A Mother's Sacrifice by Catherine King Page A

felt a tug on her sleeve.
    ‘Come along, miss. It’s getting late.’ Mr Ross was actually pulling her away.
    ‘Good night, sir,’ she said politely.
    Farmer Bilton raised his head and lifted his tankard. ‘More ale, Seth,’ he growled.
    ‘Hurry, miss.’ Mr Ross was striding quickly and she stumbled to keep up. But he held her arm firmly, so she had to. ‘He’s drunk. Couldn’t you see that?’
    ‘Well, yes, but he is our landlord.’
    ‘I don’t care who he is. Didn’t your mother teach you to keep away from drunken men?’
    ‘Yes,’ she muttered. ‘Can you please slow down?’
    ‘Not yet,’ he snapped.
    But he did, eventually, and Quinta was quite out of breath.
    ‘Sit here a while.’ He gestured to a dry-stone wall.
    ‘Why are you so angry with me?’
    ‘I’m not.’
    ‘You’re clenching your fists.’
    He opened his fingers immediately. ‘I’m angry with him.’ He tossed his head in the direction of Bilton Farm. ‘Did you see those poor wretches at his table?’
    ‘You mean the ones sharing his mutton?’ she challenged.
    He laughed harshly. ‘Well, they’re grown men so he can’t get away with starving them. If he beats them they could beat him back.’
    ‘Why would he beat them?’
    ‘His sort doesn’t need a reason, but stealing food would be enough.’
    ‘Stealing anything, I should think. Were you beaten as a child?’
    He didn’t answer at first, until she asked, ‘Were you in the workhouse?’
    He laughed again, without humour. ‘That would have been preferable for me. Do you know what fresh baked bread smells like to a starving boy who had been up since dawn lifting well water and mucking out horses? I was only allowed leftover bread. If there were no stale crusts I starved, so I used to eat the horse’s oat mash because if I took anything from the kitchen, I was whipped.’
    Quinta frowned and her mouth turned down at the corners. ‘You had to steal food?’
    ‘I didn’t think it was stealing. They were supposed to feed me.’
    ‘Where was that?’
    ‘A hovel in Ireland where I was farmed out when I was born.The English bastard, they called me; fit only for the stables. I slept there, too, in the hayloft. And in winter I had to risk spending the night among the hooves and droppings in the stalls to stop myself freezing to death.’
    ‘How cruel! And how awful for you! Were you there for long?’
    ‘Ten years; I only remember about half of them. I remember the guv’nor, though. He was like your Farmer Bilton, coarse, selfish and surly. He always carried a horsewhip and I’d get it across my back or legs for no reason except to remind me what it felt like in case I forgot. I was no better then a slave!’ He stopped suddenly and his voice was quieter when he said,‘Come on, we’d better get moving.’
    Quinta jumped down from the wall. ‘I’m sorry. It must have been dreadful, growing up like that.’
    He shrugged.‘I knew no other life. But I had a strong instinct for survival and grew cunning. I planned from an early age to run away. I might have become a genuine vagabond if my father hadn’t found me and put me straight. I try to forget it these days, but the way Farmer Bilton behaved just now brought it all back to me.’
    ‘I haven’t seen him drunk before. He likes his own way but I never thought he’d increase our rent like that. He might change his mind in the morning. I hope so, because Mother can’t afford it as it is.’
    ‘That won’t stop him. No one can deny that your land is worth a good rent and with the price of food rising, he has a point. He’s not a gentleman, though, even if he is your landlord. And he seemed to have more than a passing interest in you. Does he have a wife?’
    ‘Mother thinks that nobody will have him in spite of his wealth. Leastways, none of the women around here would live in his squalid farmhouse.’
    ‘He talked of an offer he’d made to your mother.’
    Quinta hesitated, wondering how much more to tell