Feathers in the Fire by Catherine Cookson Read Free Book Online Page A

but what did that matter? He had after all only done what was commonplace all over the countryside, taken his pleasure with a serving maid . . . This might even add to the respect granted him in some quarters, and arouse it in others where it had been lacking – their knowledge of his peccadillo would have made him appear much more a man of the world. What was shaking him now with fear and foreboding was the possibility that through his daughter the facts might come to his wife’s ears. But again his particular worry did not concern the effect it might have on her but on what she was carrying. She had carried for nearly seven months, the first time since Jane was born, and he had willed it to be a son, willed, and willed, and willed it to be a son, until, deep within him there was the sure knowledge it would be a son. A few more weeks and he would never claim it.
    Molly! Even the name coming into his mind made him feel weak. He had never had a desire for anyone like he had for her. Ignorant, untutored, it did not matter, her body was a delight to him. He liked young things, soft, rounded things. His first wife had been like Molly, all flesh. She had died and taken their first child with her, and that had been a son. Why then, with his inclination running to tender soft young things, had he picked on Delia to bear his children? Delia had been twenty and thin; pretty, yes, but thin, almost as thin as himself. She was still thin; she had got thinner with every miscarriage. Seven of his children she had dropped; he had grown weary of trying to bring permanent life out of her bony frame. Now for the first time in thirteen years she was holding his seed and nothing must cause her to drop it before it was due . . . Where was Jane? He must find her, explain to her; she was twelve years old, old enough to understand.
    He seemed to be catapulted from the desk, out through the door along the passage and into the kitchen, only to find it empty. He went into the passage again, then on into the drawing room, calling ‘Delia! Delia!’ and when his wife didn’t answer, he went into the hallway and out through the front of the house. The garden was deserted. Delia, he saw, had been on the lounge chair, for her work bag was lying on the grass. He went through the house again and out into the side yard, and there called to young Mickey Geary, ‘Have you seen your mistress, boy?’
    ‘Aye, Master. Her and Molly are lookin’ for Miss Jane; she didn’t come home to no supper.’
    He bit tight down on his lip before asking, ‘Which way did they go?’
    ‘I don’t know, Master; they just went round ’n’ round the place callin’.’
    Swiftly he made his way out of the yard and into the road. Then he crossed the fields almost at a run, leapt over a low stone wall, and made for The Ridge. He slipped as he scrambled up the steep path and when he reached the top he was gasping.
    The evening sun was in his eyes and he put his hand to his brow and peered around him. Then he saw them, two small figures a good distance apart, his wife on the cow track above the malt house field, and further away the unmistakable figure of Molly running down towards the brook; he could not see his daughter. He left the top of the hill and took the curving path at a run, which he kept up across the fields. He could not remember running like this since he was a boy of fourteen.
    Delia McBain had been looking for her daughter for the past hour and a half. She had started the search quietly. Rising from her outdoor couch, she had gone into the kitchen; she had asked Molly if she had seen Miss Jane and Molly had answered,‘No, Mistress, not since this mornin’.’
    As Delia had gazed at Molly she had for a moment forgotten that she was looking for her daughter, and had, in spite of this girl’s sinning, felt overcome with compassion for her. She herself had previously been quite unaware of the reason for ringing the bell; the sound of it had brought her swiftly