He threw down his spoon and leapt to his feet. 'She killed Elizabeth! I never want to see her!'
Molly was shaking, but she stood her ground. 'The babe's not to blame! Childbirth can be dangerous, and if anyone's to blame it's you for getting Elizabeth pregnant!'
She thought he was going to hit her, but after a tense moment he turned away and stalked outside, slamming the door. She let out her breath and slumped onto the rocking chair. Had she made things worse?
*
William did not refer to Molly's chiding, but he made no effort to see his daughter. She didn't dare say any more, but made sure she and little Will went to visit Ann as often as possible.
The baby was thriving, and seemed to recognise Molly, chuckling and holding out chubby hands when Molly bent over her cradle. It was so sad that William was denying himself any pleasure in her. Yet the baby was beginning to look like Elizabeth, and when Mrs Wellings met Molly in Munslow one day she shook her head, saying perhaps the child would be too much of a reminder.
Molly nodded, but thought that William was a grown man, he must control his feelings and behave like a father to the little girl. One day, she knew, she would lose her temper and tell him so.
It was another William who caused her to lose her temper first. As she walked along the road through Diddlebury, crossing the bridge across the Bache brook, giving a tired Will a piggy-back, William Morgan came out of the smithy.
'Molly, it's a long time since I met you. When can I come an' see yer? We could tek a walk one evening, down to Christmas Cross. You mustn't let Gough make a slave of you.'
'I'm too busy to think about idle walks,' she said. She quite liked William Morgan, but she was tired of having him make sheep's eyes at her every time they met, usually outside the church on Sundays, and trying to walk home with her whenever Mrs Wellings or Mrs Pearce were not going that way.
'There's talk,' he said. 'You and 'im living together.'
Molly swung round and stared at him. 'We are not living together!' she snapped.
'You live in the same 'ouse, wi' no one else,' he muttered.
'And do you think I need a chaperone?' she demanded. 'William Morgan, I'm capable of looking after myself, and Mr Gough's a good man. Besides, he's still so upset, losing his wife, he wouldn't want another woman.'
She stalked off, refusing to look back when she heard William calling to her. Hadn't he more sense than to keep bothering her at such a time?
*
On the following day it was Johnny Cound who started making sly hints when he saw her in the garden as he was on his way to the Sun. Molly wondered whether they had been plotting together, and if so, why. Neither of them, she was sure, cared a jot for her reputation.
'Has 'e bedded yer yet?' he asked, looking over the wall between the garden and the road, and leaning his elbows on the top, idly picking leaves off the ivy which covered it.
'What did you say?' Molly took a few impetuous steps towards him.
'You 'eard. The lonely widower, missing his comforts, and no doubt you're all ready to supply 'em.'
'It's a lie!'
'Oh yes? Well, perhaps you're cleverer than the fellows at the Sun think. They're sure you're in 'is bed by now, but maybe you're sticking out for a ring? Is that it? No 'ome comforts until you're taking Elizabeth's place? That would be a step up for a cottage girl, wedding a farmer like Gough.'
Molly was speechless with rage. She stepped towards him and did her best to punch the grin off his face, but he laughed and stepped back. She couldn't catch him off guard as she once had, when she'd tipped him into the Corve.
'Temper! Hasn't he fallen for your charms yet? Is that why yer's mad as a wet hen?'
Chortling, he strolled on up the lane, and Molly watched him go, seething with frustration. She knew gossip was inevitable, but she could not bear the thought of leaving little Will. His father ignored him for much of the time. He didn't understand why his mother had left him, or that she would never be coming back. If Molly went too, would William care enough to get someone else to look after the child? And even if he did, would that person love him as Molly did? She had no option but to stay. Besides, if she looked for another job she would need a reference, and she wasn't at all sure William would be able to provide one in his present state of disarray.
When Dinah came to see her the following day Molly almost confided her worries, but she suspected Dinah would advise her to leave, in order to stop the gossip. Instead she told her friend she was constantly losing her temper.
'That's natural,' Dinah said. 'You've lost a good friend. Remember how you felt when your sister died? And you have all the work of the house. It's time William found someone else to help.'
Molly nodded, but she was not at all sure if she wanted another maid in the house. She had become used to doing everything her way, despite the hard work. An older woman, a housekeeper, perhaps, would feel entitled to order her about. If William employed a younger maid, what authority would she have over her? Despite the gossip, which she had contrived to ignore until now, and could do so again, she preferred the situation as it was.
*
More than a year went by. Molly still took Will to Munslow regularly to visit his sister, and though he prattled about their visits to his father, William took no notice, usually turning away and striding off. Will, now four and a half, soon realised it was best not to mention where they had been, though Molly could see he was puzzled. Other brothers and sisters lived in the same house, he knew, but he no longer asked why Ann, a toddler and weaned, could not come to live with them at Corfton.
'Will Marjorie keep Ann for much longer?' Molly asked Mrs Wellings when she came to see Will.
'Is Gough still refusing to see her?'
'He won't even let me or Will speak her name.'
'But he sends money to Marjorie every month. Perhaps he'll come round to it later.'
'She's happy with Marjorie,' Molly said slowly. 'She's got all Marjorie's own children to play with, and they all pet her. She'd be so bewildered if we brought her here. But it can't go on like this for ever.'
Mrs Wellings nodded. 'I'll talk to her. Marjorie is pregnant again. Their cottage is crowded enough, though they seem healthy and happy.'
Molly smiled. 'The little ones are like a litter of puppies, and space isn't a difficulty. They curl up together in a ball.'
'Still, it's not how my grandchild ought to be brought up. It's the best we can do for now, but it can't go on for much longer, when she gets older and more aware.'
*
In the summer of 1780 Ann succumbed to a fever which swept through the villages of Corvedale. Marjorie Ellis lost two of her children, and shook her head when Molly, anxious, went to ask how Ann was.
'She's bad. Don't bring little Will to see her, for fear he catches it. But 'er dad ought to know, even though he's never been to see her.'
'I'll tell him.'
Normally Molly would have waited until William had finished work and eaten his supper. He was always in a better mood then, though better for him meant little more than a slightly less severe frown, and the occasional remark instead of a gloomy silence.
Now, however, she felt there was little time to be lost. If William waited until the following day to see his daughter, he might be seeing her corpse.
He was haymaking, and she found him about to drive the laden waggon to the rick yard. Before he could clamber onto the driving perch she grabbed his arm. It was slick with sweat, and warm to the touch. He turned impatiently to her.
'What the devil are you doing here? You should be busy at the house, there's enough to do there. The men will want their snap soon.'
Molly took a deep breath. There was no point in trying to break it to him gently. 'Ann's ill, of a fever that's already killed lots of little ones, and like to die,' she said bluntly. 'If you don't go and see her now you may never see her alive.'
He stared at her as if he didn't understand, and she shook his arm.
'William, go and see your daughter! You've neglected her for long enough. You think she cost you Elizabeth, but she's also part of Elizabeth. She looks so like her. If only you could love her, be a normal father to her!'
Slowly he nodded, and waved to David Jones to take over the hay wain. Without a word to anyone he set off eastwards, and Molly heaved a sigh of relief. She explained to her father about Ann, and went back to the house to fetch the baskets of bread and cheese and the flagons of cider the haymakers were always given at noon.
It was dusk before William returned. Molly silently placed a plate of stew in front of him. He ate ravenously and she recalled he had had no dinner.
'How is she?' she asked when he had slaked his appetite.
'Oh, Molly, she's so like Elizabeth! She's poorly, but Marjorie Ellis says she might pull through. But she looks so tiny, and – ' his voice broke, 'she didn't know who I was and cried when I tried to pick her up!'
Molly refrained from pointing out this was entirely his own fault. She put her hand on his shoulder and he clasped it in his. Then he suddenly turned towards her and buried his face in her shoulder.
'Molly, oh Molly, what shall I do if she dies? I'll have betrayed Elizabeth!'
Molly stroked his head, shushing him like she would a baby, and gradually the shudders that wracked him subsided.
'Molly,' he said after a while, 'it's been so long since I had any human comfort. Come to bed with me.'
*
CHAPTER 5
He blew out the candle before they undressed. Molly was already shivering. What would Elizabeth have thought, she wondered. And if William Morgan or Johnny Cound discovered what she had done, her reputation, such as was left, would be shattered beyond repair. Yet she knew it was what she wanted. At the back of her mind there had always been the thought that this might happen. It wasn't natural for a man to go without a woman. And one day she'd have to learn what it was all about, why some of her older, married friends giggled together, refusing to share their knowledge with younger girls. Molly had seen plenty of animals coupling, but there must be a difference, or why did those who knew about it treat all mention of it in the way they did? Jenny, in Ludlow, had hated it and fought Richard Lewis, but Lizzie had regarded his attentions as no more than a way of earning extra money.
William was urgent, clasping her to him and fondling her flesh in a way which made Molly shiver with unexpected, delightful sensations. She stopped thinking and gave herself up to savouring the moment. Then, suddenly, it was over as William climbed on top, entered her, convulsed, and with a groan sank back onto the mattress.
'Elizabeth!' he muttered. 'Oh, my darling!'
Suddenly cold, her body aching for she knew not what sort of release, Molly wriggled away from him. He'd thought she was his dead wife. She felt a wave of bitterness sweep over her, and then told herself not to be so ridiculous. He didn't love her. He hadn't been himself for months since Elizabeth had died. She'd been there when he needed some comfort. Any woman would have done.
William was sleeping, breathing deeply, and Molly slipped out of the bed, gathered up her clothes, and crept back to her own room. She could not sleep. Her body was aching, she was restless, and most of all she was apprehensive about the future. What would William do the next day when he realised what had happened? Would he blame her? Would he ask her to leave?
William was late rising the following morning. Molly had lain awake most of the night, falling into a shallow sleep as dawn was breaking. As he came into the kitchen where she was giving Will his porridge, she glanced warily at him.
He sat down and reached for the mug of ale she placed in front of him.
'Molly, did it happen, or was it a dream?'
For a brief moment she wondered whether he would believe her if she lied to him, but decided he would remember soon. She nodded, turning away as she felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment.
'I'm sorry. If you want to leave, I'll understand, but I don't want you to go.' He swallowed as she didn't answer. 'Will needs you. And when Ann is better I'm going to bring her home. I'll need you even more then.'
*
It was as they were all having breakfast, just after harvest two years later, when Molly rose hurriedly from the table and ran out of the kitchen, holding her hand to her mouth. William followed to find her standing by the garden wall, breathing deeply.
'What is it? Did you drink too much cider at the harvest supper?'
Molly shook her head. 'No. It's what I might have expected after sharing your bed. I'm breeding.'
She watched the look of shock in his face, then he smiled. 'Don't worry, Molly. I'll look after you. Elizabeth felt ill the first few months, but it didn't last long. When will it be born?'
'Spring, I suppose. I've only been suspicious the past few days. I'm better now. I'll go back to the children.'
He nodded and walked away to the stable. Molly looked after him wistfully. Was he pleased? It was difficult to tell.
After the first time he'd taken her to bed he'd come to her occasionally, taking what comfort she could offer. She'd given it willingly. He hadn't again mistaken her for Elizabeth, but Molly knew he was always thinking of his dead wife. When, just after the first anniversary of Elizabeth's death, he had suggested moving back into the room he'd shared with her, and asked Molly to join him there, she'd been hopeful it would mean a more permanent solution.
She knew she was fond of him, and enjoyed his lovemaking, but there was something missing. Maybe, she thought, this move indicated a break with the past. If he openly shared a room with her, would he think of marrying her? After a year of widowhood, a man like William needed a wife. She ran the house and looked after the children, warmed his bed, and was always there for him. She never encouraged other men, though she knew she had only to look favourably on William Morgan for him to do whatever she wanted. He waited for her and tried to speak whenever there was a chance of their meeting, after church, when she walked past the smithy, or when he was drinking at the Sun and she was on her way to visit her parents in Radnor Yard.
Johnny Cound, who had pestered her years ago, seemed to relish taunting her when they met. He'd never forgotten the humiliation of being pushed into the Corve. He couldn't know how she and William were in private, but he suspected, and was always insinuating the worst. If William didn't marry her Johnny would be delighted.
If William didn't wed her, she'd have to bear the shame. She would not be the first girl to bear a bastard. But he'd promised to look after her. He'd never said he loved her, and she didn't expect that. He'd been deeply in love with Elizabeth. But he liked her, she was sure. It wasn't simply that she was available and willing. If that had been all, he would not have wanted her in the bed he'd shared with his wife.
Molly sighed. It had no doubt been a shock to him, and he would need to think about it. But he had smiled. He hadn't told her to leave. After all, it was his fault as much as hers.
Feeling optimistic, she went back into the kitchen. He'd have to think about it, but surely he'd realise the advantages of marrying her? And he'd want to look after and know his new son or daughter.
*
Molly's mother was sitting in the kitchen at Lower House Farm one morning, just after Christmas. Molly was putting out some scones and a jug of cider. She had just sat down when Mary Pearce walked in.
'Mrs Jones. Good morning. Come to visit your daughter, make sure she doesn't get up to any mischief?'
Margaret Jones didn't reply, but Molly, flustered as always these days when Mary Pearce's sharp eyes glanced over her thickening figure, jumped up to reach another tankard from the dresser.
'Have some cider, will you? My mother has just brought back a new dress for Ann. She's growing out of her old ones fast.'
'You're putting on weight yourself, Molly. Too much good living here?' she asked, and grinned as she sat on the stool Molly pushed towards her.
Molly frowned. Only William and her parents knew about her condition, but soon it wo
uld become obvious to everyone. Mary Pearce almost certainly suspected. Even now, if William married her at once, there would be no chance of passing off the baby as premature. She squared her shoulders. Plenty of babies made their appearance within six months or less of their parents marrying. Not parents like William Gough, a small inner voice reminded her. He was one of the biggest farmers in this part of Corvedale. He'd known about the child almost as soon as she had herself, and made no move to marry her.
She'd left the bed they'd shared, and he'd made no protest. Her mother had wanted her to leave her job and go home, but Molly clung to hope. Some fathers might have demanded that the man who'd ruined their daughter made an honest women of her, but David Jones depended for much of his work on William Gough. He'd been angry and prepared to face Gough, but both Molly and Margaret had argued that he could make no difference. He couldn't risk offending him, they'd pointed out. Molly herself would soon have to give up work, and they needed every penny for the time she would not be earning.
Margaret had wanted Molly to leave at once, saying they would manage somehow, and only reluctantly agreed that she would remain as long as possible. She'd dismissed Molly's suggestion that once he became used to the idea, he'd want to marry her, if only to ensure this new child was brought up with his other children.
Molly dragged her thoughts away from these fruitless reflections. Mary Pearce was talking about William Morgan.
'I see that young wheelwright walking up the lane almost every evening. He's one of John Maebury's best customers at the Sun these days. I've heard rumours you're walking out with him, Molly.'
'Some people have nothing better to do than gossip!' Molly said. She drained the tankard of cider, took it and her mother's over to the sink, then picked up some coins left on the dresser. 'Ma, here's the money Mr Gough left for the dress.'
Margaret rose, took the money, and went to the door. She nodded briefly to Mrs Pearce, and stepped outside with Molly hard on her heels.
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