Feathers in the Fire by Catherine Cookson Read Free Book Online

progressiveness in the face of the prevailing parsimoniousness of thought and asked himself would he have been allowed such a privilege if the master hadn’t been a friend of old Parson Wainwright, and Parson Wainwright hadn’t been full cousin to Lord Powlett, and Lord Powlett’s niece hadn’t married Sir Alfred Tuppin, who lived in The Manor. The master had a taste for high company; it was known around the county he didn’t live like any ordinary farmer, so the sending of him and the rest of the young ’uns on the farm to Sunday School he saw now as a means of impressing Sir Alfred and the rest of the gentry with his progressiveness.
    He had a mental picture of his master reading the lesson; that was when his awe of him had first begun, for he did not seem like a farmer, or his master, but a man full of God . . . A man full of God! The words ran through his mind like an audible sneer. In this moment he had the desire to spit them into the face before him.
    The master was speaking. His voice low and very thin now, he was saying, ‘You have your choice, you’ll marry Molly or you’ll go.’
    ‘You’ve had me answer, Master, and I’ll add something to it.’ His own voice was low and thick. ‘I’d rather be crucified than give me name to her an’ – there was a long pause before he ended – ‘your fly-blow.’
    He watched the colour drain away from the thin face, leaving the skin grey and muddy looking, except for two white spots on the cheeks where the bones showed through. He could not continue to look at the fall of a God as it were, so he moved to one side, then went towards the door, only to be checked by McBain saying, ‘Wait!’
    Again they were looking at each other, but Davie saw that the master had recovered quickly, and the tone of his voice bore this out as he said, ‘I could horsewhip you, or take you to the justice for defiling my . . . my character. Do you know what you have said, accused me of?’
    ‘Aye, Master.’
    ‘Well, it’s a lie, bred of your jealousy. This is final, you’ll go, and if you spread this lie around I’ll have you transpor . . . ’ He had been about to say ‘transported’, but realised he was more than sixteen years too late for that; but Davie took it up.
    ‘And Miss Jane along of me, Master?’ he said.
    There was a short silence before McBain muttered, ‘What?’
    ‘I said Miss Jane along of me, Master?’ His voice was quiet. ‘She was in the malt house s’afternoon, as I was meself. I was bringing the cows in and I saw her fall. She was running towards the malt house. When I got to her she was up in the straw, you know’ – he inclined his head forward – ‘the straw that’s in the gallery. She had cut her knee and was cryin’. She wasn’t cryin’ ’cos of her hurt, not that kind of hurt anyway, she was crying for . . . now who do you think she was crying for, Master? She was crying for Molly ’cos you had flayed her. And then she sees you, Master; we both see you comin’ in and waiting. I don’t need to tell you any more, do I? It isn’t me you’ve got to worry about, Master, not me, it’s Miss Jane.’
    He walked from his master’s presence without being given leave and he didn’t bang the door.
    Angus McBain put his hand behind him and gripped the edge of the desk, then took a step back and rested his buttocks against it. God above! What was this? His mind leapt back to what he had said to Molly in the malt house . . . and what he had done to her, kissing her flesh, fondling her . . . ah, dear Lord!
    It was characteristic of him that he wasn’t concerned so much over the impression his infidelity might have made on his daughter as by the fact that a member of his immediate family should be aware of his intrigue. That his employees should have knowledge of what was going on was, after all, of no great import; they would never dare voice, or even hint of any such thing to their mistress. They could, and would, talk among themselves,