morning.
Today, more than any other market day, uneasiness had cloaked her like a second skin. Repeatedly she felt as though someone was watching her. She peered into the crowds but nothing seemed out of place. Yet, the sensation remained. Her skin prickled.
Juggling the baskets and footstool, Isabelle hurriedly checked she hadn’t forgotten anything. For a moment, she wondered if she had enough provisions at home to last a few more days. The pennies that jingled in her pocket wouldn’t be enough to buy the flour and sugar she needed to bake the pies for the following weekend trade anyway and the quicker she got home the better. Something wasn’t right here today.
‘Didn’t do as good terday, did yer?’ Marge Wilmot with a few of her followers placed themselves in front of her stall.
Isabelle sighed. ‘Go away, Mrs Wilmot. I have nothing to say to you.’
‘Nay, but I’ve got plenty ter say ter yer.’ Marge heaved up her enormous breasts with her arm. ‘Yer might as well not bother coming anymore. I’ve put the word around that yer pies are rubbish and they’ll mekk whoever eats them sick.’
Fury burnt through Isabelle’s veins. ‘How dare you!’
‘Yer’ve got a farm ter get yer money, I don’t. Me pies are all I have. If yer keep tekking custom away from me, then I’ll not be responsible fer me actions.’
‘You think people will believe scum like you?’ She tossed her head. ‘No matter what you say, I still have customers.’
‘Not as many as before though, I’ll bet.’ Marge peered into the baskets she could see. ‘Yer’ve got some left, ain’t yer?’
‘The market wasn’t as busy today. The cold wind kept people home.’
Marge laughed, showing missing teeth. ‘I sold all me stuff and I’d have sold a lot more if I’d had it.’
‘I’m pleased for you.’ Isabelle inclined her head. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must find my brother.’
Marge gripped her arm as she passed. Isabelle winced as the fat fingers pinched. ‘Let go of me!’
‘Listen here, yer silly little bitch.’ Marge leaned forward to whisper. ‘Yer come here again and I’ll have yer. Understand?’
‘Your threats do not frighten me.’
‘Well, they should.’ Marge’s piggy eyes narrowed. ‘Yer husband’s gone and yer’ve no one ter protect yer.’
Isabelle whipped her arm out of the savage grip and stepped away. The threat didn’t frighten her but Marge’s words cut deep. She was a married woman without a husband. Trapped in a non-existent role as a wife to no one.
Hughie ran up to her out of breath. ‘Sorry. I didn’t realise the time.’
Isabelle glanced at Marge before gathering her belongings and walking off with Hughie. ‘Where have you been? If you’d arrived on time, I would have missed her altogether!’
‘Sorry, I was down by the canal watching the boats unloading.’
‘You should have stayed home and watched the ewes. That would have been more helpful.’ She thrust the stool at him and marched on. A scatter of light rain fell and she heaved another sigh at the thought of driving home in such weather.
‘Did the old bat give you much trouble?’
Isabelle pierced him with a look. ‘What do you think?’ Reaching the stable, she placed her baskets in the cart and then gave the stable boy a ha’penny for minding the horse.
Once out on the road, Isabelle concentrated on clearing the people and other transports in Market Street. Hughie sat sullen beside her. It was only when they were climbing up the steep Heptonstall road that she thought to the incident with Marge Wilmot. What am I to do? The woman would no doubt resort to violence should she keep attending the market. Besides, her trade had suffered today from Marge’s lies, and if it continued there would be no point in keeping her stall.
She shivered in her thin coat and pulled up her scarf to better cover her neck and chin. ‘We need to plan for the spring.’ She glanced at Hughie then back to the road. ‘We
Today, more than any other market day, uneasiness had cloaked her like a second skin. Repeatedly she felt as though someone was watching her. She peered into the crowds but nothing seemed out of place. Yet, the sensation remained. Her skin prickled.
Juggling the baskets and footstool, Isabelle hurriedly checked she hadn’t forgotten anything. For a moment, she wondered if she had enough provisions at home to last a few more days. The pennies that jingled in her pocket wouldn’t be enough to buy the flour and sugar she needed to bake the pies for the following weekend trade anyway and the quicker she got home the better. Something wasn’t right here today.
‘Didn’t do as good terday, did yer?’ Marge Wilmot with a few of her followers placed themselves in front of her stall.
Isabelle sighed. ‘Go away, Mrs Wilmot. I have nothing to say to you.’
‘Nay, but I’ve got plenty ter say ter yer.’ Marge heaved up her enormous breasts with her arm. ‘Yer might as well not bother coming anymore. I’ve put the word around that yer pies are rubbish and they’ll mekk whoever eats them sick.’
Fury burnt through Isabelle’s veins. ‘How dare you!’
‘Yer’ve got a farm ter get yer money, I don’t. Me pies are all I have. If yer keep tekking custom away from me, then I’ll not be responsible fer me actions.’
‘You think people will believe scum like you?’ She tossed her head. ‘No matter what you say, I still have customers.’
‘Not as many as before though, I’ll bet.’ Marge peered into the baskets she could see. ‘Yer’ve got some left, ain’t yer?’
‘The market wasn’t as busy today. The cold wind kept people home.’
Marge laughed, showing missing teeth. ‘I sold all me stuff and I’d have sold a lot more if I’d had it.’
‘I’m pleased for you.’ Isabelle inclined her head. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must find my brother.’
Marge gripped her arm as she passed. Isabelle winced as the fat fingers pinched. ‘Let go of me!’
‘Listen here, yer silly little bitch.’ Marge leaned forward to whisper. ‘Yer come here again and I’ll have yer. Understand?’
‘Your threats do not frighten me.’
‘Well, they should.’ Marge’s piggy eyes narrowed. ‘Yer husband’s gone and yer’ve no one ter protect yer.’
Isabelle whipped her arm out of the savage grip and stepped away. The threat didn’t frighten her but Marge’s words cut deep. She was a married woman without a husband. Trapped in a non-existent role as a wife to no one.
Hughie ran up to her out of breath. ‘Sorry. I didn’t realise the time.’
Isabelle glanced at Marge before gathering her belongings and walking off with Hughie. ‘Where have you been? If you’d arrived on time, I would have missed her altogether!’
‘Sorry, I was down by the canal watching the boats unloading.’
‘You should have stayed home and watched the ewes. That would have been more helpful.’ She thrust the stool at him and marched on. A scatter of light rain fell and she heaved another sigh at the thought of driving home in such weather.
‘Did the old bat give you much trouble?’
Isabelle pierced him with a look. ‘What do you think?’ Reaching the stable, she placed her baskets in the cart and then gave the stable boy a ha’penny for minding the horse.
Once out on the road, Isabelle concentrated on clearing the people and other transports in Market Street. Hughie sat sullen beside her. It was only when they were climbing up the steep Heptonstall road that she thought to the incident with Marge Wilmot. What am I to do? The woman would no doubt resort to violence should she keep attending the market. Besides, her trade had suffered today from Marge’s lies, and if it continued there would be no point in keeping her stall.
She shivered in her thin coat and pulled up her scarf to better cover her neck and chin. ‘We need to plan for the spring.’ She glanced at Hughie then back to the road. ‘We
Similar Books
