Free The Silk Factory by Judith Allnatt Page A

with the whip, Jack mounted, turned Maisie’s head in the opposite direction and walked her along the track after the girl. He soon caught up with her and she looked round in some agitation.
    ‘Thank you for your help, but you didn’t ought to have stayed. People do talk so, you know,’ she said. ‘Not that I’m not thankful, I wouldn’t want you to think that, but I’ll bid you good morning …’ She tailed off in confusion.
    Jack said quickly, ‘I shall see you safely home. Do you have far to go? Won’t you ride?’ He halted Maisie, slipped from the saddle and stood with one hand on the pommel ready to steady it as he handed her up.
    Effie, still disturbed by the carter’s meaningful looks, shook her head emphatically.
    ‘Then I shan’t ride either,’ Jack said and proceeded alongside her, leading Maisie by the reins.
    Effie could think of no answer, feeling rather overcome by all the attention from this young man. He confused her so – he was treating her like a lady. They walked along in step. After a little while, Jack said, ‘It seems to me that after sharing such disaster, we should at least be properly introduced. I don’t even know your name.’
    ‘Effie … Effie Fiddement, sir.’
    Effie. Jack turned the name around in his mind. ‘Were you christened Effie or is it short for Euphemia?’
    ‘’Tis the short version, Euphemia being a bit of a mouthful,’ Effie said.
    ‘Jack Stamford, at your service. And this is Maisie who has a mind all of her own and has decided today that she likes neither birds nor bridges.’
    ‘She’s a fine horse,’ Effie said tentatively and reached over to stroke her muzzle with her fingertips.
    ‘Do you live hereabouts? With your family? Do you work for Hob Talbot?’ Jack checked the questions that were forming thick and fast in his mind for he wanted to know all about her but felt that he must tread slowly and softly not to scare her away.
    ‘I live on the farm, and take whatever work is offered on Mr Talbot’s land,’ Effie said simply, not giving too much away.
    ‘And what do you do out of snowdrop season?’
    ‘Oh, the snowdrops don’t last long. Most of the time I have to take in washing but all us maids help outdoors at harvest and when the hazelnuts are ready too.’
    ‘And you have a family?’ Jack prompted.
    ‘A younger brother and sister. Our mother passed away three years ago and our father followed soon after.’ She looked away.
    ‘I’m so sorry,’ Jack said gently. ‘It must be very hard for you.’
    ‘We get by,’ Effie said stoically. ‘You aren’t from these parts, are you?’ she enquired in return, for his accent was strange to her and folk in these parts were generally reserved to the point of taciturnity, not like this open-faced young man.
    ‘No, I’m from Bedfordshire, the third of five brothers and the only one to join the military; the others are all clergy like my father. He has a living at Oakley, near Bedford.’ As he spoke, a clear picture of the parlour at home came before him: his father’s books and sermons filling the shelves that lined the walls, a good fire in the hearth and his parents conversing as his mother sewed and his father worked, with a delicate touch, at the model ships he made. Each one was completed with the masts lying flat so that they would slip through the neck of a bottle, to be raised again like magic, once inside, with tiny threads. On every ship’s side was painted the name of a son and they were given as gifts as each one had reached their twelfth birthday, but kept on the mantel for all to enjoy.
    He remembered how his brothers had all answered their father’s playful question about what they would do if they owned such a ship by saying that they would send her overseas to bring back books, fishing rods, a violin. Only Jack had said he would sail her himself, of course, and see the world from the Americas to Marrakesh. His father had smiled and said he had a vivid imagination. Jack