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The Mill Valley Girls Series (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
PART ONE (#u85db8b73-7f61-5bd0-8fa5-8284fbbf7e2d)
Chapter 1 (#u85db8b73-7f61-5bd0-8fa5-8284fbbf7e2d)
Sarah had watched the bird of prey awhile, shading her eyes against the midday sun. It was hunting from the edge of Tinker’s Wood, scattering small birds from the hedgerows where they had taken refuge from the heat. The hedge-hawk had had no success so far, and she wondered at the energy it was expending, but it was patient. It returned to the shelter of the woodland canopy each time, waiting for the scattered birds to settle, then launched another attack. She didn’t want it to succeed, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away, either.
Just when she thought it must have given up and flown away without her noticing, it startled her by skimming up over the hedge, so close to where she was sitting that she could have sworn she saw the intent in its yellow eye as it swept past. There was a muffled squawk, a flurry of fine feathers and calls of alarm – and it was all over. The hawk sped off, taking its prey to a plucking post deep in the woods.
With a sigh and a shudder, Sarah jumped down from the wall where she had perched herself and shook out her skirts, craning her head back over her shoulder to check for any mossy stains. She tied her bonnet back in place over her curly brown hair which, in honour of the unusual warmth of the weather so early in May, was loosely caught up on top of her head rather than hanging halfway down her back, then she turned back to the track. She’d wasted enough time and the plants in her basket were beginning to wilt. Her grandmother would not be pleased. With the sun in her eyes, Sarah didn’t notice the man until she was almost upon him. She cried out in shock and almost stumbled as she tried to avoid him.
His arm shot out and he held her in a firm grip. ‘Watch out for yoursen here, miss. ’Tis a rough track you tread and your ankles look a sight too dainty for it.’
Sarah, her heart beating fast at the close and unexpected encounter, felt her colour rise. It was wrong of the man to make a remark about her ankles, which in any case he couldn’t have seen, encased as they were in sturdy, though patched, boots.
She made to shake him off but he’d already let go of her arm and stepped back to a respectful distance. He held both hands up, placatingly.
‘I only thought to save you from a fall, miss. No offence.’
Now that she was no longer blinded by the sun she could see what manner of man he was. And she rather liked what she saw. He was barely taller than she was – unusual in itself as she was petite – wiry with dark curly hair and a deeply tanned face. His eyes shone bright blue and they seemed filled with an amused expression, while a smile played around his lips. She had no idea how she could read so much into a countenance, but she had the distinct impression that he was laughing at her.
‘I’ll thank you to stand aside and let me on my way,’ she said, with as much dignity as she could muster.
He regarded her gravely, then bowed. ‘The track is yours.’ He stood back to let her pass and she had gone but ten paces before he called after her, ‘But I’d be honoured if you’d let me keep you company along the way. I fear ’tis not safe for a young girl like you to be abroad along this path. ’Tis used by all manner of ruffians and vagabonds, heading to and from the water.’
His words echoed those of her grandmother, who had warned her never to use this route, tempting though it was as a short cut, for the very same reason. She faltered in her stride. How could she know whether or not he was the very same vagabond whom he was proposing to guard her against? She turned and regarded him.
‘And where are you from, if I might make so bold as to ask? Are you from these parts, or a stranger here?’
The man chuckled. ‘My name is Joe Bancroft. Today I am just passing through but I’ve spent enough time here in Nortonstall to know that the canal dwellers do have a fondness for this track here, using it to get them most directly into town, and they be, for the most part, company ’twould be the wisest for you not to keep.’
By this time, he had fallen into step beside her and, reassured by his manner, she had allowed him to keep pace with her until the track widened out. Here, a path struck out over the fields, climbing up towards Nortonstall, and she felt quite safe to take it alone. It was an open track and her progress along it would be visible for miles, not hidden as they were right now between two high hedges laden with May blossom.
He’d talked about all manner of things as they’d walked, about the hedges and the birds and the creatures hiding within, and she’d reached the end of their journey together knowing no more about him than she had at the start, nor he of her.
‘I thank you for your company but I must leave you now and make haste. My grandmother will be vexed.’
‘We must hope not,’ Joe said. ‘I, too, thank you for your company. I daresay I’ll not be able to pass this way again without remembering you.’ He smiled, a rich and joyous smile.
Sarah, rather taken with the thought, smiled back.
‘Might I know your name?’ Joe asked.
‘Sarah,’ she replied, all at once reluctant to part but turning to climb the stile nonetheless. ‘Sarah Gibson.’
‘Well, Sarah Gibson, I hope our paths may cross again, if not here then in t’near neighbourhood.’ And with that Joe tipped his hat to her and strode off.
Sarah, almost cross that he hadn’t offered to hand her up, mounted the stile, jumped down on the other side and retrieved the basket that she had pushed beneath, before striking out up the hill. She looked back once and could just make out the top of his hat as it passed between the hedgerows. A melodious yet jaunty whistling drifted up to her, causing her to smile again. Joe Bancroft appeared to be a man of the greatest good humour, something that his very presence seemed to spread and share. She rather hoped that she would see him again, and soon.
After that first encounter, Sarah had arrived home to Hill Farm Cottage breathless and flushed, easily accounted for to her grandmother, Ada, by her fear that she was very late and might have caused her to worry. She described at great length how she had wandered further afield than usual and discovered lungwort and comfrey, waxing lyrical about the great quantities there and promising to return for more at the first opportunity.
She made no mention of her route home by Tinker’s Way, nor of her encounter with Joe Bancroft. That was something to be kept to herself, a memory to savour in private moments when no one else was around. Having examined the chance meeting from every angle, Sarah concluded that it was something she must repeat, despite having no way of knowing how this could be achieved. As it was on Tinker’s Way that she had first seen Joe, she decided that it was to Tinker’s Way she must return, risking the wrath of her grandmother if her disobedience were to be discovered.
Chapter 2 (#u85db8b73-7f61-5bd0-8fa5-8284fbbf7e2d)
Sarah had lived in Hill Farm Cottage, along with her grandmother Ada, for as long as she could remember. Sarah’s mother, Mary, had lived there too for a while. Mary had married a weaver from Northwaite, William Gibson, who – having made himself unpopular for one reason and another at the local mill – had been forced to look further afield for work, in Manchester. He left behind his wife Mary, along with Sarah and her two younger sisters Jane and Ellen. He sent home what he said he could spare from his wages each week but, even so, without additional financial help from Ada the family wouldn’t have survived.
Ada’s role as a herbalist gave her some status in the village, and a little wealth; enough to afford the rent on the cottage. It was a little way out of Northwaite but was big enough to house them all and to provide a garden for Ada to grow the herbs she needed. The distance from the village meant that Ada paid a lower rent, but it was a disadvantage for the less able of her patients, who struggled to make the journey. So, from an early age, Sarah had been employed to deliver remedies to them as necessary.
Ada cut a stern figure despite her diminutive size, dressing all in black in honour of her long-dead husband, Harry Randall. When Sarah was small, the approaching rustle of Ada’s bombazine dress had filled her with dread for she always feared that she was about to be caught out in some behaviour considered worthy of punishment. In later years, Sarah got to wondering whether Ada’s joy had died along with Harry, for she smiled little and scolded a good deal.
It was partly this that made her eager to offer to run errands for her grandmother, so that she could leave the cottage and its frequently strained atmosphere. She learnt very quickly that if she was swift in the execution of the errand she could dawdle her way home, stopping on the bridge over the brook to look for minnows or sticklebacks darting about in the shallows or, in spring, to watch fluffy young ducklings quack anxiously after their mother as she shepherded them on an outing. And if she loitered in the doorway of Patchett’s, the baker’s, she would often be rewarded with a treat.
‘Been out delivering for your gran again? You’re a good girl. You must be hungry – here’s a morsel for you.’ Mrs Patchett, the baker’s wife, would wipe her floury arms on her apron and beam, handing over a roll that she said was misshapen, or a sweet tart where the pastry had caught and burnt a little round the edges. The one thing the treats had in common was that they were all somewhat larger than a morsel and Sarah would eat them quickly on the last stretch of her journey home, taking care to wipe her mouth on her sleeve and to lick her fingers to remove the evidence.
As Sarah grew a little older, Ada sent her on errands beyond the immediate village and she quickly came to know her way around the countryside and to delight in exploring it. By this time Mary had left her mother’s house, taking the two little girls with her to join her husband in Manchester. Sarah, aged ten, was left behind to act as her grandmother’s companion.
Sarah wasn’t entirely sorry at this turn of events. Her grandmother and mother clashed constantly and Sarah’s loyalties were torn. Although she found her grandmother formidable, she was at least consistent. You knew where you stood, and you knew to expect punishment if you did wrong. Sarah’s mother was harder to fathom. At times she was emotional, gathering her three children to her and telling them how much she loved them all. At other times she was cold and cruel, denying them food for childish misdemeanours. Or worse: Sarah had found her sister Ellen shut in the cellar one day when she chanced to go down there to find jars for the ointments her grandmother was making. Ellen, her eyes saucer-like with terror, could barely explain what she had done to deserve this and Sarah was unable to discover how long she had been down there. Ellen spent the rest of the day clinging to Sarah’s skirt while she worked.
Mary returned quite late that day, unusually flushed and looking happier than Sarah had seen her in a while. That evening, harsh words passed between Ada and her daughter and within the week Mary was gone, taking Jane and Ellen with her. Sarah discovered that the household was a calmer place without her mother, although she missed Jane and Ellen terribly. Now she had no companions to spend her days with, and her distance from the village meant that she made no close friends there. She thought she ought to miss her mother, too, but since her grandmother had been such a strong presence throughout her formative years all went on much as before, although perhaps a little more quietly. If Sarah was missing affection in her life she didn’t notice, it having been in short supply before.
Ada wrote to her daughter in Manchester once a month and received news in return. She shared this with Sarah, who, noticing her grandmother’s pauses as she read aloud, suspected that much was being kept from her. Jane and Ellen were now lodged by day with a neighbour as Mary had gone to work in the mill alongside her husband. A frown creased Ada’s brow as she read this out to Sarah, who was old enough herself to worry that her younger sisters wouldn’t be properly cared for.
‘What need do they have of yet more money?’ Ada muttered. Sarah kept quiet, aware that she was speaking more to herself than to her granddaughter. ‘Is what I send not enough? It must be the drink. The devil’s work.’
With the rest of the family gone, and without her mother’s presence to create and inflame tensions, Sarah and her grandmother quickly settled into a mutual understanding. Ada grumbled and complained but Sarah came to see that it meant little.
Sarah dutifully accompanied her grandmother, staunch in her Methodism, to the chapel in Northwaite every Sunday but, if truth be told, she was barely a believer herself. She learnt the art of appearing to worship, whilst all the time she was far away in daydreams in which she wandered the surrounding countryside, spending time with the sisters she missed so much. She feared they would be so well grown as to be unrecognisable the next time they met.
Her grandmother would try to draw her into conversation about the sermon on the way home, but Sarah was always ready to distract her or to divert her thoughts. Usually she would ask a question about some remedy that they were making but once she had thought to enquire more about Ada’s, and the family’s, faith.
‘Did my mother go to chapel with you when she was young?’ she asked. She was well aware of Ada’s high standing in the chapel community yet Mary had attended chapel rarely, simply refusing to be ready on time, and she had prevented Jane and Ellen from attending too. Sarah, as the eldest daughter, had accepted her own role as her grandmother’s companion and gone along without questioning it. Now she wondered whether the strained atmosphere in the house had been caused by arguments about religion, or whether it was something else entirely.
‘Your mother came to chapel until she was about sixteen, when she met your father,’ Ada said. ‘William Gibson didn’t hold with the Methodist beliefs, in particular where drink was concerned, and within three months he had your mother rejecting them as well.’
Ada’s dislike of Sarah’s father was clear, Sarah thought. Could this explain why he was such a shadowy presence in her own life? He had been working in Manchester as long as Sarah could remember; certainly since Jane was born and probably before that. They had been a household of women for what seemed like the whole of Sarah’s life.
Something else that her grandmother had said had lodged in her mind, too: her mother and father had met when Mary was sixteen. That was younger than Sarah was now. The thought had worried away at her – living in an out-of-the-way cottage with just her grandmother for company, how was she ever going to meet a young man, let alone marry and have a family of her own?
Chapter 3 (#u85db8b73-7f61-5bd0-8fa5-8284fbbf7e2d)
The day after her encounter with Joe, Sarah suggested to her grandmother that it would be wise to go back and gather as much of the remaining lungwort as possible before someone else discovered its whereabouts. Ada was suspicious of Sarah’s eagerness to go herb gathering, when before she had considered it an unwelcome imposition, but she was always grateful for supplies of the plants that she didn’t grow herself. So it was that within the week, Sarah set off again for Tinker’s Wood. She’d dressed carefully, choosing her second-best blouse and skirt in the knowledge that wearing her best clothes for such an errand would have alerted her grandmother to the fact that something was afoot. Even so, she’d been careful to slip out of the house before Ada had the chance to scrutinise her too closely.
As she made her way down the garden she paused at the rose bed to sniff deeply. She thought about taking a rosebud or two to tuck in her hair, then rejected the idea, instead scooping up a handful of newly fallen petals, keeping them in her pocket until she was out of view of the house. Then she scrunched up the petals and scrubbed them against her cheeks, hoping that their deep crimson colour would bring out the roses there. At the very least, she felt, her skin would take on some of the glorious scent.
Sarah tried hard to pretend that she was undertaking a normal outing but she was nervous and giddy, shrinking back into the hedge at the sound of horses’ hooves on the lane and appearing so flustered that the carter was moved to observe to his mate, ‘Isn’t that young Sarah Gibson? She’s a bold lass, always ready with a greeting. Whatever can have afflicted her today?’
Sarah simply wanted the first part of her errand to be over, and to remain unobserved throughout, convinced that her guilty longing for a meeting with Joe Bancroft must be written all over her face. She couldn’t have explained why it was that she wished to see him so much, nor what instinct made her wish to keep it a secret. All she knew was that she had thought of little else but Joe’s smile since she had seen him last, and the way that it lit up his eyes. And, without fail, the memory of the way those eyes lingered on her brought a blush to her cheeks.
Now, in a hurry to complete the legitimate part of her errand, Sarah gathered the lungwort along the edge of Tinker’s Wood with great haste, barely noticing as her hand plunged in amongst the nettles to grasp the flowering stems of the herb. It was here that Joe Bancroft came upon her unexpectedly, seated at the edge of the wood, ruefully sucking fingers made swollen and itchy by the surfeit of stings.
‘Oh, it’s you!’ Sarah, caught unawares, blurted it out. She had hoped and expected to see him a little later in her outing, along Tinker’s Way, where she would have been more composed and in control of herself.
Joe – who had been poaching in the woods – had taken care to tuck the rabbit that was destined for the pot into one of the capacious pockets of his jacket, and it was hidden from Sarah’s sight. He gestured to the ground beside her.
‘May I?’ he asked.
‘Why yes,’ said Sarah, arranging herself as prettily as she could and hoping that the dappled shade under the trees was showing her to her best advantage.
Joe loosened the red neckerchief from around his neck and used it mop his forehead.
‘’Twill be a right hot ’un today, I reckon,’ he said. ‘Yon herbs will be after wilting.’ He nodded in the direction of Sarah’s basket.
She hastily pushed the basket further into the shade with her foot and just managed to stop herself from saying, ‘Yes, I must get them home to my grandmother,’ which was the first thing that had sprung to mind. For she had rehearsed a second meeting with Joe over and over in her head, and in her imagination the conversation flowed freely. She now found herself tongue-tied, with not a single sensible thing to say to this man.
Joe leant towards her and she shrank back a little. ‘What hast thou done to thy hand?’ he asked and, reaching out, he took Sarah’s small hand in his. She was aware of the calloused roughness of his skin as he gently opened out her fingers, turning her hand back and forth as he examined the raised and reddened areas. Then he lifted the sore fingers to his lips and blew on them with extreme gentleness. Sarah, who had been half expecting him to kiss them, was startled. The sensation was both soothing and cooling, and something else entirely. Joe kept his eyes fixed on hers as he repeated the action. This time he finished by kissing the tips of her fingers.
Later, Sarah could barely imagine what had come over her. Her lips had parted involuntarily but she did not speak. She felt as though her insides had turned to liquid – a liquid that was charged with fire.
‘Well, Sarah Gibson,’ Joe said, ‘what are you doing out here, a young girl like you, roaming alone again? Anything could happen to you.’ He said it teasingly, but as he spoke he let go of her hand, setting his free hand on her neck and gently drawing her face towards his. Her eyes were locked with his as he kissed her, at first gently and then deeply. She did not know what to make of the feelings that this created within her; the fire had turned to ice, then fire again. When he let her go she wanted both to have him kiss her all over again, and to run away.
Joe sat back and studied her. ‘Well, well, Sarah Gibson. You’re a one and no mistake.’ He took her hand again and sucked her fingers almost absent-mindedly, looking perturbed all the while.
Sarah, who was now feeling that their encounter had not gone at all as she had intended, snatched her hand away and scrambled to her feet, uttering the words she had repressed earlier.
‘I must get back to my grandmother.’ She indicated the basket of lungwort. ‘She’ll be needing this.’
Joe got to his feet too. ‘Let me walk along of you.’
‘No, no,’ Sarah said. ‘I must hurry.’ She picked up her basket and ran down the hill, feeling unaccountably close to tears. As she turned to mount the stile from the field to the footpath she saw Joe standing just where she had left him. His bright waistcoat made a vivid splash of colour in the shade of the trees and he raised his hand in farewell. He called out and Sarah wasn’t sure whether she had heard it correctly, but she thought he’d said, ‘Goodbye, Sarah Gibson. Until tomorrow.’
The meeting had not played out according to plan at all, Sarah thought as she made her way home. In her often-imagined version, he had begged to accompany her on her walk and been solicitous and reverential towards her. Her cheeks burnt with indignation. How dare Joe Bancroft act in such a forward manner towards her? And what did he mean by ‘Until tomorrow’? She had no intention of seeing him ever again.
An hour later, with the lungwort delivered to Ada – who had given her granddaughter a sharp look on registering both the clothes she was wearing and her flushed demeanour – Sarah was consumed with longing to see Joe again. The memory of his kiss had returned to her and she shifted restlessly as she tried to settle to the sewing tasks that had piled up in the workbasket. She longed to head out into the sunshine again and roam across the fields where she could explore her thoughts. Inside the house she felt stifled, but she knew she must stay there and act as normally as possible. Her grandmother must not suspect that anything out of the ordinary had happened.
Chapter 4 (#ulink_d9d54169-0017-5f5f-8259-cb04cf4b5e46)
‘There’s a man at the gate, Sarah. We’re not expecting visitors, are we?’
Ada’s tone was querulous. She’d had a bad night, in pain from the rheumatism that plagued her hands and feet at different times of the year, and she wasn’t in the mood for the niceties that a social visit would demand. Sarah peered out of the window over her grandmother’s shoulder and had to suppress a gasp.
Standing at the gate, cap set at a jaunty angle, a bright-red neckerchief tucked in the neck of his canvas shirt and wearing a different waistcoat, but no jacket in recognition of the warmth of the day, was Joe Bancroft.
‘I’ll go and ask him what he wants,’ Sarah said. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll send him on his way.’
Without waiting for her grandmother’s response, she opened the door and marched down the path. Joe swept his cap from his head with a flourish and bowed at her approach.
‘Good day, Sarah Gibson. I was just passing by and thought to ask whether you or your grandmother had need of help? Aught to be fixed around the house or garden?’ The expression on Joe’s face was one of guileless friendliness.
‘How did you find me here, Joseph Bancroft?’ Sarah was quite fired up. ‘It’s most forward of you to call on me at home in this way.’ She was almost spluttering with indignation at his behaviour.
Sarah had quite forgotten how she had sought out Joe the previous day, as well as how she had been longing to see him again ever since. Now, concerned that he had tracked her down in her own home, she felt quite wrong-footed. Joe, who seemed mildly amused rather than put out by her greeting, was looking over her shoulder.
‘Those roses there –’ he pointed at Sarah’s favourite crimson blooms ‘– would they be the ones scenting your cheeks yesterday?’
Sarah’s blush was as crimson as the rose petals. She was caught out in her vanity and embarrassed by it. But Joe’s face had changed in an instant. He spoke low and urgently.
‘Sarah Gibson, I must see you again. I’ve not been able to get thee from my mind the whole night through. Meet me tomorrow at the edge of Tinker’s Wood.’
Sarah shook her head, half turning as she heard her grandmother open the door.
Joe spoke again. ‘I must go away awhile tomorrow night. But first I must see you.’
‘Sarah, come away back inside.’ Ada’s tone was sharp and Sarah turned at once to go in.
‘Tomorrow. At midday. I will wait,’ Joe said.
Sarah turned back in time to catch Joe doffing his cap to both her and Ada, before he assumed his air of jaunty insouciance once more and went on his way, whistling.
‘What did he want?’ Ada demanded as soon as Sarah stepped over the threshold. ‘He looked nothing better than a tinker. I hope we’ll not be robbed in our beds tonight.’
Sarah’s mood switched quickly once more and she felt rage welling up inside her at her grandmother’s words. How could she refer to Joe in this way, as a tinker and a potential thief? She did her best to remain calm, however, determined not to reveal that she had any prior acquaintance with Joe.
‘Oh, he just wondered whether we had any jobs around the house or garden that required a man’s hand. He was most polite in his manner. I don’t think we have anything to fear from him.’
Sarah busied herself with folding laundry, hoping that she had allayed her grandmother’s worries, all the while prey to violently mixed emotions. Despite her cross words to Joe, she knew without a doubt that she would try to meet him at Tinker’s Wood the next day. When he had said that he’d been unable to get her from his mind the whole night through, a thrill had run through her. No one had ever said such a thing to her before. It was a secret, and she must keep it to herself, yet it gave her a delicious feeling of power.
She wished her sisters still lived there with her – she would have shared Joe’s words with them and asked them for their help. The laughing and giggling this would have provoked would no doubt have irritated Ada but, as it was, she had no one to turn to – and no one to help her effect her plans. At midday the next day her grandmother would expect Sarah to be at home, preparing their meal, not heading off over the fields to a secret assignation.
Although Sarah tried very hard to apply herself to the tasks set by her grandmother for the remainder of that day, her concentration was woefully lacking. While transferring the herbal distillations to smaller containers she overfilled the bottles, allowing the liquid to pour over the sides unchecked and so earning a scolding from Ada. She let the potatoes boil dry while preparing the midday meal, being too busy staring unseeing out of the window to notice anything amiss until a smell of burning snapped her out of her reverie. Sent out to gather may blossom from the hawthorn hedge bordering the garden she wandered off and came back empty-handed after an hour, having been distracted by watching a weasel hunting baby rabbits in the field beyond.
Ada was quite exasperated by the time bedtime arrived. ‘Well, child, I don’t know where your head has been today. I hope tomorrow brings a better state of affairs. After you have helped me to Nancy’s house in the morning, I suggest you use your free time usefully to consider your behaviour today. When you fetch me back later you can tell me what you have learnt.’
Sarah stared in astonishment at her grandmother, then collected herself. Having spent most of the day trying to work out how she could find an excuse for yet another herb-gathering trip to Tinker’s Wood, she was both amazed and alarmed at being given the solution to her problem by the very person she had expected to be an obstacle to her plan.
Sarah always found it difficult to sleep on summer evenings, when it was still light outside while the household was abed. That night was no exception and she tossed and turned, hot with anxiety and anticipation, until she could have sworn that she’d slept not a wink and here it was, already light again but this time with the freshness of dawn.
In the morning she helped her grandmother into her visiting clothes, doing up the tiny and fiddly buttons without complaint, and took extra care over breakfast. She even brought in a rose from the garden to set on the breakfast table. Sarah had washed up the breakfast dishes and finished her chores long before her grandmother considered herself ready to leave, but she did her best not to show any signs of impatience.
The sun was high in the sky before they set off to walk to Nancy’s cottage in Northwaite and Sarah calculated she would need to hurry if she was to reach Tinker’s Wood within a half-hour of Joe’s appointed meeting time. Despite feeling faint with apprehension, she did her best to be attentive to her grandmother as they made their way to Nancy’s house.
‘Now, child, I will be expecting you not a moment past four in the afternoon,’ Ada said. ‘You know that I can’t abide the way Nancy goes on, but with the sorrow she’s had, well …’ Ada sighed. Her bag held a variety of remedies requested by Nancy, whose husband’s death had been followed not long after by the deaths of her daughter Jean’s youngest children. Jean’s subsequent nervous collapse had left Nancy to care for the family until her daughter regained enough strength to return to the farmwork that had supported them, albeit in the most meagre of ways, since her husband had walked out on them.
Ada had expressed a belief that the loss of the two youngest had been a blessing in disguise. ‘Two less mouths to feed,’ she’d said, and looked surprised when Sarah had shushed her with an expression of horror.
Now Sarah kissed her grandmother on the cheek and wished her a pleasant afternoon, waving a greeting to Nancy as she stood at the door, before she took herself off at what she hoped was a seemly pace. Once out of view of Nancy’s house she broke into a run, stopping only once to retrieve her bonnet, which she’d failed to fasten well enough, so it had shaken itself free of her curls.
