The Steward was waiting outside Saint Michael's.

Thomas saw him before they reached the churchyard gate.

Then he saw what was in his hand.

Agnes' Catholic prayer book.

Margery stopped.

“Keep walking.”

Thomas didn't.

The Steward stood near the church door speaking with two men. He held the small book loosely at his side.

Thomas knew it.

So did Margery.

“Thomas.”

“Aye.”

“Walk.”

Frost had come in the night.

It whitened the moor and lay along the tops of the stone walls. Mud that had clung to their boots for days had frozen hard beneath them. Smoke rose almost straight from cottages scattered across the valley.

Above Saint Michael's, the bell continued to ring.

The third Sunday.

The final calling.

Across the churchyard, Agnes stood beside her father.

She saw Thomas.

Then she saw the book.

Her smile disappeared.

John Hargreaves followed his daughter's eyes.

His jaw tightened.

The Steward looked towards them.

“Rushworth.”

Thomas removed his cap.

“Sir.”

“Mistress Rushworth.”

Margery lowered her head.

“Sir.”

John Hargreaves approached with Agnes beside him.

“Hargreaves.”

“Sir.”

The Steward looked at Agnes.

“The third calling.”

“Aye,” John said.

“A troublesome business, these banns.”

John said nothing.

The Steward looked down at the book.

“Especially when questions have been raised.”

Margery moved closer to Thomas.

John stared at the Steward.

Then something slipped from between the pages.

It fell onto the frost.

A dried flower.

Agnes looked down.

So did the Steward.

He bent and picked it up.

The tiny flower lay flattened against his palm.

“Yours?”

Agnes swallowed.

“Aye, sir.”

The Steward looked at the prayer book.

“What were tha doing with it?”

“Keeping flowers, sir.”

“In this?”

“Aye.”

“Why?”

Agnes glanced at her father.

“They keep better between the pages.”

The Steward opened the book.

Another dried flower slipped free.

It fluttered down and landed beside Thomas's boot.

Thomas bent and picked it up.

Nobody spoke.

The Steward looked at Agnes.

Then at the flower in Thomas's hand.

Something close to a smile crossed his face.

The bell stopped.

The Steward closed the prayer book.

“We shouldn't keep God waiting.”

He walked inside.

John placed a hand against his daughter's back.

“Come.”

Agnes looked at him.

“Father—”

“Come.”

Margery waited until the Steward had disappeared through the door.

“What does tha reckon he's doing?”

Thomas looked at the flower in his hand.

“Don't know.”

“Neither do I.”

That worried him more.

Inside Saint Michael's, the clean cold of the morning gave way to damp wool, tallow and bodies pressed together.

Boots scraped against stone.

Someone coughed.

A child was hushed.

Thomas stood beside Margery.

Across the church, Agnes remained close to her father.

The Steward sat where Thomas could see him.

The Catholic prayer book rested on his knee.

Thomas slipped the dried flower into his pocket.

Before a man and woman could marry, their intention had to be announced publicly in church on three successive Sundays.

The banns.

Anyone who knew of a lawful reason why the marriage should not take place could speak.

Three Sundays.

Three callings.

Three chances to stop them.

The service continued.

Thomas heard little of it.

Then the vicar rose.

The church quietened.

Their names were called.

Thomas Rushworth.

Agnes Hargreaves.

Thomas stared ahead.

The vicar reached the part they had all been waiting for.

If anyone knew of a lawful reason why Thomas and Agnes should not marry, it was to be declared.

Nobody spoke.

Thomas waited.

A bench creaked.

Then the Steward stood.

Margery caught Thomas by the sleeve.

Across the church, Agnes turned towards her father.

John Hargreaves stared ahead.

The Steward picked up the prayer book.

“Reverend.”

The vicar looked towards him.

“Sir?”

“Before these banns proceed, I would say something.”

Thomas felt Margery's fingers tighten.

The Steward stepped into the aisle.

Every face in Saint Michael's turned towards him.

He held up the prayer book.

A piece of dried flower remained caught between its pages.

“There are those here who will remember that these banns were once prevented from proceeding.”

Nobody moved.

“Questions were raised.”

He looked at the book.

“Questions concerning the old faith.”

Thomas looked towards Agnes.

She had gone pale.

The Steward turned towards the congregation.

“There was a time when Englishmen looked to Rome for the manner in which they worshipped God.”

His voice carried easily through the church.

“Priests told them how they should pray. Rome told them where their obedience lay.”

He raised the prayer book slightly.

“That time has passed.”

Silence filled Saint Michael's.

“Elizabeth is our Queen. The Church of England is our church. A man's duty to both should be beyond question.”

Thomas looked towards John Hargreaves.

John had not moved.

The Steward did.

He turned towards him.

“John Hargreaves was given cause to consider where his duty lay.”

John raised his head.

“And he answered.”

A murmur moved through the congregation.

The Steward waited until it died.

“He has attended this church. He has observed its worship. He has shown himself obedient to his parish, his Queen and the religion established in this realm.”

The Steward lowered the book.

“That should be recognised.”

John said nothing.

Neither did Agnes.

“His daughter should not suffer for questions her father has answered.”

Then the Steward looked towards Thomas.

“Nor should the man who intends to marry her.”

Thomas felt every eye in the church turn towards him.

The Steward smiled.

“Thomas Rushworth is fortunate.”

Thomas waited.

“He marries into a household whose master understands where his duty lies.”

The smile faded.

“May he profit from his example.”

Thomas understood.

Margery did too.

The Steward turned towards the vicar.

“I know of no lawful impediment to this marriage.”

Then he returned to his place.

For a moment nobody spoke.

The vicar looked across the congregation.

No one else stood.

The service continued.

The third calling was done.

Outside, the winter sun had climbed above the moor.

People spilled into the churchyard.

Conversation returned slowly at first, then all at once.

Men gathered around Thomas. Women went to Agnes.

John Hargreaves stood apart.

The Steward emerged from the church with the prayer book beneath his arm.

He stopped beside John.

“So.”

John looked at him.

“No impediment.”

“Nay, sir.”

The Steward held out his hand.

John took it.

“I wish your daughter well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The Steward glanced towards Agnes.

Then Thomas.

He walked away.

Agnes waited until he had passed through the churchyard gate.

Then she came to Thomas.

“Was he praising Father?”

Thomas watched the Steward disappear along the road.

“Aye.”

Agnes looked at him.

“But?”

Thomas put his hand into his pocket.

His fingers found the dried flower.

“I think he were warning me.”

Agnes said nothing.

Thomas looked at her.

“It's done.”

This time she smiled.

“Aye.”

By evening the frost had returned.

The fire burned low in the Rushworth house.

Thomas reached into his pocket.

The dried flower was still there.

He placed it carefully on the table.

Margery saw it.

She said nothing.

Thomas climbed the ladder to the loft.

A short while later, he came down carrying the broken stool.

Margery looked up.

“Thought tha were throwing that out.”

Thomas placed it beside the fire.

“Nay.”

He crouched and examined the broken leg.

“What's tha want with that?”

Thomas turned the stool over.

“Agnes'll need somewhere to sit.”

Outside, darkness settled over Haworth.

Inside, Thomas began repairing the stool.

Across the parish, the Catholic prayer book remained in the Steward's possession.

​​

​

​

                                                             - XXVI -