Angel Meadow by Audrey Howard Page B

at once, on sight of him her rosy face became even rosier. She dimpled and lowered her long lashes, then peeped up at him knowingly and yet innocently.
    “Mornin’, sir,” she said softly, a wealth of meaning in her voice.
    “Mornin’, Evie,” he answered just as softly. No more than that but the air about them seemed to warm and colour like the sunshine that fell about them.
    “Lovely day, sir.”
    “Indeed it is, Evie.”
    “The washing’s dry already,” she went on, sticking out her hip to draw his attention to the basket of snowy linen, and at the same time to her small waist.
    “I’m not surprised. Let’s hope the rain keeps off.”
    “Oh, yes, sir,” she answered, with what seemed heartfelt emotion.
    They were walking away from one another by now, she towards the kitchen door, he to the arch let into the high wall over which already roses were beginning to clamber. The arch led to the stretch of rough grass that stood before the stables. They were in full view of the kitchen window where stood a ramrod-backed woman with iron grey hair drawn into so tight a bun at the back of her head it dragged the skin of her forehead taut. She wore a floor-length black frock of great severity and she frowned as she watched the little exchange beyond the window. She could not hear what was said and if she had could not have taken exception to its content but it was apparent she did not at all care for what she saw.
    She tutted to herself, then, as Evie entered the kitchen, turned towards her, rattling her housekeeper’s keys menacingly.
    “You’ve taken your time, my girl,” she said, as though even before the laundry-maid spoke she was prepared to call her a liar. “Don’t ask me to believe that it takes ten minutes to unpeg a line of washing.”
    “I ’ad ter peg out another lot, Mrs Harvey,” Evie protested.
    “Don’t you argue with me, girl,” Mrs Harvey hissed, her flinty eyes narrowed suspiciously, for though there had been nothing untoward in the appearance of the laundry-maid and the master’s son, Evie’s smile had been too warm for Mrs Harvey’s liking.
    Evie bit her lip to prevent the next words of protest from tumbling out. She stood, her head hanging, her poppy mouth clamped mutinously shut and in the chair by the fire where she was smacking her lips over her midmorning cup of tea, Cook shook her head sympathetically. Cook was younger than the housekeeper, with a lighter spirit, an inclination towards good humour, a bit of a laugh and, she admitted it to herself, would have allowed the maidservants, if they had been in her charge, which they weren’t except the kitchen-maid, the scullery-maid and the skivvy, more leniency than Mrs Harvey showed. More freedom to gossip and giggle and stand about idly which would not have done at all, but then she had been married and, despite her use of the title, “Mrs” Harvey had not. Cook had found in her long career that women who had never known a man’s touch were often harsh on those who had. Not that young Evie was married and, as to the other, it had not gone unnoticed that the laundry-maid and the master’s elder son smiled at one another a lot. Mind, Evie was a good girl, a bonny girl, an innocent girl, Cook would have sworn to it, with glossy dark curls that constantly escaped the severe cap Mrs Harvey insisted upon, and the loveliest laughing blue eyes. She had cheeks on her like a ripe peach and a mouth that looked as though it had just been kissed, which it probably had if the young master’s smiles were anything to go by, and it was as well that Mrs Harvey was as strict as she was. No followers, she told the maidservants, and it was a rule that was strictly adhered to, though who they met, or where, on their day off, was their own business.
    “Now, if it’s not too much trouble I’d be obliged if you’d get on with the ironing, girl,” Mrs Harvey told Evie sharply, “or the morning will be gone and not a blessed thing done.” This