into a glorious summer and Mirabel took her turn at the haymaking. The servants grew used to her disfigurement but she always took care to cover her fading pockmarks with a
large sun bonnet in case a likeness to her sister was exposed. In truth she was happier than she had ever been in her life, outside in the fresh air, learning to milk cows in the dairy and make
butter and cheese with Matt’s mother who was struggling to see clearly. Only the fact that she was deceiving them spoiled the enjoyment of those first few months at Yewbank.
Eliza refused to set foot out of the door but true to his promise, Matt made no further demands on her other than she entertain civilly when called upon. Then it was hard for Mirabel to stand
back and wait on the Parson’s wife and the church wardens, resume her servile role and forget she was the elder of the Dacre sisters. York began to feel like many moons ago and even their
rare visits to Papa went off without incident.
He kept prodding Eliza’s belly with a roar. ‘When are you going to pup? About time there was something to show for all that humble pie. England expects, Mirabel. We have to admit the
farm boy’s scrubbed up well and kept the bills paid.’ He looked around at his own dusty drawing room with dismay. Pictures were sold and he coughed into his glass.
It was on the way home that Mirabel felt a wave of sickness coming over her. ‘Stop the carriage!’ she said forgetting herself for a moment.
‘What’s the matter?’ Eliza leant out of the window. ‘Urgh!! You’ve been sick.’
There had only been one other darkened lovemaking. She couldn’t recall when her own courses had last bled. It was before hay timing and that was in July and now it was September. Oh hell!
How was she going to pull that iron out of the fire?
8
Matt woke before dawn. The nights were drawing in fast and it would soon be time for gathering in the flock and sorting out the ewes for tupping time. So many orders to give
and fields to check but his heart was heavy as he made his rounds. His nights were lonely, for Mirabel’s door was barred against him most nights and he felt cheated. Mother tiptoed around
him, pretending all was well, heads down in the dairy and the barns, not understanding why he had burdened himself with such an expensive wife. There was no one to talk to, not even the Parson
about all this disappointment.
It was always Bella, the maid who saw to Mirabel’s meals and sometimes came down to the kitchen to read out aloud of an evening to his Mother for she had a soft clear voice and nice manner
with the other servants. He was getting used to seeing her swollen face and puckered skin but it offended his eye nonetheless. It pained him that his wife preferred her maid’s company to his
own and looked on him in disbelief when he complained to her over dinner.
‘You wanted Mirabel Dacre as your wife and here she be. You must take as you find and be grateful that my father disposed of me in your favour,’ she snapped. ‘I can’t
help that sorrow has burdened me like this.’
He felt alone in a houseful of women and he hated it. The rooms he had prepared with such anticipation were airless and silent. Sometimes when the emptiness of his new house forced him out into
the fields, he caught a glimpse of the servant girl striding out at a pace towards the waterfall and cover of Gunnerside copse. At sunrise and sunset he saw her lone figure haunting the field
walls. She avoided all contact with villagers but kept to her tasks by her Mistress’s side or wandered over the moors where no one could see her disfigurement.
Ugliness has its own beauty, he thought, as he found himself staring at her. How could she gaze at her reflection in water or catch herself in the mirror or the great parlour windows and not
shudder? He remembered that afternoon when he and Mirabel had taken the secret photographs. It was strange that when he brought out his own copy to remind her
large sun bonnet in case a likeness to her sister was exposed. In truth she was happier than she had ever been in her life, outside in the fresh air, learning to milk cows in the dairy and make
butter and cheese with Matt’s mother who was struggling to see clearly. Only the fact that she was deceiving them spoiled the enjoyment of those first few months at Yewbank.
Eliza refused to set foot out of the door but true to his promise, Matt made no further demands on her other than she entertain civilly when called upon. Then it was hard for Mirabel to stand
back and wait on the Parson’s wife and the church wardens, resume her servile role and forget she was the elder of the Dacre sisters. York began to feel like many moons ago and even their
rare visits to Papa went off without incident.
He kept prodding Eliza’s belly with a roar. ‘When are you going to pup? About time there was something to show for all that humble pie. England expects, Mirabel. We have to admit the
farm boy’s scrubbed up well and kept the bills paid.’ He looked around at his own dusty drawing room with dismay. Pictures were sold and he coughed into his glass.
It was on the way home that Mirabel felt a wave of sickness coming over her. ‘Stop the carriage!’ she said forgetting herself for a moment.
‘What’s the matter?’ Eliza leant out of the window. ‘Urgh!! You’ve been sick.’
There had only been one other darkened lovemaking. She couldn’t recall when her own courses had last bled. It was before hay timing and that was in July and now it was September. Oh hell!
How was she going to pull that iron out of the fire?
8
Matt woke before dawn. The nights were drawing in fast and it would soon be time for gathering in the flock and sorting out the ewes for tupping time. So many orders to give
and fields to check but his heart was heavy as he made his rounds. His nights were lonely, for Mirabel’s door was barred against him most nights and he felt cheated. Mother tiptoed around
him, pretending all was well, heads down in the dairy and the barns, not understanding why he had burdened himself with such an expensive wife. There was no one to talk to, not even the Parson
about all this disappointment.
It was always Bella, the maid who saw to Mirabel’s meals and sometimes came down to the kitchen to read out aloud of an evening to his Mother for she had a soft clear voice and nice manner
with the other servants. He was getting used to seeing her swollen face and puckered skin but it offended his eye nonetheless. It pained him that his wife preferred her maid’s company to his
own and looked on him in disbelief when he complained to her over dinner.
‘You wanted Mirabel Dacre as your wife and here she be. You must take as you find and be grateful that my father disposed of me in your favour,’ she snapped. ‘I can’t
help that sorrow has burdened me like this.’
He felt alone in a houseful of women and he hated it. The rooms he had prepared with such anticipation were airless and silent. Sometimes when the emptiness of his new house forced him out into
the fields, he caught a glimpse of the servant girl striding out at a pace towards the waterfall and cover of Gunnerside copse. At sunrise and sunset he saw her lone figure haunting the field
walls. She avoided all contact with villagers but kept to her tasks by her Mistress’s side or wandered over the moors where no one could see her disfigurement.
Ugliness has its own beauty, he thought, as he found himself staring at her. How could she gaze at her reflection in water or catch herself in the mirror or the great parlour windows and not
shudder? He remembered that afternoon when he and Mirabel had taken the secret photographs. It was strange that when he brought out his own copy to remind her
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