Read Online The Fleethaven Trilogy by Margaret Dickinson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Margaret Dickinson
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a cow-pat.
Esther heard Sam’s wheezing and she looked sideways at him. He was bending slightly forward, his hands resting on his knees, his head tilted up to watch the two women laughing until the ears came into his eye.
‘Ayel, wench,’ he splutterd, ‘you’ll be the death o’ me!’
Seven
‘Y OU
coming to the Supper tonight, Esther?’ Matthew was grinning at her over the half-door of the cowshed.
Without pausing in her milking, her voice muffled against the beast’s stomach, Esther asked, ‘Supper? What Supper?’
‘Harvest Supper, of course. Ain’t Sam told you about
it?’
‘No.’
‘It’s at the Grange. Squire holds a Harvest Supper for all the folks around here. Anyone can go – an’ they do. It’s a grand night. Aw, do come, Esther. Come with me, if you’re frit to go on your own.’
She finished milking Clover and stood up, giving the cow a last gentle pat on her rump. ‘Good girl, there now, there’s a good girl. We’ll have to stop milking you soon, shan’t we? Ya’ll be calving in a few weeks.’
The cow swished her tail but her kicking feet stayed still at Esther’s pacifying tone.
Now Esther faced Matthew. ‘I ain’t frit to go nowhere on me own, Matthew Hilton.’
‘Aw, don’t take the huff, Esther. I only meant – well – I meant I’d like you to come with me. There’s still a lot of people round here you don’t know an’ . . .’
‘Aye, and some as I’d rather not know an’ all, judging by them two old biddies in church last week,’ she countered.
Matthew grinned. ‘I ’eard about ’em coming here. But you sent ’em packing by all accounts.’
Esther smiled at the memory and found Matthew staring at her.
‘My, but you’re bonny when you smile,’ he said softly and his eyes darkened with desire as he stepped towards her.
‘Oh, go on with you.’ She pushed him away from her, laughing as she added, ‘I’ll think about the Harvest Supper. Now go away, I’ve work to do.’
Grinning, Matthew went.
‘Mester,’ she ventured to Sam at tea time. ‘What’s this Harvest Supper Matthew’s been on about? Do you go?’
Sam sniffed. ‘I s’pose I’ll have to. I don’t reckon much to it, but I don’t like to snub the squire. Why d’you ask? You going?’
She shrugged and looked down at her rough work-worn skirt and faded blouse. ‘I – I dunno.’
Sam sniffed again. There was a long silence between them. He got up from the table and settled himself in his straight-backed Windsor chair by the range. He reached for his clay pipe on the mantelpiece and began to pack it slowly. Without looking at her, he said, haltingly, ‘In that room where you sleep . . .’
Esther looked at him.
‘. . . there’s a trunk of – old clothes. They – they belonged to – to someone – a long time ago. If – if there’s owt you can wear, you can have ’em,’ he finished in a rush.
Her green eyes were shining. ‘Aw, thanks, Mester Brumby, thanks ever so.’
Sam sniffed, settled his aching bones in his chair and puffed at his pipe.
On the night of the Harvest Supper, Sam Brumby was waiting for her in the kitchen when she climbed down the ladder and stood before him in her finery. She had found a cotton print dress, patterned with blue cornflowers. Its skirt was a little too full to be fashionable and the sleeves too narrow. But, ignoring the fusty smell of material which had been packed away in a trunk for years, she had put it on, pinned up her freshly washed hair with some ivory combs she had found in the bottom of the trunk and arranged her curls to fall over her forehead. She felt like a princess.
Sam was staring at her. His eyes misted over as if he were seeing not her but someone else standing before him. Perhaps he was remembering the person to whom this dress had once belonged. For a fleeting moment, Esther felt awkward. Then Sam brushed his hand across his face, sniffed and said gruffly. ‘You look bonny, wench. Come on, we’d best be
Esther heard Sam’s wheezing and she looked sideways at him. He was bending slightly forward, his hands resting on his knees, his head tilted up to watch the two women laughing until the ears came into his eye.
‘Ayel, wench,’ he splutterd, ‘you’ll be the death o’ me!’
Seven
‘Y OU
coming to the Supper tonight, Esther?’ Matthew was grinning at her over the half-door of the cowshed.
Without pausing in her milking, her voice muffled against the beast’s stomach, Esther asked, ‘Supper? What Supper?’
‘Harvest Supper, of course. Ain’t Sam told you about
it?’
‘No.’
‘It’s at the Grange. Squire holds a Harvest Supper for all the folks around here. Anyone can go – an’ they do. It’s a grand night. Aw, do come, Esther. Come with me, if you’re frit to go on your own.’
She finished milking Clover and stood up, giving the cow a last gentle pat on her rump. ‘Good girl, there now, there’s a good girl. We’ll have to stop milking you soon, shan’t we? Ya’ll be calving in a few weeks.’
The cow swished her tail but her kicking feet stayed still at Esther’s pacifying tone.
Now Esther faced Matthew. ‘I ain’t frit to go nowhere on me own, Matthew Hilton.’
‘Aw, don’t take the huff, Esther. I only meant – well – I meant I’d like you to come with me. There’s still a lot of people round here you don’t know an’ . . .’
‘Aye, and some as I’d rather not know an’ all, judging by them two old biddies in church last week,’ she countered.
Matthew grinned. ‘I ’eard about ’em coming here. But you sent ’em packing by all accounts.’
Esther smiled at the memory and found Matthew staring at her.
‘My, but you’re bonny when you smile,’ he said softly and his eyes darkened with desire as he stepped towards her.
‘Oh, go on with you.’ She pushed him away from her, laughing as she added, ‘I’ll think about the Harvest Supper. Now go away, I’ve work to do.’
Grinning, Matthew went.
‘Mester,’ she ventured to Sam at tea time. ‘What’s this Harvest Supper Matthew’s been on about? Do you go?’
Sam sniffed. ‘I s’pose I’ll have to. I don’t reckon much to it, but I don’t like to snub the squire. Why d’you ask? You going?’
She shrugged and looked down at her rough work-worn skirt and faded blouse. ‘I – I dunno.’
Sam sniffed again. There was a long silence between them. He got up from the table and settled himself in his straight-backed Windsor chair by the range. He reached for his clay pipe on the mantelpiece and began to pack it slowly. Without looking at her, he said, haltingly, ‘In that room where you sleep . . .’
Esther looked at him.
‘. . . there’s a trunk of – old clothes. They – they belonged to – to someone – a long time ago. If – if there’s owt you can wear, you can have ’em,’ he finished in a rush.
Her green eyes were shining. ‘Aw, thanks, Mester Brumby, thanks ever so.’
Sam sniffed, settled his aching bones in his chair and puffed at his pipe.
On the night of the Harvest Supper, Sam Brumby was waiting for her in the kitchen when she climbed down the ladder and stood before him in her finery. She had found a cotton print dress, patterned with blue cornflowers. Its skirt was a little too full to be fashionable and the sleeves too narrow. But, ignoring the fusty smell of material which had been packed away in a trunk for years, she had put it on, pinned up her freshly washed hair with some ivory combs she had found in the bottom of the trunk and arranged her curls to fall over her forehead. She felt like a princess.
Sam was staring at her. His eyes misted over as if he were seeing not her but someone else standing before him. Perhaps he was remembering the person to whom this dress had once belonged. For a fleeting moment, Esther felt awkward. Then Sam brushed his hand across his face, sniffed and said gruffly. ‘You look bonny, wench. Come on, we’d best be
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