Smoke drifted from the manor kitchen chimneys as Agnes crossed the yard.

The morning had begun like any other.

A stable boy hurried towards the barns carrying a sack of oats over his shoulder. Two servants were drawing water from the well. Somewhere beyond the manor walls, a blacksmith's hammer rang against iron.

The familiar sounds brought comfort.

They belonged to a world Agnes understood.

A world where work was rewarded and each day followed much the same pattern as the last.

Balancing her basket upon her arm, she hurried towards the kitchen door.

Then she saw him.

The steward stood beside the entrance speaking quietly with Cook.

The conversation ended when he noticed her.

Cook lowered her eyes.

The steward remained where he was.

Watching.

A strange unease settled over Agnes.

She entered the kitchen.

The room was already alive with activity.

Dough was being kneaded upon a flour-covered table.

Pots simmered over the fire.

A scullery maid scrubbed wooden platters beside a tub of water.

Usually someone would greet her.

Today nobody spoke.

Agnes placed her basket upon the table.

The steward approached.

"Agnes."

She straightened immediately.

"Sir."

"I would have a word."

The kitchen seemed suddenly quieter.

She followed him into the courtyard.

The steward clasped his hands behind his back.

For a moment he simply studied her.

Then he spoke.

"Thy family were absent from divine service."

Agnes lowered her eyes.

"Aye, sir."

"The churchwardens noticed."

She said nothing.

"So did I."

The steward's face betrayed no emotion.

"There is concern regarding thy father's household."

"My father has done nowt wrong."

"That is not the matter before us."

Silence followed.

A crow landed upon the manor wall.

The steward watched it for a moment.

Then he turned back to Agnes.

"As matters presently stand, thy services here are no longer required."

Agnes stared at him.

The words seemed impossible.

"I do not understand."

"Thou need not return tomorrow."

The courtyard suddenly felt colder.

"But why?"

"The manor must avoid unnecessary attention."

"I have worked faithfully."

"Aye."

"I have done all that was asked of me."

"Aye."

"Then why am I being dismissed?"

The steward looked towards the kitchen.

Life within continued as though nothing had happened.

Servants moved about their duties.

Bread baked.

Water boiled.

The world carried on.

"The decision has been made."

Agnes knew then that arguing would change nothing.

The steward inclined his head.

The conversation was over.

The walk home felt longer than usual.

A cool wind moved across the fields.

Beyond the dry-stone walls, sheep grazed amongst the spring grass.

The village lay ahead, peaceful and unchanged.

Only Agnes had changed.

More than once she thought of turning around.

Of returning to the manor.

Of demanding an explanation.

But there was nowhere to return to.

By the time she reached the cottage, anger had replaced disbelief.

Mrs Hargreaves was shaping bread beside the hearth when the door opened.

She looked up.

Immediately she knew.

"What has happened?"

Agnes set her basket upon the table.

"The steward dismissed me."

The dough slipped from Mrs Hargreaves' hands.

For a moment she simply stared.

Then she lowered herself slowly onto a stool.

"I feared it."

Agnes frowned.

"What dost thou mean?"

Mrs Hargreaves looked towards the fire.

"I warned thy father."

The cottage door opened.

John entered carrying a sack of grain upon his shoulder.

He stopped immediately.

Something was wrong.

"What is it?"

Neither woman answered.

At last Agnes turned to him.

"The steward has dismissed me."

John lowered the sack onto the floor.

"For what reason?"

Agnes laughed bitterly.

"What reason needs there be?"

The room fell silent.

Mrs Hargreaves folded her arms.

"I warned thee."

John looked away.

Agnes felt her anger rise once more.

"The churchwardens noticed."

John remained silent.

"The steward noticed."

Still nothing.

"I have lost my position because of it."

The words hung heavily in the room.

Until now, everything had happened to John.

The constables.

The steward.

The prayer book.

Now it had reached Agnes.

At length John spoke.

"Everything I have done, I have done for this family."

Agnes stared at him.

"My future?"

"Aye."

"What future?"

John opened his mouth.

Then closed it again.

The fire crackled.

Outside, a dog barked somewhere along the lane.

Neither parent answered.

At last Mrs Hargreaves broke the silence.

"There may yet be another way."

Agnes looked towards her.

"A good family can steady troubled times."

Immediately she understood.

"Nay."

Mrs Hargreaves sighed.

"Agnes—"

"Nay."

"No decision has been made."

"Not yet."

Neither parent spoke.

That frightened Agnes more than any answer.

Without another word, she climbed the ladder to the loft.

A moment later the trapdoor slammed shut.

Silence returned to the cottage.

Below, husband and wife sat staring into the fire.

At length Mrs Hargreaves spoke.

"He's a good lad."

John watched the flames dance amongst the logs.

Long moments passed.

Then he nodded.

"Aye."

Above them, Agnes lay awake staring into the darkness.

The voices below drifted through the floorboards.

Most of the words were lost beneath the crackle of the dying fire.

Then she heard her own name.

She sat upright.

For a moment there was silence.

Then another name.

Thomas Rushworth.

Agnes frowned.

She knew who Thomas Rushworth was.

Hall Green lay scarcely half a mile away, and in a village the size of Haworth few people remained strangers for long.

She had seen him at market.

Seen him driving sheep along the lane.

Seen him helping his mother carry grain from the mill.

That was all.

Below, the voices continued.

Agnes pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

The steward had taken her position at the manor.

Now her parents were speaking of Thomas Rushworth.

She did not know why.

And that troubled her more than she cared to admit.

Agnes lay back upon the mattress and stared into the darkness above.

Somewhere below, her parents were speaking of Thomas Rushworth.

She did not know why.

Yet she suspected she soon would.

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                                                                    -XVII-