Market day brought half the parish to Haworth.

By mid-morning, the square was crowded with farmers, traders and housewives carrying baskets heavy with eggs, butter and cheese. A farmer urged a flock of sheep through the narrow lane beside the stocks, while children darted between carts, ignoring the shouted warnings of their mothers.

Thomas Rushworth stood beside his family's cart near the market cross.

The morning sun was already warm upon his shoulders.

William was arguing over the price of oats.

Again.

Thomas smiled to himself.

His younger brother enjoyed bargaining almost as much as he enjoyed winning.

"He's robbing thee blind," William declared loudly.

The farmer opposite folded his arms.

"I've sold oats longer than you have been alive."

"Aye, and that's the problem."

The farmer laughed.

Thomas shook his head and lifted another sack from the cart.

Life was simple when William was arguing with somebody.

At least then you knew where you stood.

The market continued around them.

A blacksmith examined a lame horse.

Women gathered near the well exchanging news.

Somewhere a fiddler played a tune badly enough to offend both man and beast.

Thomas preferred days like this.

People worked.

People traded.

People returned home.

There was comfort in the ordinary rhythm of village life.

As he turned, he noticed a familiar figure crossing the square.

Agnes Hargreaves.

She carried a basket beneath one arm and kept her eyes fixed upon the stalls ahead.

Thomas watched her for no more than a moment.

Then she disappeared amongst the crowd.

"Looking at something?"

Thomas turned.

William grinned.

"Nay."

"Aye."

"Nay."

William laughed and returned to his bargaining.

As the market began to thin, Margery noticed Mrs Hargreaves standing near the cloth merchant's stall, "Mrs Hargreaves."

The older woman turned and smiled faintly, "Margery."

For a while they spoke of ordinary things.

The weather.

The planting.

The rising price of grain.

Yet something troubled Mrs Hargreaves.

Margery could see it.

"How fares thy daughter?"

The smile faded.

"She has seen better days."

Margery frowned.

"Is she unwell?"

"Nay."

Mrs Hargreaves lowered her voice.

"The steward dismissed her."

For a moment neither woman spoke.

Nearby, a farmer struggled to steer a handful of sheep through the square while children scattered laughing from his path.

The market carried on around them.

Yet Mrs Hargreaves seemed unaware of it.

"John takes the blame upon himself," she said quietly.

"Aye."

"He says things will improve."

"And will they?"

Mrs Hargreaves looked away.

The silence answered for her.

Margery followed her gaze across the square.

Agnes stood beside a vegetable stall with a basket resting upon her arm.

Not far away, Thomas and William were loading sacks onto the cart.

The two young people were scarcely fifty yards apart.

Neither appeared aware of the other.

"A mother worries," said Mrs Hargreaves softly.

"Aye."

"Especially when the future begins to narrow."

Margery knew exactly what she meant.

Her eyes drifted towards Thomas. A good lad. A hard worker. Steady. Reliable.

The sort of man any mother would wish for her daughter.

"Thomas is a good lad."

Mrs Hargreaves glanced towards him, "So folk say."

Margery smiled.

"I know him better than most."

For the first time that day, Mrs Hargreaves laughed "A mother usually does."

The women stood in silence for a while.

Then Margery said quietly, "Perhaps our families should spend some time together."

Mrs Hargreaves followed her gaze once more.

Thomas.

Agnes.

The future.

"Aye," she said at last.

"Perhaps they should."

Mrs Hargreaves glanced across the square, "Agnes."

The girl looked up from the vegetable stall and made her way towards them.

At the same moment Margery called across the market, "Thomas."

Thomas approached, brushing dust from his hands.

Margery smiled.

"Thomas, this is Mrs Hargreaves and her daughter Agnes."

Thomas nodded politely.

"Good day."

"Good day, Thomas," said Mrs Hargreaves.

Agnes lowered her eyes.

"Good day."

Margery gestured towards the young woman standing beside her.

"I believe thee knows Agnes Hargreaves."

Thomas nodded.

"Mistress Agnes."

Agnes lowered her eyes.

"Good day."

For a moment nobody spoke.

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By early afternoon, the cart was lighter and the road home beckoned.

Margery appeared satisfied with the day's trading.

That alone was enough to put both sons in good spirits.

The village slowly disappeared behind them.

Ahead lay fields divided by stone walls and the familiar sight of grazing sheep.

For a time nobody spoke.

Only the sound of boots upon the dusty track accompanied them.

Then Margery broke the silence.

"Did thee see Agnes Hargreaves today?"

Thomas glanced at her.

"Aye."

"What think thee of her?"

William immediately smiled.

Thomas groaned.

"Mother!"

"It is a simple question?"

Thomas considered it.

"I know little about her."

"She's a respectable girl."

"So folk say."

"A hard worker too."

William snorted,"The steward may disagree."

Margery stopped walking, "Enough!"

William raised his hands, "Mother, I only speak what folk are saying."

"The girl has done nowt wrong."

William shrugged, "The village doesn't always care about the difference."

Silence settled between them once more.

Thomas found himself thinking about Agnes.

Not because he wished to.

Because his mother clearly did.

"Why ask about Agnes?"

Margery looked ahead, "The Hargreaves family are having difficult times."

"Aye."

"And difficult times often require neighbours to help one another, despite...our differences."

Thomas frowned.

The answer felt incomplete.

When they reached the cottage gate, Margery stopped.

She turned towards her eldest son, "Would thee come with me tomorrow?"

"Where?"

"The Hargreaves cottage."

Thomas looked from his mother to William.

Neither offered an explanation.

"What business have we there?"

A faint smile appeared upon Margery's face, "That depends."

"On what?"

"On thee."

Without another word she pushed open the gate and disappeared into the yard.

William laughed.

Thomas remained where he was.

Above them, the village sat quietly beneath the afternoon sun.

Somewhere beyond the rooftops stood the Hargreaves cottage.

Tomorrow, for the first time, Thomas Rushworth would walk through its door.

He did not yet know why.

But his mother did.

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- XVIII -