handiwork in the upstairs parlour with satisfaction. The ceiling plasterwork was ornate and from its centre hung a finely branched brass candelabra. The
fireplace was surrounded by a Dent marble mantlepiece and coal burned brightly in the grate. The room was large and square enough to hold his bride’s best chairs and spinet, firescreen and
sofa bed so she could arrange them to her taste.
He’d even turned the old staircase to face the new entrance and tiled the floor with a mosaic of coloured tiles so Mirabel would not have to face or hear the farm kitchen bustle beyond the
door.
The duties of a farmer’s wife would be strange to one used to such leisure. He didn’t expect her to perform anything that took her to the kitchen and the meaner parts of the house.
His new wife was his extravagance and his responsibility, his reward for all his endeavours but he had beggared himself in giving her all the refinements she deserved.
Tongues wagged in the farmyard that Matt Stockdale was getting above himself in this show of extravagance. He knew what folk thought but didn’t care. It was hard though not to show his
disappointment when his bride took to her new bedroom and barred the door, leaving her maid to explain that she was too exhausted by travel to receive callers in her private chamber. For three days
she kept to her room with a terrible headache and slept alone.
His mother said nothing about the arrangement and went about her humble business as if the new wing didn’t exist. The maid came down to collect her covered dishes and tried to show by
little acts of kindness to his mother that she could make herself useful if asked.
Bella Carswell was so well spoken, so polite that it almost made things worse. Everyone knew that he had not yet gained admittance to Mirabel’s bed where the maid spent her days sewing at
the side of her Mistress. This was not how it was supposed to be but Matt bit his tongue and hid the pain of his broken dreams.
‘Yon’s a right carry on and no mistake,’ grumbled his mother. ‘If hadn’t seen it for mesen, I’d think you’d dreamt it all up: all that good brass spent
and she can’t be arsed to show her presence or warm thy toes. You must put thy foot down and sharpish! You won’t get bairns out of that one either, have you seen the size of her? I
don’t know what you were thinking of, son.’
Matt shook his head and bit his lip. It was one thing having an ornament like fine porcelain on a pedestal to admire but Mirabel was neither use nor ornament hidden away upstairs. Suddenly he
felt foolish and down-hearted and took himself out into the fields with his men, out to market, buying and selling. Everything he touched had turned to profit lately but all his private hopes were
shattered.
There were plenty of gatherings and parish affairs to keep loneliness at bay. He could busy himself but the sadness in his heart turned into disappointment and then into bitterness. He had
hardly spent a few hours in his wife’s presence and then never alone. He was a laughing stock in his home and it had to stop. Enough was enough!
One night, fired by the ale pot, he stormed up the stairs two at a time. ‘Mirabel Stockdale open the door to me! I’m thy husband and I’ve fair had enough with this carry on.
Open the door or I’ll bash it down!’ His accent thickened as his anger spilled over. No one made a fool of Matt Stockdale. ‘What’ve I done to deserve such treatment? Any
other man would’ve taken a whip to you for this disobedience. It has been twelve long nights since you came here. I’ll not stomach another night out of our marriage bed!’
The two sisters listened as he banged on the door, waking the whole household in his fury. Eliza cowered under the bedclothes, crying and shaking. ‘What’ll I do? You promised me . .
. I’ve kept to my bargain, done what you said but this I will not do . . . Tomorrow we must go back home and tell Papa the
fireplace was surrounded by a Dent marble mantlepiece and coal burned brightly in the grate. The room was large and square enough to hold his bride’s best chairs and spinet, firescreen and
sofa bed so she could arrange them to her taste.
He’d even turned the old staircase to face the new entrance and tiled the floor with a mosaic of coloured tiles so Mirabel would not have to face or hear the farm kitchen bustle beyond the
door.
The duties of a farmer’s wife would be strange to one used to such leisure. He didn’t expect her to perform anything that took her to the kitchen and the meaner parts of the house.
His new wife was his extravagance and his responsibility, his reward for all his endeavours but he had beggared himself in giving her all the refinements she deserved.
Tongues wagged in the farmyard that Matt Stockdale was getting above himself in this show of extravagance. He knew what folk thought but didn’t care. It was hard though not to show his
disappointment when his bride took to her new bedroom and barred the door, leaving her maid to explain that she was too exhausted by travel to receive callers in her private chamber. For three days
she kept to her room with a terrible headache and slept alone.
His mother said nothing about the arrangement and went about her humble business as if the new wing didn’t exist. The maid came down to collect her covered dishes and tried to show by
little acts of kindness to his mother that she could make herself useful if asked.
Bella Carswell was so well spoken, so polite that it almost made things worse. Everyone knew that he had not yet gained admittance to Mirabel’s bed where the maid spent her days sewing at
the side of her Mistress. This was not how it was supposed to be but Matt bit his tongue and hid the pain of his broken dreams.
‘Yon’s a right carry on and no mistake,’ grumbled his mother. ‘If hadn’t seen it for mesen, I’d think you’d dreamt it all up: all that good brass spent
and she can’t be arsed to show her presence or warm thy toes. You must put thy foot down and sharpish! You won’t get bairns out of that one either, have you seen the size of her? I
don’t know what you were thinking of, son.’
Matt shook his head and bit his lip. It was one thing having an ornament like fine porcelain on a pedestal to admire but Mirabel was neither use nor ornament hidden away upstairs. Suddenly he
felt foolish and down-hearted and took himself out into the fields with his men, out to market, buying and selling. Everything he touched had turned to profit lately but all his private hopes were
shattered.
There were plenty of gatherings and parish affairs to keep loneliness at bay. He could busy himself but the sadness in his heart turned into disappointment and then into bitterness. He had
hardly spent a few hours in his wife’s presence and then never alone. He was a laughing stock in his home and it had to stop. Enough was enough!
One night, fired by the ale pot, he stormed up the stairs two at a time. ‘Mirabel Stockdale open the door to me! I’m thy husband and I’ve fair had enough with this carry on.
Open the door or I’ll bash it down!’ His accent thickened as his anger spilled over. No one made a fool of Matt Stockdale. ‘What’ve I done to deserve such treatment? Any
other man would’ve taken a whip to you for this disobedience. It has been twelve long nights since you came here. I’ll not stomach another night out of our marriage bed!’
The two sisters listened as he banged on the door, waking the whole household in his fury. Eliza cowered under the bedclothes, crying and shaking. ‘What’ll I do? You promised me . .
. I’ve kept to my bargain, done what you said but this I will not do . . . Tomorrow we must go back home and tell Papa the
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