Free Saddle the Wind by Jess Foley Page A

herself, proudly erect as she faced him, as if her spirit alone might be shield enough against misfortune.
    The thought came into his mind that at one time she must have been beautiful. Now, though, much of that beauty had been worn away, leaving just a shadow of what had once been there; worn away by child-bearing, hard work, care and worry. Even so, enough remained to show what she must have looked like as a girl. Her hair, a rich chestnut colour and plaited about the crown of her head, still looked thick and luxuriant, and her hazel eyes, in spite of the faint lines that now lay beneath them, were wide and clear. Her features were well-shaped and finely boned, though her hands were broadened and coarsened with hard work.
    He smiled gravely at her.
    ‘Mrs Farrar,’ he said, ‘I’ve come to see you about your little daughter.’
    ‘Blanche … ?’ Her frown deepened.
    ‘Yes – Blanche.’ He hesitated for a moment and then began to tell her of Marianne’s pining and of what Kelsey had said. When he came to a stop the woman said nothing, waiting for him to continue. After a moment he went on:
    ‘What I’m asking is – is whether you would allow Blanche to come back up to the house for a while – to live there again – just to be with Marianne …’
    ‘I see.’ She paused. ‘For how long did you have in mind, sir?’
    He shook his head. ‘Well, I can’t say exactly – but I’d hope it wouldn’t be for too long. As the time goes by I’d think we could begin to keep the two babies apart more and more, so eventually we can separate them completely – without Marianne fretting.’ He paused. ‘Ineed hardly add that I’ll pay you something for your – temporary loss.’
    She moved her hands in a little gesture of protest. ‘Oh, sir, I wouldn’t want to be paid for such a thing. And you’ve already done so much – what with the rent and Ollie’s rise in pay.’
    He shrugged. ‘Well – anyway, you’d have the consolation of knowing that Blanche would be well looked after. She’d have the best of everything, I can assure you. And, naturally, I’d take full responsibility for all her expenses – her food, clothing, any doctor’s bills – everything.’ He waited while the woman sat in silence. Then he said gently,
    ‘Well, Mrs Farrar – what do you think?’
    After a moment she said, ‘Yes, Mr Savill. We can do what you want, I’m sure.’
    ‘You think your husband will agree?’
    She gave a slow nod, then she said, ‘I don’t need to ask Oliver. I know what his answer will be. It’ll be the same as mine.’ She smiled, an uncertain smile, then added, as if forcing a positive note into her voice, ‘Yes, sir, if you need Blanche up at the house for a time then you must have her.’
    A few minutes later when all the arrangements had been made he prepared to go. Standing before her he reached out and took her hand. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you, so much.’
    As he withdrew his hand his eyes were caught again by the pictures around the walls, and suddenly he was aware of a significance that had previously missed him. ‘It’s just struck me,’ he said, ‘– your pictures – they’re original oils – they’re not prints.’ Then immediately he regretted his remark, afraid that it might have been taken to imply that people in the Farrars’ situation shouldn’t have original paintings. The woman merelysmiled, though, and said, ‘Oh, yes, sir, they’re all original.’
    He shook his head in a little gesture of wonder. ‘It’s like a picture gallery,’ he said. He paused. ‘I’m no expert, but they look to me to be of very fine quality.’ He noticed then that not all the pictures were framed – and that the frames that had been used were mostly very old and shabby or else had obviously been cheaply and simply made.
    He took a step closer to the painting on the wall immediately to his right. It showed a tranquil scene of a shepherd and a flock of sheep on a hillside. He