Midnight is a Place by Joan Aiken

question to him, in a voice too low to be heard.
    "Young Master Lucas Bell from up at the Court," Smallside replied. Lucas might not have heard this if he had not caught his own name. The other man looked extremely startled, and made a gesture as if he were shutting a door.
    "Unfortunately," Mr. Smallside went on smoothly, addressing Lucas as if he had never stopped speaking, "
most
unfortunately it won't be convenient for you to be puttering around here today, Master Bell. For one thing the young fellow, Scatcherd, you see, is not available."
    "Perhaps somebody else—"
    "And—and other reasons make it just not a suitable time for young ladies and gentlemen to come sight-seeing. Another day, perhaps."
    Lucas felt very annoyed with Mr. Smallside, who seemed to be behaving as if a visit to the Mill were a handsome treat, which he might or might not kindly allow Lucas, instead of the professional instruction it was supposed to be.
    "I'm afraid it's not convenient for us to leave just now," he said rather shortly.
    "Young gentlemen and ladies have to learn that sometimes their convenience is not the most important thing in the world," Mr. Smallside said, always smiling.
    "Who is that man? What does he say?" Anna-Marie demanded. She was becoming bored with standing in the office doorway and was looking about her impatiently.
    Both men looked a good deal surprised at hearing her speak French.
    "Is the young lady a foreign young lady then?" asked Mr. Smallside.
    "Eye amm Mees Anna-Marie Murgatroyd," said Anna-Marie with her usual dignity.
    "Murgatroyd!" The black-haired man opened his eyes wide at this name. "Will she be soom kin to owd Sir Quincy, then? I thowt there was noan o' that stock left."
    "She is his granddaughter. She has lived in France all her life," Lucas said.
    "And now she's come to live up at the Court?" Smallside inquired. Lucas nodded.
    "If the hands knew about Sir Randolph taking the lass in, think on—" the black-haired man began dubiously.
    "Nay, it's many a long year since Sir Quincy died. Tha cannot put back the clock," Smallside said. "—Let alone Sir Quincy himself was a bad enough master, by the end.—The men are in a flaysome mood; mere sight of a child's face will not change them." His manner, for once, was neither hectoring nor obsequious, but merely weary and practical, and his accent was much broader than it had been. "This is no place for childer, my young master and miss; you must joost gang off, the best road you can. That's all there is to it."
    He made shooing movements with his hands, urging them out of his little office, across the yard.
    Lucas noticed that a great many of the workers, both men and women, seemed to have left their tasks and gathered at one side of the big yard, where they formed a restless muttering group, which swayed to and fro as some people joined it and others left. A man was standing on a bale of wool, addressing such of the crowd as were nearest him. Lucas recognized Scatcherd but could not catch much of what he said.
    A few of the workers turned to glance with curiosity or hostility at Lucas and Anna-Marie as Smallside urged them toward the gate.
    Annoyed at being hustled in this manner, Lucas hung back, and caught a few sentences of Scatcherd's harangue: "Well, friends, there we are: Sir Randolph has chosen to cut our wages by half. What are we to do about it, eh? Are we to take it lying down?"
    There was a growling mutter of response from the crowd.
    Anna-Marie and Lucas walked out through the big gate, with Smallside behind them.
    "What had we better do?" Lucas said, half to himself.
    "Do? Why, make the best of your way home," Smallside said shortly. "You've got legs, haven't you? Think yourselves lucky you've got whole skins—"
    Not a trace of his fawning servility was left; he turned back into the yard, evidently dismissing them at once from his mind.
    Lucas felt rather aggrieved; he had not intended his question for Air. Smallside.
    "It must