Tangled Threads by Margaret Dickinson Page A

him wearily to his own bed. Walter hated
quarrels and the trouble Eveleen had caused had left him looking white and strained.
    Now only mother and daughter sat opposite each other in front of the fire.
    ‘Nothing can come of it, love,’ Mary said, surprisingly gentle now. ‘Stephen Dunsmore will never marry you. His family wouldn’t let him, even if he wanted to.’
    ‘Don’t you think he – he would stand up against them? After all, it’s his life.’
    Mary sighed. ‘The Dunsmores now think of themselves as landed gentry. They own a lot of land and Mr Ernest employs other people to do the work while he lives the life of a gentleman
farmer. And his wife, Mrs Rachel, she thinks herself a lady now. They won’t take kindly to their only son wanting to marry their gathman’s daughter. I’m sure they’ve already
got plans for him to make a more suitable marriage.’
    ‘And you think Stephen will – will go along with whatever those plans are?’
    Her mother’s smile was sad, ‘Oh yes, he’ll have to. If he wants to inherit the estate.’
    ‘So . . .’ Eveleen could not hide the catch in her voice as she said, ‘so you think Stephen doesn’t really love me.’
    Mary reached out and took her daughter’s hand. ‘I’m sure he does love you, in his own way. But he’s only young. Let’s see – he’s just twenty,
isn’t he?’
    Eveleen stared at her mother. She longed to ask her about her early life, about her family, about what had happened, but she did not dare. This moment between herself and her mother was so
precious. She could not bear to break the bond of understanding that was, at last, strengthening between them. Maybe one day . . .
    Instead Eveleen said simply, ‘Well, I love him.’
    Mary’s hold on her hand tightened but it was a gesture more of sympathy than joy at her daughter’s words.
    The silence between them grew but at least now it was no longer the angry silence of the last few weeks. At least now her mother was on her side, even though she could still offer no hope of a
happy future for the young lovers.
    But you’re wrong, Eveleen wanted to cry. You’re all wrong. Stephen loves me, I know he does. But the words remained unspoken as they lingered together beside the dying embers in the
range.

 
Nine
    The following day, after evening milking, Eveleen paddled through the beck and ran up the hill towards Bernby Covert. Taking the cows back to the meadow, she had heard
Stephen’s signal from the trees, the soft whoo-whoo of an owl. She felt happier than she had done for weeks for now she had a new resolve, and there would be no reason for their meetings to
be secret any more. Tonight, she was going to ask Stephen to speak to her father. If Walter knew that Stephen’s intentions were, indeed, honourable – Eveleen chuckled aloud at the prim
saying – then perhaps he would be on her side.
    Her father was the one person who could persuade Mary. While her mother now no longer treated her as if she did not exist, Mary still said sadly, ‘It’ll all end in tears. You’d
be better off with Ted Morton and that’s saying something, because I know what he’s like with the girls. But I still say, you’d be better off with him.’
    As she neared the trees, Eveleen could see Stephen’s horse tethered there. She picked up her skirts and ran the rest of the way, arriving breathless and flushed, to run straight into his
arms.
    ‘Oh, Stephen.’
    He was holding her and kissing her as if he would never let her go and she returned his kisses with equal ardour.
    ‘Oh darling, darling Eveleen. You’re so lovely,’ he murmured against her hair. ‘Let me love you. Please, let me love you properly . . .’
    Eveleen drew back a little and looked up into his face. Beneath the trees it was shadowy, but she could see enough to see her own love and passion for him mirrored in his face. Oh how she longed
to lie with him, to give herself to him. But her mother’s warnings were still