wanted, not eat her vegetables, have two helpings of pudding if there was enough, go out to play, or come back, whenever she pleased. Ruby found this a tiny bit unsettling and she quite missed the rules she’d been so fond of breaking at the convent. It was as if Emily didn’t
care
, a suspicion that grew as the weeks passed and Emilyseemed to lose all interest in taking her out, whether to go shopping or just for a ride. She’d made new friends, the Rowland-Graves, who’d just come back from India to live a few miles away in Knowsley. The Rowland-Graves threw loads of parties: bridge parties, cocktail parties, theatre parties, and parties that could go on all night. Emily was forever getting her hair done and buying new clothes, going out almost daily, draped in furs, even when it was hot. Despite this, she was always very glad Ruby was there to talk to when she came home.
Ruby decided to go to Humble’s Farm for the milk and eggs, to save Mr Humble delivering them. She put on what Emily called a housefrock: red cotton patterned with big white flowers and white piping on the collar and sleeves. Emily said her taste was garish and she hoped she’d grow out of it one day. She liked flowery patterns too much. ‘Plain clothes are so much more tasteful, Ruby.’ Even so, she was allowed to have whatever caught her eye. She pulled on white ankle socks, pushed her feet into sandals, and collected a jug and basin from the kitchen.
It was going to be another scorching day, already hot as Ruby ran along the edge of the fields planted with an assortment of crops. Mr Humble’s farm wasn’t big, more a smallholding. He had a few cows, a few sheep, a few pigs, quite a lot of hens, a plough horse called Waterloo, a downtrodden wife, five grown-up children who had left home – ‘And who could blame them?’ said Emily – and a farmhand called Jacob whom Ruby found quite interesting, mainly because he was the only other young person she knew.
Jacob Veering was eighteen, not enormously tall, but broad and solid, with hair a lovely buttery shade and eyes the colour of bluebells. He was very dirty, very handsome, and also, said Emily, a bastard. ‘Just like you, I expect,’ she added.
Ruby had looked up ‘bastard’ in the dictionary. It meant‘illegitimate’, so she looked
that
up, and it meant ‘out of wedlock’. Wedlock meant, ‘in a wedded state’. By this time, Ruby had rather lost track and given up.
Jacob’s mother lived in a little cottage opposite Kirkby church. Her name was Ruth, and she was a ‘fey creature’, according to Emily, supporting herself by making coloured candles that were sold in big shops like George Henry Lee’s and Henderson’s. She wasn’t interested in Jacob, and he’d lived on Humble’s Farm over Waterloo’s stable since he was twelve.
‘Is Jacob a Catholic?’ Ruby enquired. ‘So I can talk to him?’
‘For goodness’ sake, Ruby, dear. You can talk to Jacob if he’s a heathen, which I suspect he is.’
Mrs Humble was collecting eggs when Ruby arrived, out of breath having run all the way. Everywhere in the area of the farmyard was thick with dirt and smelled strongly of manure, particularly when it was hot. Ruby dreaded to think what it would be like in winter when it might smell less, but the caked dirt would turn to mud.
‘The usual?’ Mrs Humble asked in her sad, beaten voice. She was as bent as an old woman, yet only forty-nine. She wore a frayed shawl, holding the ends together with a gnarled, red hand.
‘Yes, please. Six eggs and a jug of milk.’
‘Jacob’s doing the milking right now.’
‘I’ll just say good morning.’
Ruby approached the cowshed on tiptoe, though wasn’t sure why. Unusually for her, she felt nervous around Jacob. He was polite, but a bit reserved, and she always got the feeling she was in the way. She reached the door and said shyly, ‘Hello.’
Jacob wore grubby corduroy trousers tied up with a rope and a frayed collarless shirt
care
, a suspicion that grew as the weeks passed and Emilyseemed to lose all interest in taking her out, whether to go shopping or just for a ride. She’d made new friends, the Rowland-Graves, who’d just come back from India to live a few miles away in Knowsley. The Rowland-Graves threw loads of parties: bridge parties, cocktail parties, theatre parties, and parties that could go on all night. Emily was forever getting her hair done and buying new clothes, going out almost daily, draped in furs, even when it was hot. Despite this, she was always very glad Ruby was there to talk to when she came home.
Ruby decided to go to Humble’s Farm for the milk and eggs, to save Mr Humble delivering them. She put on what Emily called a housefrock: red cotton patterned with big white flowers and white piping on the collar and sleeves. Emily said her taste was garish and she hoped she’d grow out of it one day. She liked flowery patterns too much. ‘Plain clothes are so much more tasteful, Ruby.’ Even so, she was allowed to have whatever caught her eye. She pulled on white ankle socks, pushed her feet into sandals, and collected a jug and basin from the kitchen.
It was going to be another scorching day, already hot as Ruby ran along the edge of the fields planted with an assortment of crops. Mr Humble’s farm wasn’t big, more a smallholding. He had a few cows, a few sheep, a few pigs, quite a lot of hens, a plough horse called Waterloo, a downtrodden wife, five grown-up children who had left home – ‘And who could blame them?’ said Emily – and a farmhand called Jacob whom Ruby found quite interesting, mainly because he was the only other young person she knew.
Jacob Veering was eighteen, not enormously tall, but broad and solid, with hair a lovely buttery shade and eyes the colour of bluebells. He was very dirty, very handsome, and also, said Emily, a bastard. ‘Just like you, I expect,’ she added.
Ruby had looked up ‘bastard’ in the dictionary. It meant‘illegitimate’, so she looked
that
up, and it meant ‘out of wedlock’. Wedlock meant, ‘in a wedded state’. By this time, Ruby had rather lost track and given up.
Jacob’s mother lived in a little cottage opposite Kirkby church. Her name was Ruth, and she was a ‘fey creature’, according to Emily, supporting herself by making coloured candles that were sold in big shops like George Henry Lee’s and Henderson’s. She wasn’t interested in Jacob, and he’d lived on Humble’s Farm over Waterloo’s stable since he was twelve.
‘Is Jacob a Catholic?’ Ruby enquired. ‘So I can talk to him?’
‘For goodness’ sake, Ruby, dear. You can talk to Jacob if he’s a heathen, which I suspect he is.’
Mrs Humble was collecting eggs when Ruby arrived, out of breath having run all the way. Everywhere in the area of the farmyard was thick with dirt and smelled strongly of manure, particularly when it was hot. Ruby dreaded to think what it would be like in winter when it might smell less, but the caked dirt would turn to mud.
‘The usual?’ Mrs Humble asked in her sad, beaten voice. She was as bent as an old woman, yet only forty-nine. She wore a frayed shawl, holding the ends together with a gnarled, red hand.
‘Yes, please. Six eggs and a jug of milk.’
‘Jacob’s doing the milking right now.’
‘I’ll just say good morning.’
Ruby approached the cowshed on tiptoe, though wasn’t sure why. Unusually for her, she felt nervous around Jacob. He was polite, but a bit reserved, and she always got the feeling she was in the way. She reached the door and said shyly, ‘Hello.’
Jacob wore grubby corduroy trousers tied up with a rope and a frayed collarless shirt
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