Free Feathers in the Fire by Catherine Cookson Page B

mistress and the young miss to Allendale visiting, and left them there while he supposedly went into Hexham on business. The business he had done was to take every stitch off her until she was as bare as the day she was born, and although she had experienced his lovemaking before and been surprised by it, there were things had happened in that one hour that she was sure had never happened to anyone else on God’s earth. And she had protested against not one of them, but joyed with him; oh aye, she had joyed with him, and would be willing to die for just one such hour again.
    She said softly, ‘You sent for me, Master?’
    ‘Yes, Molly.’ He did not even put his hand out towards her. ‘I have something to tell you.’
    She watched his thin lips wetting each other; then her eyes sprang wide at his next words.
    ‘I’ve arranged you should marry Curran. He is willing.’
    She pushed her head back on to her shoulders and her mouth widened; then she swallowed deeply before gabbling, ‘No! no! Master, not Will Curran I couldn’t, not him; him with his runny’ – she had almost said ‘snotty’ – ‘him with his runny nose. And he’s old, old . . . aw, Master, not him. Not Will Curran.’
    He looked at her for a moment in pity while at the same time feeling gratified that she did not consider him to be old. ‘The child must have a name, Molly,’ he said quietly.
    ‘But Master!’ She was now leaning across the desk, her face only a foot from his. ‘I don’t mind, I don’t mind havin’ the bairn and him claimin’ no name. I don’t, I don’t.’ She moved her head slowly now and, her face full of pleading, she gazed at him. And he could have been softened by the look of her if it weren’t for the fact that if she were to roam loose about the place she would be a thorn in Delia’s flesh, an agitation; and he could not risk that agitation. He said firmly, ‘You must be married, Molly. I want to hear no more.’ He rose to his feet.
    ‘Master!’ She rushed round the desk now and caught at his hand. ‘I’ll plead with Davie, I’ll beg him to take me. I can make him do it; just give me time.’
    ‘Your time will be wasted; he was up in the gallery of the malt house when we met yesterday.’
    She put her hand tightly over the lower part of her face, and he nodded slowly at her. ‘He had seen Miss Jane in distress and had gone to fetch her.’
    Slowly she took her hand from her mouth and her head drooped, and like this she whispered, ‘Will I be able to see you again, Master, if, if I marry Will Curran?’
    Tenderly now, he put his hand under her chin and raised her face upwards, and, his voice as low as hers, he answered, ‘You’ll see me again, Molly, when the time is ripe, never fear. Go now and do as you’re bid and I’ll always see that you are well looked after.’
    She stared up into his eyes. She had been loved by this man, and she had known pride because of it; and power an’ all, aye, power. She had defied her da because of the secret power her master’s patronage had given her. But now she no longer felt she possessed any power. In spite of the master’s promise he was different. She couldn’t understand it. Why? She had imagined she had him in the hollow of her hand. Her head on her chest she walked out of the room.
    McBain turned to his desk and seating himself he placed his hands palm downwards on the ordered pile of papers in front of him and stared ahead for a moment. This part of the business might not turn out so bad after all. If she had married young Davie there would not have been much hope of their continued intimacy, no matter how much she manoeuvred, for Davie was no fool. But with Curran, she could handle Curran, and things would go on as before, for now that he had been deprived of his wife’s bed until the child should be born and for some time afterwards he must find release in whatever quarter was available. And he knew of none sweeter than Molly; neither of his wives