Read Online Feathers in the Fire by Catherine Cookson - Free Book Online
Authors: Catherine Cookson
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longer any control over them.
‘What is this?’ Delia was addressing her, and when the girl did not lift her head she cried at her, her voice expressing her emotions now, ‘Answer me, girl! What is this I hear?’
When Molly raised her head, startled as much by this new aspect of the mistress as by the fact that she was advancing on her, she could only stammer. ‘Oh, Mistress, Mistress.’
Delia stopped within an arm’s length of the girl, and now demanded, ‘Tell me that my daughter is deranged and not speaking the truth.’
Molly now swung her head from side to side, gulped in her throat, opened her soft wet mouth wide, closed it again; then her head seemed to be jerked off her body by a blow first to one side of her face and then to the other. As she cowered down a voice thundered over them, crying, ‘Delia!’ and Delia turned and looked up the steps to where her husband was standing in the gap.
McBain had taken in the situation; he was too late. Well, what was done was done, and couldn’t be undone; what he must do now was to calm her down, she mustn’t get excited, not at this stage.
He came rapidly down the steps. He looked neither at his wife, nor yet at his daughter, but addressed Molly, whose eyes were on him, her manner now showing her confidence in his protection – the master, her love, whom she knew she could twist round her little finger, he would show the mistress, and the young one an’ all what was what.
Her confidence was wiped away and her mouth brought again into its soft gape by the master addressing her as if someone of no account. ‘Get back to the house, girl, and get on with your work.’
She paused a moment before obeying him. Even before that night when the master had come into the kitchen late on and found her with her skirts above her knees dozing in front of the fire, and she had woken to find his hand on her groin, even before that he had never spoken to her uncivil; it had always been, ‘Molly girl, do this. Molly girl, do that.’ But now he had spoken to her in the voice he used to gipsies and tramps on the road who came a-beggin’ and wanted food without offering to work for it.
As she sidled past she cast a quick glance up at him, but his face was stern; she didn’t recognise the man, who only a few hours earlier had held her tightly and kissed her wounds. She scurried up the steps and when she reached the road she burst out crying.
Now McBain looked at his daughter and he said, ‘And you, Miss, get back to the house and to your room. I will talk with you later.’
Jane stared at her father, amazed that he was putting her in the wrong, it was as if she had committed the crime against her mother, and against herself, for in destroying his image he had destroyed the beauty of life for her. The rage that she had nurtured against Molly all afternoon, then had released on her, was now over like something that had never been. She felt weak, and spent, she did not seem to have the strength even to cry any more; she wished she could die like the foal last week, just lay her head sideways on the straw and die, or be frozen stiff in the snow like the young lambs; or at this moment, she would even thank someone to stick a knife in her neck as they did with the pigs. She had not known how the pigs died, and when her curiosity had been satisfied she was sick for days and wouldn’t touch bacon for a long time.
She didn’t want to live, and if it wasn’t for her mother she wouldn’t live. But her mother was going to need her. As if she were being given a glimpse into the future she knew she was the only one on whom her mother would be able to rely; she also knew that now all talk about her going to Madam Lovell’s school in Hexham would cease. She would never go to that establishment and learn French and music and dancing.
A similar train of thought was passing through Delia’s mind. The knowledge that had come to her in the last few minutes would alter life for all
‘What is this?’ Delia was addressing her, and when the girl did not lift her head she cried at her, her voice expressing her emotions now, ‘Answer me, girl! What is this I hear?’
When Molly raised her head, startled as much by this new aspect of the mistress as by the fact that she was advancing on her, she could only stammer. ‘Oh, Mistress, Mistress.’
Delia stopped within an arm’s length of the girl, and now demanded, ‘Tell me that my daughter is deranged and not speaking the truth.’
Molly now swung her head from side to side, gulped in her throat, opened her soft wet mouth wide, closed it again; then her head seemed to be jerked off her body by a blow first to one side of her face and then to the other. As she cowered down a voice thundered over them, crying, ‘Delia!’ and Delia turned and looked up the steps to where her husband was standing in the gap.
McBain had taken in the situation; he was too late. Well, what was done was done, and couldn’t be undone; what he must do now was to calm her down, she mustn’t get excited, not at this stage.
He came rapidly down the steps. He looked neither at his wife, nor yet at his daughter, but addressed Molly, whose eyes were on him, her manner now showing her confidence in his protection – the master, her love, whom she knew she could twist round her little finger, he would show the mistress, and the young one an’ all what was what.
Her confidence was wiped away and her mouth brought again into its soft gape by the master addressing her as if someone of no account. ‘Get back to the house, girl, and get on with your work.’
She paused a moment before obeying him. Even before that night when the master had come into the kitchen late on and found her with her skirts above her knees dozing in front of the fire, and she had woken to find his hand on her groin, even before that he had never spoken to her uncivil; it had always been, ‘Molly girl, do this. Molly girl, do that.’ But now he had spoken to her in the voice he used to gipsies and tramps on the road who came a-beggin’ and wanted food without offering to work for it.
As she sidled past she cast a quick glance up at him, but his face was stern; she didn’t recognise the man, who only a few hours earlier had held her tightly and kissed her wounds. She scurried up the steps and when she reached the road she burst out crying.
Now McBain looked at his daughter and he said, ‘And you, Miss, get back to the house and to your room. I will talk with you later.’
Jane stared at her father, amazed that he was putting her in the wrong, it was as if she had committed the crime against her mother, and against herself, for in destroying his image he had destroyed the beauty of life for her. The rage that she had nurtured against Molly all afternoon, then had released on her, was now over like something that had never been. She felt weak, and spent, she did not seem to have the strength even to cry any more; she wished she could die like the foal last week, just lay her head sideways on the straw and die, or be frozen stiff in the snow like the young lambs; or at this moment, she would even thank someone to stick a knife in her neck as they did with the pigs. She had not known how the pigs died, and when her curiosity had been satisfied she was sick for days and wouldn’t touch bacon for a long time.
She didn’t want to live, and if it wasn’t for her mother she wouldn’t live. But her mother was going to need her. As if she were being given a glimpse into the future she knew she was the only one on whom her mother would be able to rely; she also knew that now all talk about her going to Madam Lovell’s school in Hexham would cease. She would never go to that establishment and learn French and music and dancing.
A similar train of thought was passing through Delia’s mind. The knowledge that had come to her in the last few minutes would alter life for all
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