Tangled Threads by Margaret Dickinson Page A

coming from.
    ‘Ted. Here,’ she called a little louder now. ‘Over here.’
    Now he saw her and, smiling, came towards her. ‘Evie. What are you doing here?’
    ‘I’m looking for Stephen. Is he coming out soon? That’s his horse you’re saddling up, isn’t it?’
    The look of pleasure that had been on Ted’s face when he had first seen her, died. ‘I should have guessed it wouldn’t be me you were looking for.’
    Impulsively, she put out her hand and touched his. ‘Oh please don’t be like that, Ted. I’ve enough on my plate without you going mardy on me.’
    The young man had the grace to look ashamed. ‘Sorry, Evie. Yes, he should be out in a minute.’
    ‘I’ll wait here. I won’t get in your way.’
    ‘You could never get in my way, Evie,’ Ted said softly, but as the back door of the house banged, he moved away and Eveleen saw Stephen, dressed in his riding habit, striding across
the yard.
    She ran towards him. Startled, he stopped and his tone, as he asked the very same question as Ted had a few moments ago, was harsh. ‘What are you doing here?’
    ‘Stephen, I have to talk to you. I tried to see you yesterday, but—’
    ‘I know,’ he said, and Eveleen realized that the manservant had not been to blame. Stephen himself had refused to see her. ‘I had to go out.’
    No apology. No real explanation. Just the bald truth. If, indeed, it was the truth.
    He was speaking again. ‘And I can’t stop now.’
    She caught hold of his arm. ‘I must talk to you. My mother’s worrying herself silly, saying that we’re going to be thrown out of the house now my father – since my father
. . .’
    She stopped and stared at him, her hand falling away from his arm. Where was the young man who had held her and kissed her and said all those wonderful things to her?
    ‘There’s nothing I can do,’ Stephen said stiffly, his handsome face a mask of indifference. He was standing only a few inches away from her but the chasm that had now opened up
between them felt thousands of feet deep and a world apart.
    This was the first time she had seen him since her father’s death. Whilst she did not expect him to take her into his arms here in the open yard, with a shock that was like a knife in her
heart she realized that he had not even said how sorry he was.
    ‘Wh— what do you mean? Can’t you speak to your father? Ask him to let us stay?’
    ‘I told you, my father has handed over the running of the estate to me.’
    ‘Then you tell Mr Jackson.’
    ‘I’m sorry, but you will have to move. The farmhouse you live in . . .’ – she could sense that he was choosing his words carefully, minding not to say, ‘your
home’ – ‘goes with the position of gathman.’
    ‘But it’s our home. And we work for you too. My brother and me. Even my mother helps out with the dairy work.’
    ‘You and your brother are single people. You could lodge with other estate workers.’
    ‘We’re a family. We’re still a family.’
    He was shaking his head. ‘The positions you and your brother hold don’t warrant a house. Your father’s did.’
    ‘You mean – you mean you’re really going to turn us out when you know we have nowhere to go?’
    Not an eyelid flickered. He didn’t even flinch at her bald statement but merely said coldly, ‘Naturally we shall try to assist you in finding alternative accommodation. But . .
.’
    ‘So that’s how it is.’ She was too angry to weep. The tears would come later, in the privacy of her bedroom.
    Her mother had been right. The Dunsmores wouldn’t give a second thought before casting them out of their home. And though it broke Eveleen’s heart to admit it, Mary had been right
too about the young man standing before her. Stephen Dunsmore didn’t love her. Not as she had loved him. Eveleen doubted he even knew the meaning of the word.
    Thank God, she thought with fervent reverence, thank the good Lord that I didn’t give way to this man’s protestations of