Read Online The Fleethaven Trilogy by Margaret Dickinson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Margaret Dickinson
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dun’t he?’
Matthew nodded. ‘He’s a seaman at heart and dun’t really want to live on the land.’ He grinned. ‘I reckon he tries to get as near to living at sea as he can.’
‘Who was the portly gent and the thin woman with him?’
‘That’s Squire Marshall. He lives at the Grange.’
Esther nodded. She hadn’t been required to help out at harvest on the squire’s farm. He would employ enough of his own workers, she supposed.
There was silence between them, then Matthew asked, ‘Dun’t you want to know who everyone else was in church? How about the two women who . . . ?’
‘I dun’t wish to know who
they
were, thank you very much!’ Esther replied.
‘The fat ones Martha Willoughby and the thin ones her sister, Flo.’
Rather than display any interest in them, she refused to listen to Matthew any more, picked up two heavy buckets of milk and disappeared into the pantry.
There were others too who would not forget Esther’s first visit to the church and two in particular who had no wish to see her there again.
Three days after that first Sunday, a pony and trap bowled along the lane from Rookery Farm, turning sharp right at the junction with the lane running alongside the sand dunes and came to a stop outside Brumbys’ Farm. Hearing the rattle of wheels and the horses hooves, Sam came out from the barn and Esther peeped out of Curly’s pigsty, which she was cleaning out.
The two ladies from the church were climbing gingerly down from their trap and coming towards Sam, marching side by side as if confronting the enemy.
‘Sam Brumby – Flo and I would like a word with you, if you please,’ began Martha Willoughby, taking the lead.
Esther watched the scowl on Sam’s face deepen but he said nothing.
‘It’s about that young girl you have – er – living with you,’ put in Miss Flo, but she took care to stand slightly behind her more formidable sister.
‘You see, Sam,’ continued Mrs Willoughby, ‘Flo and I – we don’t consider it seemly for a young girl – and one of doubtful character and morals – to be living out here
alone
with you. I mean – did you know what she said to Tom about – about . . .’ The woman wafted her hand before her face as if it ill became her to speak of such an indelicate matter. ‘. . . the boar?’
Flo nodded in dutiful agreement. It’s all over the town, Sam, just think.’
Esther had heard enough. She came out of the sty and slammed the door behind her. Two pairs of startled eyes turned towards her as she crossed the yard, her green gaze spitting fire, her determined chin thrust forward, the pitchfork she still held in her hands pointing aggressively towards them like a fixed bayonet. Miss Flo gave a terrified shriek and clung to her sister.
Sam put up his hand warningly, as if to fend her off. ‘Easy, wench,’ he murmured. ‘They’re naught but a couple of busybodies . . .’
‘I’ll not be called such names, mester. Not by them nor anyone else. I may be poor, an’ I may look like a tramp, but I
ain’t
one, an’ no one has the right to . . .’ Esther jabbed the fork towards them, and Miss Flo began to wail and even the bolder Mrs Willoughby took hold of her sister and stepped backwards. Esther thrust the pitchfork towards them again, so that the two women jerked away. Mrs Willoughby stumbled and fell heavily, dragging her sister down with her.
‘I
work
for Mr Brumby on the farm and nothing else. You hear me, missus,
nothing
else.’
She emphasized her statement by prodding the fork ever nearer to the two quivering women on the ground. For a long moment she glared down at them and then, as if satisfied, she lifted the fork away and stood back a pace. The two women, seizing their chance, scrambled up, clinging to each other. Tripping over their long skirts, they scuttled towards and trap. As they went, Esther’s anger was turned to laughter. Planted neatly on Martha Willoughby’s fat bottom was the perfect brown circle of
Matthew nodded. ‘He’s a seaman at heart and dun’t really want to live on the land.’ He grinned. ‘I reckon he tries to get as near to living at sea as he can.’
‘Who was the portly gent and the thin woman with him?’
‘That’s Squire Marshall. He lives at the Grange.’
Esther nodded. She hadn’t been required to help out at harvest on the squire’s farm. He would employ enough of his own workers, she supposed.
There was silence between them, then Matthew asked, ‘Dun’t you want to know who everyone else was in church? How about the two women who . . . ?’
‘I dun’t wish to know who
they
were, thank you very much!’ Esther replied.
‘The fat ones Martha Willoughby and the thin ones her sister, Flo.’
Rather than display any interest in them, she refused to listen to Matthew any more, picked up two heavy buckets of milk and disappeared into the pantry.
There were others too who would not forget Esther’s first visit to the church and two in particular who had no wish to see her there again.
Three days after that first Sunday, a pony and trap bowled along the lane from Rookery Farm, turning sharp right at the junction with the lane running alongside the sand dunes and came to a stop outside Brumbys’ Farm. Hearing the rattle of wheels and the horses hooves, Sam came out from the barn and Esther peeped out of Curly’s pigsty, which she was cleaning out.
The two ladies from the church were climbing gingerly down from their trap and coming towards Sam, marching side by side as if confronting the enemy.
‘Sam Brumby – Flo and I would like a word with you, if you please,’ began Martha Willoughby, taking the lead.
Esther watched the scowl on Sam’s face deepen but he said nothing.
‘It’s about that young girl you have – er – living with you,’ put in Miss Flo, but she took care to stand slightly behind her more formidable sister.
‘You see, Sam,’ continued Mrs Willoughby, ‘Flo and I – we don’t consider it seemly for a young girl – and one of doubtful character and morals – to be living out here
alone
with you. I mean – did you know what she said to Tom about – about . . .’ The woman wafted her hand before her face as if it ill became her to speak of such an indelicate matter. ‘. . . the boar?’
Flo nodded in dutiful agreement. It’s all over the town, Sam, just think.’
Esther had heard enough. She came out of the sty and slammed the door behind her. Two pairs of startled eyes turned towards her as she crossed the yard, her green gaze spitting fire, her determined chin thrust forward, the pitchfork she still held in her hands pointing aggressively towards them like a fixed bayonet. Miss Flo gave a terrified shriek and clung to her sister.
Sam put up his hand warningly, as if to fend her off. ‘Easy, wench,’ he murmured. ‘They’re naught but a couple of busybodies . . .’
‘I’ll not be called such names, mester. Not by them nor anyone else. I may be poor, an’ I may look like a tramp, but I
ain’t
one, an’ no one has the right to . . .’ Esther jabbed the fork towards them, and Miss Flo began to wail and even the bolder Mrs Willoughby took hold of her sister and stepped backwards. Esther thrust the pitchfork towards them again, so that the two women jerked away. Mrs Willoughby stumbled and fell heavily, dragging her sister down with her.
‘I
work
for Mr Brumby on the farm and nothing else. You hear me, missus,
nothing
else.’
She emphasized her statement by prodding the fork ever nearer to the two quivering women on the ground. For a long moment she glared down at them and then, as if satisfied, she lifted the fork away and stood back a pace. The two women, seizing their chance, scrambled up, clinging to each other. Tripping over their long skirts, they scuttled towards and trap. As they went, Esther’s anger was turned to laughter. Planted neatly on Martha Willoughby’s fat bottom was the perfect brown circle of
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