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be anything in it?’
    ‘I don’t know, I’m sure,’ she said shortly, barely glancing at him. ‘Though looking at a few of the folks in this village I wouldn’t be in the least surprised.’
    The two men, and Abbie, too, laughed at this, laughter in which Abbie’s mother did not join – as neither did Mrs Pattison, who only clicked away with her needles, lips compressed.
    And then it was nine thirty. The ale was finished. Mrs Pattison put away her knitting, and she and her husband got up to go.
    ‘In three weeks, then, Frank, yes?’ said Pattison to Abbie’s father as they moved to the door. ‘And your turn to come to us.’ He chuckled. ‘I’ll have my revenge then, you’ll see.’ He turned to Abbie’s mother. ‘And you’ll be along too, will you, Mrs Morris?’ he asked, adding with a smile, ‘Aggie’s always glad of the chance of a chinwag.’
    ‘Well,’ Mrs Morris replied almost ungraciously, ‘we’ll see.’
    When the visitors had gone she said, ‘And there’s another evening wasted.’
    ‘Pleasure shouldn’t always be seen as a waste of time,’ protested her husband.
    ‘Talk of pleasure’s all very well,’ she said. ‘But you want to try sitting with that stupid woman for an evening. I don’t think you’d call it pleasure.’
    ‘Maybe not – but while they’re here I think you might try to enter into it a little more. When Jack asked you round you barely answered the man.’
    ‘He’s your friend, Frank,’ she said. ‘And though I’ve nothing against him I’ve nothing much to say to him, either.’ Turning, she caught sight of Abbie at the table, her open book before her. ‘And you, Abigail,’ she went on sharply, ‘sitting there with your ears flapping like cabbage leaves – get on up to bed.’

Chapter Four
    When Abbie got up the next morning her father had already left for Bath – which meant that she would not see him again until the weekend. Once she had finished her morning chores, she sat and wrote a letter to Mrs Curren in Eversleigh, confirming that she was pleased to accept her offer of the place and would be there on Saturday, 9 August. That done, she got her mother’s permission to go and visit Jane for a while.
    When she reached the Carrolls’ cottage she found Jane mopping the floor while Mrs Carroll sat at the window, working on a piece of lace. Abbie stood to one side, talking to them as they worked.
    ‘I’ll bet your mam was pleased, wasn’t she?’ Jane said. ‘About your getting the place at Marylea House?’
    ‘Yes,’ Abbie replied. ‘She’s pleased well enough.’
    ‘And your father too? What did he say?’
    ‘Oh, well – if he had his way I’d still be at school. Still, I told him that per’aps I can go back to my studies in a little while.’
    ‘Pr’aps you can,’ said Mrs Carroll. ‘You’re a clever enough girl. There’s them that says girls haven’t got the brains that boys have, but I don’t hold with it meself. The trouble is though, Abbie, once you gets into something – like going into service – it’s not always easy to stop, to break out. You’ve seen it yourself – girls go into service and they don’t come out till they retires, or dies or, if they’re lucky, gets married. Mind you, there’s them that say women only swap one kind of service for another once they get wed – although most women wouldn’t have it any other way.’ She paused. ‘I certainly wouldn’t have.’ Her eyes moved, resting on a photograph in a cheap tin frame on the mantelpiece. In sepia tones it showed her as a younger woman, sitting with Jane, a small child of four, on her knee. Her husband, solemn as his wife and wearing a uniform of the Infantry, stood stiffly at her side. He had been killed fighting against the Russians at Sebastopol. Abbie could still remember Mrs Carroll’s grief.
    ‘Oh, there’s no doubt,’ Mrs Carroll said, ‘it’s a hard life for the likes of poor people. But if you can share it with the right one