Linda Finlay - The Girl with the Amber Comb

‘I’m making a rattle for a baby,’ she explained.

‘Oh,’ he replied, a frown creasing his forehead.

‘Hence the virtues.’

‘Ah yes. Well, thank you again for the arboreal lesson, er … I didn’t catch your name?’

‘Eliza, sir, Eliza Priddle.’

‘A pretty name for a pretty young lady,’ he said, smiling so charmingly Eliza felt sparks closing the gap between them. ‘As soon as I arrive home, I will make it my business to enquire of our estate manager about pollarding. Now, please excuse me, I must away and collect my steed. He is apt to become more than a little spirited if kept waiting. Good day to you.’

‘Good day to you, sir. Do feel free to call by again,’ she added impulsively. Heavens, had she really said that? Whatever must he think of her? Yet even as she flinched at her forwardness, he turned.

‘Should I find myself around these parts again, I might just do that,’ he replied, his eyes locking with hers once more.

‘Oh, please do,’ she whispered, hugging her body and suddenly feeling more alive than she ever had before.

Humming happily, Eliza picked up the baby’s rattle, her thoughts racing as fast as her fingers plaited. What a charming man. And so beautifully dressed. She grimaced down at her old skirt, criss-crossed with snags where the withies had pulled at the threads. How she wished she’d been wearing something smarter and brighter. Even the new dress Grammer had made for her was a sober dove grey, befitting the position of a school helper. If those smart garments were what he wore for riding then she could only imagine how he dressed when formally attired. Where had he come from, she wondered. It was only then she realized that, overawed by his appearance, she hadn’t thought to ask his name. Still, he’d said he might call by again, hadn’t he? And he knew where to find her.

Staring down at the rattle, her eyes widened in surprise. She’d been so busy musing, she’d finished it without her movements registering. Impulsively, she began singing, shaking it in time to her tune.

Then, once again, Eliza found her light blocked by a figure in the doorway. Her heart flipped only to flop when she saw it was her gramfer.

‘Someone sounds happy,’ he murmured.

‘Oh Gramfer, it’s you,’ she sighed.

‘And who was you expectin’, the queen?’ he grinned. ‘Haven’t seen you this chirpy for ages. Why, your cheeks are as rosy as the apples in the orchard.’

‘Sorry Gramfer,’ Eliza murmured, guilty at being caught singing so soon after her grammer’s passing.

‘Well don’t be. Mary wouldn’t want either of us moping about the place. Life won’t be the same without her but we has to carry on. I see Clem’s delivered them turves. Inside, is he?’ Seeing his hopeful look, Eliza shook her head.

‘He said he had a lot to do. I don’t think he was expecting to be making a delivery here, especially peat on such a sunny day.’

‘Ah, well you know how quickly the weather can change this time of year.’ He turned away but not before she saw the flush creeping up his neck. So, her suspicions were correct, he had got Clem here under false pretences. ‘See you’ve finished that rattle so I’ll drop it into Mrs Finch. Hopefully she’ll have been doin’ some baking,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘I need to check how the beds on the northern boundary are comin’ along, anyhow.’

‘Well you’re the expert on all things arboreal,’ she told him, the pebbles jangling tunefully as she handed over the baby’s toy.

‘Yer what? Heavens girl, I don’t know where you gets fancy words like that from, I really don’t,’ he said, shaking his head. She was about to reply but as he shuffled back outside, she saw he was leaning heavily on his stick again and held her tongue.

Knowing he’d be gone for the rest of the day, Eliza decided to wash out the flour sack. She would make a start on her new top, just in case a certain stranger called by again, she thought, her heart flipping at the thought.

Hurrying indoors, she blinked as the peat smoke stung her eyes, then made her way up the steps and through to the tiny lean-to which her grammer had proudly referred to as the scullery. In reality it was little more than a glory hole that housed their dishes and mugs and a chipped sink with the wonkiest draining board alongside. Behind it was a store, grandly called the pantry, where their meagre provisions were set up on bricks to deter the marauding rats and other vermin that shared their damp environs.

Catching sight of her reflection in the old spotted mirror on the wall, she gasped. Her cheeks were smudged with smitch, while ashes and grass still clung to her windswept hair. To think the most attractive man she’d ever met had seen her looking like this. Clearly, it wasn’t only the flour sack that needed washing, she thought, lifting the old tin bath from its nails on the wall and dragging it in front of the smouldering fire. Snatching up the jug, she hurried outside to the barrel. It took quite a few journeys before she had sufficient rain water for it to be deep enough. Although it looked brown and uninviting, at least it would be soft.

It felt indulgent bathing in the middle of the day but needs must, she thought, climbing into the tub and laying back in the water. She’d bet her new flour sack that the handsome man never had to bathe in a smoky living room. Goodness, wherever did that notion spring from, she wondered, feeling the heat creep up her cheeks. His appearance had certainly stirred her emotions. Quickly she dunked her head but the cold water did nothing to deter the wild thoughts that were pounding her brain.

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