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

from the dining room and she had asked Angus as he was crossing the hall, ‘What is the matter? What has happened? Why have you ordered the bell to be rung?’ and he had spoken to her over his shoulder as he went out, saying, ‘Come to the barn and you’ll soon find out.’
    And having found out she then understood her husband’s reticence in speaking to her of the matter, for she knew him, in spite of her private knowledge of a certain facet of his character, to be a very moral man. But when she had seen him lift the whip to Molly something within her had become outraged. Those undercurrents in her apparently placid nature, which were known to no-one but herself, swept up through her in a torrent and almost escaped her lips in protest. She reminded herself only just in time that any protest of hers would appear as if she were censuring her husband, and would present a bad example to his people. She always thought of the workers as his people, not her people, but Angus’ people; she was no queen to his king, she had always been aware of her inferiority with regards to him, for Angus had a great mind, a cultured mind.
    She herself came from a well-connected family. Her grandfather having once been a shipbuilder, that was before they brought the iron ships in, and if her father had not squandered his inheritance she would, no doubt, have never been allowed to marry a farmer, even such a one as Angus McBain. But penniless and living on the bounty of a cousin and having reached the age of twenty and no-one having as yet asked to marry her, the widower, the young, lean, stern-faced widower had appeared to both her and her cousin’s family like the answer to many prayers.
    She had not loved Angus when she first married him, but in a very short time she had been consumed by her feelings for him, and it wasn’t until the fifth year of their marriage that there began the long, slow, dying of her love. He blamed her for the loss of each child. The third month of pregnancy was agony to her; as the blood flowed from her carrying away yet another of his frenzied efforts to make her body bear his son, she died afresh.
    As the years wore on, and she sat in church, Sunday after Sunday, and heard him read the lesson with as much or more feeling than either Parson Hedley or Wainwright put into their readings, she began to contrast him with the man of the night, the man who tore at her body like a hungry lion at a doe. Yet she knew she must suffer this, as it was the lot of all women; men’s appetites must be satisfied. But the daring, probing part of her mind questioned God’s handiwork in combining in her husband His adherent and the wild beast of the night.
    So her love died. But not her respect for his superior knowledge. He was well read. His office walls showed lines of books you might find in a library, and Sir Alfred Tuppin always referred to the office as the library, and never failed to admire her husband’s taste in literature when he called as he sometimes did after a meet. And what was more, both parsons respected his knowledge.
    She found pleasure of an evening when Parson Hedley came to supper, and after the meal she sat with her handwork and listened to her husband and the minister discoursing on all subjects, lately about Disraeli, Parliament and the Queen. From their conversation she had visualised the Red Sea and the Mediterranean joined by a great canal. She had listened attentively to the discussion on a man called the Khedive. He was the ruler of Egypt and he had sold his shares in a canal called the Suez Canal to Mr Disraeli, at least Mr Disraeli had bought them for the Queen and the Empire. Of course neither her husband nor Parson Hedley agreed with all Mr Disraeli had done; they criticised him a great deal and were pleased when his Parliament fell. But they didn’t seem much happier with Mr Gladstone, who was now Prime Minister. Undoubtedly he was
    a moral man, a righteous man, but he was, they said, swaying