Free Feathers in the Fire by Catherine Cookson

not a violent one, yet in that moment he had the urge to knock her flying out of the bed, more so to use the whip on her, for he considered that she had earned it much more than ever young Molly had done, even if he hadn’t been the man responsible. Yet while his desires raged in him he had stood dumb before her knowing she had him in a cleft stick; excite her, upset her, and the child could be brought ahead of its time; like a cow in calf being chased by an unruly dog she would drop what was in her without it being fully-fledged.
    Only his deep-seated craving for a son, a legitimate son, gave him the strength to turn from her without uttering a word . . . By morning he had decided that if she could see Molly married and apparently out of reach of his hands, this would calm her. There was only one eligible man on the farm and that was Will Curran. He was forty-two years old, the same age as himself, and he was certainly not the man he would have chosen for Molly. But what other course was open to him? He had no doubt but that Curran would be willing; he was a widower these past five years. About Molly’s reactions to the man he gave no thought. She would do as he bade her.
    He rose, as he always did, at seven o’clock in the morning and followed the same procedure as always. Leaving the bedroom, he went into the closet room. One side of the room was taken up with a long wooden seat with three holes in it underneath stood three pails, and high up on the wall behind each hole, suspended from a hook, was a lavender bag. Flanking the wall opposite the row of pails was a long narrow table and on it, placed upside down in a neat row and ranging in size from an extra large one to a very small one, were ten spare chamber pots.
    The first part of his ablutions over, he went into the dressing room. Here the whole length of a wall was taken up with a long wardrobe, of which the frame was shining rosewood encasing three huge mirrors. Underneath the window at the end of the room stood a table and on this there were two washbasins, with jugs inside. Over one was draped a white towel, through which a thin film of steam was permeating. A couch, a chair, and a bow-fronted chest of drawers were the only other articles of furniture in the room. It took him fifteen minutes precisely to wash and shave and dress. His working clothes were simple, consisting of cord knee breeches and a short homespun coat over a fresh white cotton shirt. His feet were encased in black boots freshly dubbined, his legs in black gaiters equally so.
    He did not even glance at the communicating door leading into his bedroom as he passed it, but went out and across the landing and down the steep oak stairs.
    When he entered the kitchen, Winnie alone was there. She did not look up from where she was cutting thick gammon rashers from a ham, but she said, as always, ‘Mornin’, Master,’ and he replied, ‘Good morning, Winnie.’
    She now went to the stove and took from the hob a china teapot that was standing next to a homely brown one. She went to the end of the table where stood a tray holding a cup and saucer and a sugar basin, and having poured out a cup of tea that looked jet black she spooned four heaped teaspoonfuls of sugar into it; then she handed the cup and saucer to her master.
    Now, the master should have walked to the kitchen door and stood looking out on to the farmyard, taking in in one sharp covering glance that everything was as it should be. Even in winter the procedure never altered. Sometimes she wished she could shout at him, as she would have to one of her own, ‘For God’s sake close that door, me legs are froze.’ But this morning her master surprised her by walking towards the door through which he had entered only a few minutes previously, saying as he did so, ‘Get Will Curran to me. If he has already gone to the fields send a boy for him. I’ll be in my office.’
    Winnie did not say, ‘Yes, Master,’ until the door had almost