Free The Stepson by Martin Armstrong Page B

they drove into town, that she was sitting next the smartest man of all of them, the man whom the rest nicknamed the Squire; that she herself was as smart as he, and that the gig was a vehicle worthy of the pair of them. She felt half proud, half shy, when friends and acquaintances shouted or waved to Ben and gave a quick approving glance at her too.
    And Ben was as pleased as she was. He was proud as a peacock of his beautiful young wife. Half of the men he met were, he was sure of it, mortally envious of him; and the old rogue, at the thought of it, chuckled to himself with satisfaction.
    When they dismounted from the gig, Kate went off to do her shopping and Ben strolled towards the market-place. His eye was bright and he glanced about him alertly, examining with the eye of a connoisseur every woman he passed. ‘Not a patch onher, not one of ’em!’ he said to himself with satisfac-as he crossed the market square.
    â€˜Hello, Squire!’
    Ben turned on his heel at the sound of the voice behind him and found big Bob Reed, little James Robson, and one or two friends standing together chatting as usual.
    â€˜Well,’ said Reed, ‘we’ve got to congratulate you once again, so I hear.’
    â€˜Indeed?’ replied Ben. ‘And how’s that?’
    â€˜Well, Jim Robson here was coming up Bargate just now as you and your Missus drove in, and your Missus fairly knocked him over, by all accounts.’
    â€˜Yes, Squire,’ said Robson. ‘If I may say so, you’ve chosen a rare beauty this time, and no mistake. I know good looks when I see them.’
    Bob Reed laughed, swinging his great body like a spinning top. ‘And so does the Squire, seemingly. Well, I wish you joy, Squire, I’m sure.’
    â€˜Well, joy it is, no doubt about that,’ said Ben, grinning. ‘You’ll never catch me being a bachelor again, I can tell you that. It’s no good. It doesn’t suit me.’
    â€˜I doubt if you’ll get the chance,’ said Robson. ‘The new Mrs. Humphrey’s as fine, healthy a young woman as ever I saw. She’ll see you out, Squire. Not that I mean to say you’re going to die young, or anything of that sort. Not you. But, taking your ages, it’s only natural, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Well, I’m not so sure about that,’ said one of the others; ‘because, you see, whatever age the Squire dies, he’ll die young, I’ll be bound.’
    So the talk continued, with much chaff and laughter on all sides.
    Meanwhile, Kate was going from shop to shop in Bargate, working her way along the crowded pavement or across the seething roadway. Her mind was bent on her various errands and few people who noticed the dark-browed, rather matronly young woman with the calm face can have guessed at the eager stir of pleasure under the quiet exterior.
    At the fish-shop she bought some plaice and a dozen kippers. She would tell Mrs. Jobson to take eight of them for the kitchen supper as a surprise for them. Then she made her way to Sewell, the draper’s. Mrs. Jobson had told her that, until recent years, Ben had had all his shirts made at home, and that the ones he bought nowadays had nothing like the quality and durability of the home-made ones; so Kate had determined to buy some of the best flannel and make shirts for Ben. She sat at the counter with roll upon roll of flannel, which the shopman had got down for her inspection, heaped before her, testing each critically between finger and thumb. The colours, too, were a consideration: a grey one with a blue stripe took her fancy, and a white one with narrow blue and black stripes for smarter occasions. Then, catching sightof some sprigged muslins displayed on a stand in the middle of the shop, she went over to inspect them, enthralled suddenly by the idea of making herself some blouses. What an attractive shop it was, to be sure. The mingled smells of new cloths — linens,