Free Bitter Inheritance by Ann Cliff Page A

professional, are you?’ Her purple bosom swelled.
    Sally stood straighter. ‘As I said, we’re not yet prepared,’ she said quietly.
    The woman sniffed again. ‘I am looking for a temporary home for a relation of mine. She is perfectly respectable of course, just a little – strange. Especially at the time of the full moon.’ She watched Sally’s face for a reaction.
    Not over my dead body, Sally was thinking. It’s not your relation that worries me, it’s you, madam. Smoothing down her curls, Sally said blandly, ‘Surely the – lady will need professional care?’
    ‘Not in the country, she won’t. It can hardly matter how anyonebehaves out here! With only the villagers and the farm animals. A few screams will no doubt go unnoticed up here!’ She looked around at the uncouth farmyard.
    ‘I hardly think you understand country life, madam, if that is what you believe. People here are a community and take a great interest in each other’s affairs. Strange behaviour would probably be much more noticeable here than it would in a town.’
    And I hope that puts you right off me and the farm, Sally added silently.
    The long purple dress trailed from room to room, following Sally, critical at every step. But at the end Mrs Smythe decided that Badger’s Gill would do. ‘The doctor told me that country air and fresh food might improve her a little. I will bring my relation here next week, for six weeks in the first instance.’
    Sally’s eyes widened when the rate of pay was mentioned. A few shillings a week would help, but it was not much after the cost of food was deducted. And when Sally heard that Mrs Smythe lived in Ripon and would inspect the house every week, she made up her mind. ‘I am afraid it will not be possible.’ And that was that.
    ‘Of course you did the right thing. You can get much more money than that!’ Mrs Scott advised Sally later in the day.
     
    With a melancholy whistle the train chugged into a gloomy tunnel and Emma felt it was somehow symbolic of the way her life was going. The girl leaned her aching head on the back of the seat. Sheffield was behind her and the future ahead was dark. She was determined about one thing: they would not make her cry. Years of living in the Bellamy household had made her quiet and withdrawn. She had learned not to cry, ever, even when she was whipped. The whippings had started when she first went to live with the Bellamys at the age of twelve. It had been hard not to cry, then.
    There was nothing that strangers could do to affect her; Emma felt frozen, incapable of emotion. That was the best way to be.
    ‘We’re going under the Pennines!’ The gentleman in a waistcoat beamed. ‘A wonderful achievement, this tunnel.’
    ‘Yes, it is.’ Emma was polite, but nothing more. She went back to wondering what her new life was going to be like, and in particularabout Miss Mason. Mrs Bellamy had harped on the subject of Miss Mason all the time that Emma’s trunk was being packed. This formidable lady lived far off in the Dales and she was prepared to take Emma as a paying guest. From the Bellamy’s point of view, the older and grimmer Miss Mason was, the better. Certainly, as Mrs Bellamy pointed out to her husband, S. Mason (Miss) wrote a good hand and must have had some education. Several letters had been exchanged before the transaction was complete. Miss Mason had assured them that there was no man in the house; they pictured her as old, soured by living alone, prim and proper and most critical of fallen women. Just the thing to put the girl in her place and to remind her of her folly, every day.
    ‘You will mind your manners and only speak when you are spoken to. Miss Mason will not wish for idle conversation!’
    What is she, a nun? Emma wondered. But a silent old lady would be a distinct improvement on her present company. Emma had tried, but it was hard to love her guardians. She realized that from their point of view she was a great disappointment