Free 3 Great Historical Novels by Fay Weldon

ground. Rhia kept her tone light, with effort. ‘The coach will soon be here. Will you come up to the house?’
    ‘No, the place smells of your grandmother today. It is depressing me.’ Rhia was too surprised to respond. He looked so mournful, so sorry for himself that she almost smiled. For the first time she saw his obstinacy as a weakness rather than a strength. He was not prepared to yield even a little to see the world as something other than that which he ordained.
    ‘Then I’ll say goodbye.’ She leaned over and kissed his forehead . He took her hand and held it so tightly, so that shewondered if he would let her go. When he finally did, he looked away, back to the sea, so that neither could see the other’s emotion. He was really letting her go, perhaps only because he had not the strength to prevent it. Rhia felt a mix of sorrow and elation. Was she really going to be in charge of her own life?
    She turned away and started to walk back up towards the cottage.
    ‘Rhia!’ he called out weakly. She turned.
    ‘You are brave and kind for a devil in petticoats.’ His eyes almost twinkled, just for a moment.
    ‘I’m sorry about William.’
    ‘He wasn’t good enough for you.’
    Rhia rushed back and threw her arms around her father and then ran up the hill.
    Her trunk was already beside the front door. She and her mother had lugged it down the stairs on their own. They were both much stronger since the move from Dublin. Brigit was at one of the three spinning wheels by the hearth. Now that Rhia was leaving, two of the village women would come in to spin. Her mother looked up. ‘There’s a new loaf.’
    Rhia thought Mamo might still be in the house, but she didn’t seem to be. She was probably with her sheep. ‘I’ve eaten at the Kelly’s,’ she said.
    Brigit nodded. ‘We should have a jug, then.’
    It was what they did in the evenings when there was a spinning circle, but this was a special day. Rhia got the stoneware jug from the larder and filled it with porter from the tap in the barrel, then put it on to the ledge by the hearth to warm.
    Mamo’s downstairs parlour was much cosier than any of the rooms at St Stephen’s Green. The furnishings were simpler and the fabrics older and softer. There were books on tablesand faded rugs on the wooden floor and Rhia’s easel in the corner. The room smelt of the lanolin and lavender Mamo had used to put in her hair to make it soft.
    Rhia went upstairs to change into her travelling clothes and took a last look around her childhood room. It was neat, which was unusual in itself, and it felt empty without her paintbox on the table and her books by the bed. There were no clothes strewn across the old blanket box. She could see the sea from the window, but she turned away before she could think too hard about it.
    When she came downstairs, Mamo was at her old spinning wheel, but if Brigit noticed the wheel turning she said nothing . They sat together quietly. Brigit passed Rhia the jug and sighed. ‘I didn’t realise how I’ve missed the oily feel of wool through my fingers.’
    Rhia, too, liked the feel of wool. ‘Will you try out some new weaves?’
    Mamo chuckled. ‘You can treat worsted to make it pretty as silk,’ she said. ‘And it costs much less. Tell your mother that.’ Rhia shot her a look.
    ‘I’ve spoken to Thomas,’ said Brigit. ‘I’ll have him weave some samples.’
    They talked until the coach wheels were to be heard coming up the hill, and then until there was no ignoring the jingle of the reins and the snorting and stomping of the horses outside.
    There were no tears, they had each shed them privately. Their emotion was present only in its constraint; in the tautness of speech and the gripping of hands.
    ‘Don’t forget to write,’ whispered Mamo in her ear. ‘Remember, there is always something to feel grateful for. Always . Be in the world but not of it, Rhiannon.’
    This made no sense to Rhia. How could one be in the world