could be distracted by guile, and she adored animals. She was at that age when she was closer to her father’s skinny border collie and Mrs Cledwen’s ginger tom-cat than she was to anyone else.
‘Yes, you shall feed the lambs. I’ll pick some dandelionleaves when we reach the drive and you may hand them over. Only we mustn’t be long or Mrs Cled will be cross with me, because she’s off on her holidays today and won’t thank me if I make her late.’
Helen chuckled and pointed over the side of the pram at a clump of primroses growing at the foot of the wall which surrounded the lodge.
‘Feed lambs?’
‘Yes, but not with primroses; lambs don’t like primroses. When we reach the dandelions I’ll tell you, pet.’
A short way up the drive she saw the dandelions, flowerless but growing strongly in the short wiry grass. She put the brake on the pram and bent to pick. Behind her, Helen squeaked and struggled.
‘My pick, my pick,’ she shouted urgently. ‘Nell … get … out!’
‘Not yet, sweetheart …’ Hester was beginning when she heard a loud thump. Heart in mouth, she turned. The pram was upside down on the gravel and from beneath it there came no sound.
Matthew had driven Mr Geraint into St Asaph in the Lagonda early that morning to take a look at the sheep on sale in the market. The flock on offer had not been particularly impressive, but Mr Geraint had also wanted breeding sows and had fallen for the charms of a couple of in-pig gilts, Tamworths with bristly ginger bodies and the tiny, squinty eyes of their kind. Having bought them on sight, they loaded the young sows into the trailer and decided to go straight back to the castle to settle them into their new home. Normally, they would have stayed in St Asaph, having a pint at The Plough at lunchtime, maybe even a round or two of their speciality, raw beef sandwiches, but the pigs were good ones and Mr Geraint was obviously itching to see them in his newly restored sties.
‘Everything’s ready for ‘em,’ he remarked to Matthew as they removed the ramp and closed the gate across the end of the trailer. ‘No point in hanging around here. You can have a meal with Willi and Dewi up at the castle if your wife’s not prepared anything.’
Matthew stiffened a little.
‘Hester always does a dinner,’ he said. ‘If she’s workin’ over I’ll get it a mite late, mebbe, but it’ll be there.’
Mr Geraint shot him an amused look, one eyebrow hiked up. Matthew knew just what expression would be on his employer’s face even though he had not taken his eyes from the road ahead. Mr Geraint hardly ever mentioned Hester, but when he did he often looked … oh, mocking, as though he doubted the girl’s ability, not just as a housewife but in other spheres too.
Matthew frowned at the ignoble thought. They had the child, surely Helen was proof enough that he and Hester enjoyed an active married life? But it was Mr Geraint’s way to mock; he should take it in his stride, ignore it. It was only because his Hester was so young that he felt he must defend her, even against a criticism which was covert, never put into words.
‘Why should she cook a midday meal on market day, when she doesn’t expect you home until late afternoon?’ Mr Geraint asked equably. ‘I don’t doubt she has something hot for you each evening.’
The words were innocent enough but the tone was not; Matthew actually took his eyes off the road to shoot a fulminating look at his employer. What was he up to now? Why couldn’t he save his breath to cool his porridge?
‘She’s a good girl,’ he heard himself saying, his tone almost defensive. ‘We do right well, me an’ Hester.’
‘My dear chap, who am I to suggest otherwise? I believe Mrs Cledwen is very pleased with her work, so I’m sure I’ve no possible grounds for complaint.No, what worries me at the moment is whether we should put both gilts in one pen or whether they would be better apart?’
‘Ask
‘Yes, you shall feed the lambs. I’ll pick some dandelionleaves when we reach the drive and you may hand them over. Only we mustn’t be long or Mrs Cled will be cross with me, because she’s off on her holidays today and won’t thank me if I make her late.’
Helen chuckled and pointed over the side of the pram at a clump of primroses growing at the foot of the wall which surrounded the lodge.
‘Feed lambs?’
‘Yes, but not with primroses; lambs don’t like primroses. When we reach the dandelions I’ll tell you, pet.’
A short way up the drive she saw the dandelions, flowerless but growing strongly in the short wiry grass. She put the brake on the pram and bent to pick. Behind her, Helen squeaked and struggled.
‘My pick, my pick,’ she shouted urgently. ‘Nell … get … out!’
‘Not yet, sweetheart …’ Hester was beginning when she heard a loud thump. Heart in mouth, she turned. The pram was upside down on the gravel and from beneath it there came no sound.
Matthew had driven Mr Geraint into St Asaph in the Lagonda early that morning to take a look at the sheep on sale in the market. The flock on offer had not been particularly impressive, but Mr Geraint had also wanted breeding sows and had fallen for the charms of a couple of in-pig gilts, Tamworths with bristly ginger bodies and the tiny, squinty eyes of their kind. Having bought them on sight, they loaded the young sows into the trailer and decided to go straight back to the castle to settle them into their new home. Normally, they would have stayed in St Asaph, having a pint at The Plough at lunchtime, maybe even a round or two of their speciality, raw beef sandwiches, but the pigs were good ones and Mr Geraint was obviously itching to see them in his newly restored sties.
‘Everything’s ready for ‘em,’ he remarked to Matthew as they removed the ramp and closed the gate across the end of the trailer. ‘No point in hanging around here. You can have a meal with Willi and Dewi up at the castle if your wife’s not prepared anything.’
Matthew stiffened a little.
‘Hester always does a dinner,’ he said. ‘If she’s workin’ over I’ll get it a mite late, mebbe, but it’ll be there.’
Mr Geraint shot him an amused look, one eyebrow hiked up. Matthew knew just what expression would be on his employer’s face even though he had not taken his eyes from the road ahead. Mr Geraint hardly ever mentioned Hester, but when he did he often looked … oh, mocking, as though he doubted the girl’s ability, not just as a housewife but in other spheres too.
Matthew frowned at the ignoble thought. They had the child, surely Helen was proof enough that he and Hester enjoyed an active married life? But it was Mr Geraint’s way to mock; he should take it in his stride, ignore it. It was only because his Hester was so young that he felt he must defend her, even against a criticism which was covert, never put into words.
‘Why should she cook a midday meal on market day, when she doesn’t expect you home until late afternoon?’ Mr Geraint asked equably. ‘I don’t doubt she has something hot for you each evening.’
The words were innocent enough but the tone was not; Matthew actually took his eyes off the road to shoot a fulminating look at his employer. What was he up to now? Why couldn’t he save his breath to cool his porridge?
‘She’s a good girl,’ he heard himself saying, his tone almost defensive. ‘We do right well, me an’ Hester.’
‘My dear chap, who am I to suggest otherwise? I believe Mrs Cledwen is very pleased with her work, so I’m sure I’ve no possible grounds for complaint.No, what worries me at the moment is whether we should put both gilts in one pen or whether they would be better apart?’
‘Ask
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