Read Online The Silk Factory by Judith Allnatt - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Judith Allnatt
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dripped from the ends of the twigs and it was as though he felt the slow gathering of every drop.
He walked Maisie on towards the sound of water, a strange excitement fizzing in his blood. The path narrowed and meandered until he rounded a tight bend and in front of him lay a stream with three mossy planks laid across it. Plates of ice floated on its surface and on the far bank stood a roe deer, a doe with her spindly legs planted and her head down to drink. Jack stopped Maisie. They were upwind and the creature took a moment to register their presence. It lifted its head, water dripping from its muzzle, its nose twitching as it searched for their scent, and looked straight at him with candid, liquid eyes. For a moment Jack felt the privilege of meeting face-to-face with a wild thing. Then, with a flurry of snow and a flash of its white rump, it was gone.
Jack let out his breath. The restless excitement that had been building in him crystallised. The image of the young woman came before him again; there had been something pure in the moment, almost holy. He had never seen anything so perfect. When she had looked up at him he had felt a shift, a change, a sense of communion. He must see her again. He must go now, while there was a chance that he might catch her before her work there was done.
The path here was too narrow to turn Maisie, the matted bracken making the undergrowth impenetrable on either side. With excruciating slowness he coaxed her over the mossy plank bridge and rewarded her with a piece of apple from his pocket as she reached the path once more, urging her along as best he could until they reached a path that turned left, back towards the edge of the wood. ‘Walk on, walk on,’ Jack muttered to her as they went, for what if the girl was gone? He knew nothing about her, not even her name. Would she be there if he came another day? The group of women could be itinerant labour, here today and gone tomorrow, disappearing as swiftly as the crop of flowers they picked. The thought that Lieutenant Jack Stamford should not be pursuing a girl who might be no better than a gypsy never entered his head; all he knew was that he must look upon her again.
Emerging at the edge of a field, Jack set his course by the church tower whose bells were now tolling the hour of ten o’clock. Maisie, relieved of the terrors of creaking branches and frozen puddles, was persuaded into a steady walk over the level pasture and Jack urged her on until they reached the lane through the village. He passed a cart rumbling slowly along, drawn by two bays in jingling harness, the carter hunched in a blanket with his hat jammed down over his ears against the cold.
Turning into the lane that ran down to the nuttery he slowed to a sedate pace, gathered the reins in one hand and sat back in the saddle to appear as one casually returning from a ride along a customary route. A gaggle of women, gossiping and laughing, came out of the entrance to the nuttery and turned away from him, down towards the farm. His eyes passed quickly over them: she was not among them. For a desperate moment he considered calling out to them to ask where he could find the girl in grey but he immediately dismissed the idea; at best they would think it odd, at worst he would appear ridiculous. He slowed his pace and looked around in case there was any other route she might have taken.
Ahead, in the gateway to the nuttery, a pile of flat, lidded baskets were now haphazardly stacked. He guessed that they awaited collection by the carter he had passed earlier on the road. As he approached, he saw the girl emerge carrying a last basket and he let out his breath. She reached up on tiptoe and placed it on the top of the stack, but the baskets, roughly stacked on uneven ground, were unstable and the pile teetered, overbalanced and, before she could grab it, fell in a crash and bounce of wickerwork, snow and flowers. She cried out in consternation.
Jack slid from Maisie’s
He walked Maisie on towards the sound of water, a strange excitement fizzing in his blood. The path narrowed and meandered until he rounded a tight bend and in front of him lay a stream with three mossy planks laid across it. Plates of ice floated on its surface and on the far bank stood a roe deer, a doe with her spindly legs planted and her head down to drink. Jack stopped Maisie. They were upwind and the creature took a moment to register their presence. It lifted its head, water dripping from its muzzle, its nose twitching as it searched for their scent, and looked straight at him with candid, liquid eyes. For a moment Jack felt the privilege of meeting face-to-face with a wild thing. Then, with a flurry of snow and a flash of its white rump, it was gone.
Jack let out his breath. The restless excitement that had been building in him crystallised. The image of the young woman came before him again; there had been something pure in the moment, almost holy. He had never seen anything so perfect. When she had looked up at him he had felt a shift, a change, a sense of communion. He must see her again. He must go now, while there was a chance that he might catch her before her work there was done.
The path here was too narrow to turn Maisie, the matted bracken making the undergrowth impenetrable on either side. With excruciating slowness he coaxed her over the mossy plank bridge and rewarded her with a piece of apple from his pocket as she reached the path once more, urging her along as best he could until they reached a path that turned left, back towards the edge of the wood. ‘Walk on, walk on,’ Jack muttered to her as they went, for what if the girl was gone? He knew nothing about her, not even her name. Would she be there if he came another day? The group of women could be itinerant labour, here today and gone tomorrow, disappearing as swiftly as the crop of flowers they picked. The thought that Lieutenant Jack Stamford should not be pursuing a girl who might be no better than a gypsy never entered his head; all he knew was that he must look upon her again.
Emerging at the edge of a field, Jack set his course by the church tower whose bells were now tolling the hour of ten o’clock. Maisie, relieved of the terrors of creaking branches and frozen puddles, was persuaded into a steady walk over the level pasture and Jack urged her on until they reached the lane through the village. He passed a cart rumbling slowly along, drawn by two bays in jingling harness, the carter hunched in a blanket with his hat jammed down over his ears against the cold.
Turning into the lane that ran down to the nuttery he slowed to a sedate pace, gathered the reins in one hand and sat back in the saddle to appear as one casually returning from a ride along a customary route. A gaggle of women, gossiping and laughing, came out of the entrance to the nuttery and turned away from him, down towards the farm. His eyes passed quickly over them: she was not among them. For a desperate moment he considered calling out to them to ask where he could find the girl in grey but he immediately dismissed the idea; at best they would think it odd, at worst he would appear ridiculous. He slowed his pace and looked around in case there was any other route she might have taken.
Ahead, in the gateway to the nuttery, a pile of flat, lidded baskets were now haphazardly stacked. He guessed that they awaited collection by the carter he had passed earlier on the road. As he approached, he saw the girl emerge carrying a last basket and he let out his breath. She reached up on tiptoe and placed it on the top of the stack, but the baskets, roughly stacked on uneven ground, were unstable and the pile teetered, overbalanced and, before she could grab it, fell in a crash and bounce of wickerwork, snow and flowers. She cried out in consternation.
Jack slid from Maisie’s
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