have little money, certainly not enough for the rent. The stall isn’t providing enough.’
Hughie huddled further into his coat. The icy wind slapped them full-on at the top of the hill. ‘I thought if we could buy more sheep-’
‘No, we have no money for that.’ Isabelle blinked away the sting from her eyes. The flatness of the moor provided easy access for the gale to gathered speed. ‘We have to put to better use what the farm offers. In April we’ll shear the ewes. The fleeces won’t bring in much, as the flock is small, but it’ll be better than nothing. Then in August we’ll sell the lambs. Is it August or September they go to market?’ She frowned. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask someone. We’ve got the piglets too. We can sell them.’
‘Yes, though one or two we’ll keep to fatten up for next winter. Maybe we could plough a field of wheat…’ Isabelle bit her lip deep in thought. She really didn’t know enough about farming. ‘I need a husbandry book.’
Hughie’s eyes grew wide. ‘There is one in the front room.’
Amazed, she twisted to look at him. ‘In the front room?’
He nodded and grinned.
‘When did you go in there?’
‘A few days ago, when it was raining and I was bored.’
Isabelle straightened on the seat and concentrated on the point between the horse’s ears. She hardly ever went in the front room herself. The cold mustiness of it reminded her of long dead former occupants. She believed nothing had been touched in there since Farrell’s parents had died. ‘A book is the last thing I thought the Farrell’s would own. I didn’t expect that they could read.’
‘Maybe they couldn’t?’ Hughie shrugged.
Much later, long after darkness had enveloped the land, Isabelle entered the front room of the house. Holding the lamp high, she paused by the door and surveyed the sparse room. Dust tickled her nose. On the mantelpiece above the large fireplace, little portraits of strangers stared at her. She thought the room would frighten her, but suddenly it didn’t. Instead, she felt a strange kind of comfort, a sadness. This room once represented all the small wealth of a family. A horsehair sofa occupied the area by the fireplace, beside it a small square table held an empty glass vase.
She turned and watched the shadow cast along the wall. The dim light shone on an old painting of a girl with a dog. Moving on, Isabelle went to the bookshelf on the far wall. It held only two books, the husbandry book Hughie mentioned, and a smaller book of poetry. Next to those were three small tin boxes. Opening them, she found one box held hair, golden curls, the next box a small collection of silk thread. The last box was empty.
Again, the sorrow of this room consumed her. It was as though the ghosts of years past lingered, whispering.
‘Belle? Belle?’
Hughie’s calling brought her out of her reverie. ‘In here.’
He stood in the doorway, grinning. ‘The first lamb was just born. Come look.’
She smiled and followed him out. Closing the door on the front room, she paused. An inner voice spoke to her and straightened her spine. She wasn’t going to repeat the Farrell’s failure of the past. She would show them all.
***
Ethan ducked his head under a low branch and swore softly when a fluttering of dislodged snow slipped down his collar. He guided Copper away from the fast flowing Hebden Water and edged up the steep wooded incline of Lee Wood. He’d spent the morning discussing the operations of his mill and examining the account books with the mill manager. After touring the four stories of the building and being cooped up in the fetid heat cast by the weaving machines, he craved the clean crisp air.
Copper knew the track through the woods without any further guidance from him so Ethan relaxed in the saddle and allowed the cool dampness of the wood to ease his mind away from business. Tomorrow would come soon enough when he would begin
Hughie huddled further into his coat. The icy wind slapped them full-on at the top of the hill. ‘I thought if we could buy more sheep-’
‘No, we have no money for that.’ Isabelle blinked away the sting from her eyes. The flatness of the moor provided easy access for the gale to gathered speed. ‘We have to put to better use what the farm offers. In April we’ll shear the ewes. The fleeces won’t bring in much, as the flock is small, but it’ll be better than nothing. Then in August we’ll sell the lambs. Is it August or September they go to market?’ She frowned. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask someone. We’ve got the piglets too. We can sell them.’
‘Yes, though one or two we’ll keep to fatten up for next winter. Maybe we could plough a field of wheat…’ Isabelle bit her lip deep in thought. She really didn’t know enough about farming. ‘I need a husbandry book.’
Hughie’s eyes grew wide. ‘There is one in the front room.’
Amazed, she twisted to look at him. ‘In the front room?’
He nodded and grinned.
‘When did you go in there?’
‘A few days ago, when it was raining and I was bored.’
Isabelle straightened on the seat and concentrated on the point between the horse’s ears. She hardly ever went in the front room herself. The cold mustiness of it reminded her of long dead former occupants. She believed nothing had been touched in there since Farrell’s parents had died. ‘A book is the last thing I thought the Farrell’s would own. I didn’t expect that they could read.’
‘Maybe they couldn’t?’ Hughie shrugged.
Much later, long after darkness had enveloped the land, Isabelle entered the front room of the house. Holding the lamp high, she paused by the door and surveyed the sparse room. Dust tickled her nose. On the mantelpiece above the large fireplace, little portraits of strangers stared at her. She thought the room would frighten her, but suddenly it didn’t. Instead, she felt a strange kind of comfort, a sadness. This room once represented all the small wealth of a family. A horsehair sofa occupied the area by the fireplace, beside it a small square table held an empty glass vase.
She turned and watched the shadow cast along the wall. The dim light shone on an old painting of a girl with a dog. Moving on, Isabelle went to the bookshelf on the far wall. It held only two books, the husbandry book Hughie mentioned, and a smaller book of poetry. Next to those were three small tin boxes. Opening them, she found one box held hair, golden curls, the next box a small collection of silk thread. The last box was empty.
Again, the sorrow of this room consumed her. It was as though the ghosts of years past lingered, whispering.
‘Belle? Belle?’
Hughie’s calling brought her out of her reverie. ‘In here.’
He stood in the doorway, grinning. ‘The first lamb was just born. Come look.’
She smiled and followed him out. Closing the door on the front room, she paused. An inner voice spoke to her and straightened her spine. She wasn’t going to repeat the Farrell’s failure of the past. She would show them all.
***
Ethan ducked his head under a low branch and swore softly when a fluttering of dislodged snow slipped down his collar. He guided Copper away from the fast flowing Hebden Water and edged up the steep wooded incline of Lee Wood. He’d spent the morning discussing the operations of his mill and examining the account books with the mill manager. After touring the four stories of the building and being cooped up in the fetid heat cast by the weaving machines, he craved the clean crisp air.
Copper knew the track through the woods without any further guidance from him so Ethan relaxed in the saddle and allowed the cool dampness of the wood to ease his mind away from business. Tomorrow would come soon enough when he would begin
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