dog.
Peter, the old man, who guarded the cowshed, was alert. “Who’s there?”
The beam of a flashlight swept toward them. Elizabeth quickly stepped in front of Scarlett, embarrassed. “…Uncle, it’s me. Just picking a few eggs for the child.”
“Chris’s family?”
Peter looked at the mother and daughter, their hair and clothes covered in bits of reed.
The entire village knew about Scarlett being driven out of the Whitaker home. Peter wasn’t particularly fond of Scarlett—she rarely greeted elders and had a reputation for being aloof. But Elizabeth was pitiable, and Scarlett’s forehead was bandaged, blood still seeping through. After a moment’s hesitation, Peter handed Elizabeth his flashlight.
“Return it to me tomorrow.”
Elizabeth’s eyes reddened with gratitude.
