John and Agnes should have been home by now.

Mrs Hargreaves stopped working the butter churn and looked towards the lane.

Nothing.

The steward had sent for them before noon.

The sun now sat high above the fields.

Still they had not returned.

She pushed the wooden plunger down into the cream.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

The steady rhythm usually helped pass the time.

Not today.

Her thoughts remained fixed upon Haworth Manor.

What questions had the steward asked?

Had he shown them the prayer book?

Had Agnes spoken when she should have remained silent?

The thoughts would not leave her.

A hen wandered past the cottage door.

Mrs Hargreaves barely noticed it.

She looked towards the lane again.

Nothing.

A movement across the field caught her eye.

At first she thought it might be John.

Her heart lifted.

Then sank again.

It wasn't John.

It was a woman.

The woman carried something tucked beneath her arm.

As she drew nearer, Mrs Hargreaves recognised her.

She had seen the woman before.

Haworth market.

More than once.

But they had never spoken.

The chickens scattered and squawked as she crossed the yard.

"Ayup, are you there, Mrs Hargreaves?" she called.

"I am, and who might you be? I've not seen thee in these parts before, though I've seen thee at market in Haworth."

Margery smiled.

"Aye, and I've seen you there as well. Thy daughter too."

"What brings you down the hill?" asked Mrs Hargreaves, returning to the churn.

Margery lifted the hat from beneath her arm.

"This hat. I thought it might belong to your husband."

Mrs Hargreaves took it from her and turned it over in her hands.

"Aye, it's John's."

Then understanding dawned.

"You must be Mrs Rushworth."

"Aye."

"The one who looked after him."

Margery nodded.

Mrs Hargreaves smiled.

"Then you had better come inside. Do you want a brew?"

"That would be fine," said Margery. "That walk has made me a bit parched."

Inside the cottage, Mrs Hargreaves poured ale into a jack and handed it across the table.

Margery took a long drink.

"John won't be home for a while."

Mrs Hargreaves regretted the words the moment they left her mouth.

Margery looked up.

"Working for the lord?"

Mrs Hargreaves hesitated.

"No."

A pause.

"Him and Agnes were called to the manor."

Margery lowered her jack.

The answer explained enough.

Neither woman spoke of it further.

Instead, Mrs Hargreaves poured more ale.

"Well," said Margery, her cheeks reddening slightly, "that's just it. I didn't come to see John. I came to see thee."

Mrs Hargreaves laughed.

A deep belly laugh that echoed against the rafters.

"My goodness. Here to see me? What in God's name for?"

Margery smiled.

"Whilst thy John was recovering at our hearth, he spoke often of Agnes."

Mrs Hargreaves raised an eyebrow.

"Our Agnes?"

"Aye."

Margery took another sip of ale.

"Our Thomas needs a grand woman to come home to, and I was thinking..."

The words hung in the air.

Poor Agnes.

The first decent suitor to come calling.

Mrs Hargreaves lowered her eyes.

Margery mistook the silence.

"I've seen her at market with thee on many occasions. She seems a grand lass."

"Aye," said Mrs Hargreaves quietly. "She is."

"We're proud of the woman she's become."

"Then perhaps it would make a good match."

Mrs Hargreaves forced a smile.

Perhaps.

Under different circumstances.

Before the search.

Before the prayer book.

Before the steward took an interest in her family.

Her eyes drifted towards the small window.

John and Agnes should have been home by now.

At length she looked back at Margery.

"I'll have to speak with my husband."

"Aye, that's fair."

The conversation continued, but Mrs Hargreaves heard little of it.

Her thoughts remained fixed upon the road to Haworth.

Upon her husband.

Upon Agnes.

Upon whatever business the steward had with them.

At last Margery rose to leave.

"I'll not ask for an answer today."

Mrs Hargreaves nodded gratefully.

"Thank you."

After Margery had gone, she remained standing in the doorway.

Watching.

Waiting.

Worrying.

Then, from somewhere beyond the cottage, came the sound of footsteps.

Mrs Hargreaves looked towards the lane.

John and Agnes were finally coming home.

Neither appeared to be speaking.

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                                                         -XIII-