Free Never a Road Without a Turning by Rowan McAllister Page B

colder, the atmosphere in the library chilled as well. No more presents waited for him on his chair. The major went back to staring pensively into the fire and drinking more heavily. He chose all the readings, most of them heavy treatises on medicine and philosophy that defied Pip’s understanding and dragged the minutes into hours. The few times Pip caught the major watching him, the man’s expression was no longer indulgent or amused but pained or unreadable. If Pip asked him whether he’d read something wrong or he wished to be done for the night, the major would only shake his head, ask for another glass of whisky, and wave for Pip to continue after he’d fetched it.
    Before long the major began sending for him less and less, a turn of events that Mrs. Applethwaite was quite pleased with even if it left Pip hurt, confused, and concerned for his master’s welfare. Try as he might, Pip couldn’t understand what had happened.
    Perhaps as a means of self-preservation, Pip’s hurt eventually transformed into resentment and anger. After all, Pip had tried his best to please the man and what did he get for his pains—only coldness.
    Why had he allowed himself to care?
    Before he’d given up completely, Pip tried once to express his concerns to Mrs. Applethwaite, not about his treatment of course, she’d have no sympathy for that, but about their master’s well-being.
    “I think, ’e might be ill. Shouldn’t we do somethin’ at least?”
    She’d frowned down her hawk nose at him and shook her head. “Do I have to continually remind you of your place, Pip? The younger generation has no sense of propriety. I knew his encouragement of such familiarity would give you airs.”
    Pip ground his teeth in frustration. “We’re in the middle of bleedin’ nowhere. Who else is ’e goin’ to be familiar with but us? Isn’t it our Christian duty to—”
    She sliced her hand through the air to cut him off. “He is a grown man, a gentleman, and fully capable of determining his own needs without the help of one such as you. As long as he is able to speak for himself, it is only for you to do as you are bid and remember your proper place.”
    Pip didn’t give a damn about propriety. The major was a man who’d been places and done things Pip couldn’t even imagine. It didn’t make any sense for someone like that to shut himself away from everyone and drink himself into ruin and despair.
    But Pip was no martyr either. From his earliest days, he was a survivor. If his help and concern were truly unwanted and unappreciated, as they appeared to be, then the lot of them could go get stuffed for all he cared. He’d do the job for which he’d been hired and nothing beyond. He’d eat his meals in silence with the Applethwaites. He’d take the horse out for his daily ride, and he’d spend the rest of the winter trying to remember why he’d left the comfort and acceptance of Maud and the rest of his people on the sheep farm in Penrith.

Chapter 8

     
    P IP KEPT his promise to himself. He remained aloof and silent about his concerns, and the days passed at the cottage, chilly but uneventful until one night in early November, when a fierce storm blew in from the sea. It rattled the shutters and pelted Pip with icy needles each time he was forced outside to check on the animals or to fetch more coal or wood, leaving him in a foul temper all day. He was already tired from another sleepless night he couldn’t explain and unable to take the horse out for his afternoon ride because of the weather.
    After a very long day, Pip ate his supper in gloomy silence by the kitchen fire while the wind howled and the cottage creaked around them. He eyed Mr. Applethwaite’s bottle of gin longingly as he rubbed his chilled hands together and wiggled his toes within the dubious protection of the beautifully crafted, but not particularly warm, velvet house slippers. He was pondering the likelihood that he would receive a cuff to the head for