cottages that straddled the lane. Fay
had watched the quarrel from her doorway. ‘You there, missus.’ Startled, she ushered
Wilbert and Sukey inside and slammed the door.
Jacob scurried off with the bucket, heading for the solitude
of his woodshed.
Sam lay unconscious, sprawled in the dirt. Blood oozed from
the wound, matting his hair.
Boldly, Eppie stepped forward. ‘My mam will put him back together.’
‘Why’d she wanna do that when most folk around here treat
the prisoners like the black plague?’ Boyle asked.
‘Mister Sam mended our cow.’
‘Shift him, you two.’
Martha was storing a batch of jam on the dresser shelf when
the prisoners burst in. ‘Oh, my!’ A jar fell from her hand and crashed to the
floor.
‘Where d’ya wan’ us to stick him?’ asked a grim-faced
intruder.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IMPRISONED FOR
LOVE
‘You can’t stick, I mean, bring him in
here,’ Martha cried.
Eppie crept in sheepishly.
‘Eppie, you know what your pa told us.’
‘But it’s Mister Sam.’
For the first time, Martha glanced at the prisoner’s pained
face. Long lashes swept his closed eyes.
‘Hurry up, missus. He’s dripping blood on yer rug.’
Recovering her senses, Martha climbed to the loft and fetched
down Wakelin’s sack bed.
Hampered by their shackles, the prisoners tramped through the
spilt jam, dumped Sam, and left.
Taking a pot of hedge woundwort from the dresser, Martha
dabbed Sam’s freshly-cleaned cut with salve. ‘Luckily, it’s not deep. There’s
not much more we can do, just keep him comfortable. I should think that yeast’s
warmed.’
Eppie pounded with her fists, sending flour and dough flying
over the rim of the bowl. The spinning wheel whirled. Martha twisted fibres, forming
a caterpillar-like thread. Frequently, they stole furtive glances at one
another, each knowing the other’s thoughts.
‘Will pa be real mad?’
In Martha’s voice was a ring of doubt. ‘I can’t see why.’
The kitten pounced on the weighted spindle which dangled by
a thread.
Eppie giggled and tried to prise the kitten’s claws from the
yarn. ‘Tipsy thinks it’s a mousie.’
‘You’ve got flour all over her little face!’ Martha said, amused.
Their merriment was interrupted by a groan from Sam.
Eppie stroked his slender fingers. ‘His hands are all cut
an’ scabby.’
Boyle poked his nose in at the door. ‘Any problems?’
‘We’re managing,’ Martha answered.
‘I’ll call this evening. See how he’s doing.’
Shortly afterwards, Sam recovered enough to accept the barley
soup. ‘You’re most kind.’ Though he smiled, Eppie detected an unfathomable sorrow
in his eyes. Furrows of stress were etched upon his forehead.
Martha was in the bedroom, checking clothes in the blanket
box for moths. ‘Eppie, do you want to get on with that bacon?’
Seeing Sam’s eyes fix upon Martha, Eppie was gripped with
panic, recalling what Jaggery alleged, that Sam had hurt a lady. Finding it
difficult to concentrate on her task, she clumsily hacked the meat.
‘I’ll return to my labours,’ Sam said, noticing her
nervousness. ‘Thank you for your kindness.’
Eppie breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Well, if you’re sure,’ Martha said, unconvinced of his
strength.
Swooning with pain, he fell back.
She came to his side. ‘You’d best rest some more.’
‘I don’t want to be in your way.’
‘You’re in no one’s way. Now look what you’ve done - the
cut’s bleeding again.’
She finished winding on a fresh bandage. ‘I don’t want
another peep out of you.’
Comforted by her soothing kindness, he slept.
Peeling potatoes, dropping them into an earthenware pot, Eppie
caught the familiar clippity-clop of Jenny’s shoes. She ran out excitedly.
‘I’ll go and tell pa about Mister Sam.’
‘No, let me …’ Eppie had dashed away before Martha could finish
uttering her warning.
She returned moments later. ‘Come an’ see! Pa’s
had watched the quarrel from her doorway. ‘You there, missus.’ Startled, she ushered
Wilbert and Sukey inside and slammed the door.
Jacob scurried off with the bucket, heading for the solitude
of his woodshed.
Sam lay unconscious, sprawled in the dirt. Blood oozed from
the wound, matting his hair.
Boldly, Eppie stepped forward. ‘My mam will put him back together.’
‘Why’d she wanna do that when most folk around here treat
the prisoners like the black plague?’ Boyle asked.
‘Mister Sam mended our cow.’
‘Shift him, you two.’
Martha was storing a batch of jam on the dresser shelf when
the prisoners burst in. ‘Oh, my!’ A jar fell from her hand and crashed to the
floor.
‘Where d’ya wan’ us to stick him?’ asked a grim-faced
intruder.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IMPRISONED FOR
LOVE
‘You can’t stick, I mean, bring him in
here,’ Martha cried.
Eppie crept in sheepishly.
‘Eppie, you know what your pa told us.’
‘But it’s Mister Sam.’
For the first time, Martha glanced at the prisoner’s pained
face. Long lashes swept his closed eyes.
‘Hurry up, missus. He’s dripping blood on yer rug.’
Recovering her senses, Martha climbed to the loft and fetched
down Wakelin’s sack bed.
Hampered by their shackles, the prisoners tramped through the
spilt jam, dumped Sam, and left.
Taking a pot of hedge woundwort from the dresser, Martha
dabbed Sam’s freshly-cleaned cut with salve. ‘Luckily, it’s not deep. There’s
not much more we can do, just keep him comfortable. I should think that yeast’s
warmed.’
Eppie pounded with her fists, sending flour and dough flying
over the rim of the bowl. The spinning wheel whirled. Martha twisted fibres, forming
a caterpillar-like thread. Frequently, they stole furtive glances at one
another, each knowing the other’s thoughts.
‘Will pa be real mad?’
In Martha’s voice was a ring of doubt. ‘I can’t see why.’
The kitten pounced on the weighted spindle which dangled by
a thread.
Eppie giggled and tried to prise the kitten’s claws from the
yarn. ‘Tipsy thinks it’s a mousie.’
‘You’ve got flour all over her little face!’ Martha said, amused.
Their merriment was interrupted by a groan from Sam.
Eppie stroked his slender fingers. ‘His hands are all cut
an’ scabby.’
Boyle poked his nose in at the door. ‘Any problems?’
‘We’re managing,’ Martha answered.
‘I’ll call this evening. See how he’s doing.’
Shortly afterwards, Sam recovered enough to accept the barley
soup. ‘You’re most kind.’ Though he smiled, Eppie detected an unfathomable sorrow
in his eyes. Furrows of stress were etched upon his forehead.
Martha was in the bedroom, checking clothes in the blanket
box for moths. ‘Eppie, do you want to get on with that bacon?’
Seeing Sam’s eyes fix upon Martha, Eppie was gripped with
panic, recalling what Jaggery alleged, that Sam had hurt a lady. Finding it
difficult to concentrate on her task, she clumsily hacked the meat.
‘I’ll return to my labours,’ Sam said, noticing her
nervousness. ‘Thank you for your kindness.’
Eppie breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Well, if you’re sure,’ Martha said, unconvinced of his
strength.
Swooning with pain, he fell back.
She came to his side. ‘You’d best rest some more.’
‘I don’t want to be in your way.’
‘You’re in no one’s way. Now look what you’ve done - the
cut’s bleeding again.’
She finished winding on a fresh bandage. ‘I don’t want
another peep out of you.’
Comforted by her soothing kindness, he slept.
Peeling potatoes, dropping them into an earthenware pot, Eppie
caught the familiar clippity-clop of Jenny’s shoes. She ran out excitedly.
‘I’ll go and tell pa about Mister Sam.’
‘No, let me …’ Eppie had dashed away before Martha could finish
uttering her warning.
She returned moments later. ‘Come an’ see! Pa’s
Similar Books
