Free Mulligan's Yard by Ruth Hamilton

tedious.
    But no, not everyone was the subject of Margot’s contempt. He wasn’t. He was her hero. She had seen him this morning on horseback, his spine straight, reins held with gentle but
thorough control, the chestnut mount polished until its sides shone like mahogany. James Mulligan. He was everything a man ought to be – strong, confident, effective, handsome, clever,
authoritative, tall, energetic. Et cetera , she said inwardly.
    His face. She closed her eyes and saw him not as others saw him. When a calf was born, when an animal was sick, he wore an expression she had seen only on faces in paintings. He tried so hard to
hide his feelings, but Margot saw through him and into him. No-one knew James Mulligan. Margot was the only living person who understood him. He loved the outdoor life, he loved all living
creatures, and she loved him.
    James Mulligan was like a person out of a classic novel. Not Heathcliff, because Heathcliff was given to ranting, was all but insane. And not Rochester. No, James Mulligan would never try to
marry a plain young girl while his mad wife was living in the roof. Or in the cellar. But Mr Mulligan was the sort of hero Margot might write about. Except that she wasn’t a writer. If anyone
turned out to be a writer, it would probably be Eliza.
    She knelt and placed the binoculars against her eyes. Nothing. It was a big house with many rooms, and it wasn’t easy to catch a glimpse of him. And Eliza, who was with him now, at this
very minute, was so beautiful, so angelic – why, he might fall head over heels for her. Margot felt a dart of hatred for her mother and Eliza. They were talking to him, were clouding his
mind, distracting him. Margot wanted him all to herself . . .
    She flopped down on to her back, held up her hands and studied the nails. They were torn and broken, the quicks jagged, tips lined with all kinds of debris. She took a penknife from a pocket and
poked about, scraping out soil and what looked suspiciously like horse manure. She hadn’t looked at her face for ages. Every morning, she splashed about in the bath, always in a hurry to be
off and out. But she didn’t have what Mother called a beauty routine. Beauty routines involved Pond’s cold cream and hand lotions, egg shampoos and beer rinses, potions, lotions and
perfumes.
    She held the knife away, looked in its surface, polished it on her riding breeches, peered at it again. A prettyish face stared back at her, but she had to look at it in bits, since she
couldn’t see it all at once, not along this narrow blade. She supposed that she might have a look later in the bathroom, if she remembered and if she didn’t get distracted.
‘Farmer Margot,’ she told the bright, long-lashed eyes. He, too, had long, thick eyelashes.
    All Margot wanted, apart from him, was to have land and animals to care for. Well, if she could get him to like her, to love her and marry her, she’d get everything in one fell swoop. As
lady of the manor, she would, of course, be gracious in victory. She would buy new furniture for Mother, a grand piano for Eliza, a horse for Amy. She would be a good wife, an excellent farmer and,
if pressed, a mother to his children, as long as there could be a nanny to do all the worst jobs.
    Her nineteen-year-old stomach growled. It must be getting towards feeding time. As she walked homeward, Margot caught the sound of music floating from Pendleton Grange. That would probably be
Eliza at the grand in the music room. He would be standing next to her, no doubt, would be breathing in Essence of Wild Rose, a scent of which Eliza was inordinately fond. Yes, it was time to look
in the mirror, time to start wearing a dress.
    James Mulligan was not standing over Eliza. Eliza had been dragged along as moral support, but, within minutes, Louisa had dispensed with the services of her middle daughter.
Eliza was not built to be supportive; Eliza was just a decorative accessory, like a good silk scarf or