Tangled Threads by Margaret Dickinson

crossed the tiny
bridge over the beck and turned towards her own home.
    ‘I’ll go there this afternoon. Maybe he’ll be waiting for me then,’ she promised herself.
    But Stephen was not at the barn that afternoon either.
    After evening milking, Eveleen put on her Sunday best dress and bonnet. She stood in front of her mother, expecting a tirade. Mary, staring into the fire, did not seem to
notice and when Eveleen said, ‘I won’t be long, Mam,’ her mother did not even raise her head or speak.
    Eveleen sighed inwardly and closed the door quietly. It was starting to rain and by the time she reached Fairfield House, her shawl was soaking and her bonnet ruined. Standing in the warm
kitchen, she felt the eyes of the servants on her.
    Proudly, she raised her head. ‘I wish to speak to Master Stephen, if you please.’
    ‘Not looking like that, you won’t.’ The manservant she had seen earlier was carrying huge silver salvers into the kitchen, presumably, Eveleen thought, from the dining room
after the family’s evening meal.
    Two maids, scurrying about at the man’s bidding, giggled, hiding their smirks behind their hands.
    Eveleen shot them a withering glance and said stiffly, ‘I can hardly help the weather. My boots, though wet, are clean.’ She took a bold step further into the kitchen. ‘If you
do not show me up, I will ring the bell at the front door again.’
    Her glare caught and held the man’s eyes.
    ‘Oh very well then. But stay here until I see if he’ll see you. Who shall I say it is?’
    ‘You know very well who it is, Mr Tomkins,’ Eveleen snapped. ‘You’ve lived here long enough to know everyone on the estate.’
    ‘I,’ Tomkins lifted his nose in the air deliberately, ‘do not mix with the outdoor servants.’
    Adopting a lofty tone herself, Eveleen said, ‘Please inform your young master that Miss Eveleen Hardcastle wishes to speak to him.’
    As the man gave a sniff of disapproval and left the room, the cook said, ‘Sit by the fire, love, and get warm.’
    Eveleen smiled at her gratefully.
    ‘I think there’s a cuppa left in the pot.’ The woman poured out a cup of tea and handed it to Eveleen. ‘There, you drink that while you’re waiting, ’cos if I
know Mr High and Mighty Tomkins, he’ll be a while coming back.’
    There was a pause before she added. ‘I was that sorry to hear about your dad, love. Nice man, he was.’
    Eveleen nodded and whispered her thanks. She drank the tea and sat by the crackling fire. By the time Tomkins returned, Eveleen had been waiting so long that her clothes had nearly dried out and
she was almost asleep, made drowsy by the heat of the fire on her face.
    ‘Master Stephen has gone out,’ he told her shortly.
    Slowly, Eveleen rose to her feet. The man was either lying or he had deliberately waited until his young master had left the house.
    Eveleen said, ‘Thank you,’ and then before she could hold her wayward tongue in check, added ‘for nothing.’
    The man looked her up and down with a sneer on his face, but said no more. As he turned and left the room, Eveleen thanked the cook for the tea and left the house by the back door.
    Pausing in the yard she pondered whether to go back to the barn, but she doubted whether he would be there at this time in the evening. They had hardly ever met after what he called dinner.
    I’ll see him tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow, he’ll come to meet me as usual.
    But then she remembered. Tomorrow they would be laying her poor father to rest in Bernby churchyard.

 
Twelve
    Before anyone else was up the following morning, Eveleen left the house, paddled through the beck and ran up the field to the back of Fairfield House.
    Already there was movement near the stables and peering round the corner of one of the buildings she saw Ted Morton saddling up the horse that Stephen always rode.
    ‘Ted,’ she called softly. ‘Ted.’
    She saw him look round, puzzled, not knowing where the sound was