Read Online All the dear faces by Audrey Howard - Free Book Online Page B

His cap would be jammed down on his head until it met his scarf. His durable hodden-grey jacket, the wool from which it was made spun and woven by her from the fleece of his father's own sheep, smoothed down briskly, his buttons checked to make sure they were all done up as she liked them to be .
    Her pride in her only son, her only remaining child, was enormous but it was kept well hidden beneath her own snow-white, cruelly starched apron bib where her heart lay. Any physical or emotional manifestation of how she felt about him was beyond her. Die for him she would and right gladly, to save him a moment's hurt, but to kiss him, as the woman had just kissed the small girl, to put her arms about him would have seemed a foolish and wasteful embarrassment to a woman of her practical nature .
    So she made sure he was warm, well fed, that his clothes were of matchless quality, laundered and immaculately pressed; mended when he tore them in the endless scuffles lads of his age engaged in. That his boots, the best his father's money could buy, were well polished. In short, that Reed Macauley, her son, wanted for nothing .
    The engine of the Lancaster-to-Carlisle train standing at the platform of Penrith station and from which he had just alighted gave a mighty shriek and several horses in the station yard tossed their heads nervously. The noise and the sudden confusion which it caused brought him sharply back from the past and he straightened himself to his full height. He was a tall man, lean of waist and belly and hip but with strong muscled shoulders which filled the roomy, sleeved cloak of navy cashmere he wore. His hair was thick and a rich, dark brown, ready to curl vigorously from beneath the brim of his tall beaver hat. He was amber-skinned and clean-shaven and his eyebrows frowned above eyes which were compelling in their narrowed watchfulness. A vivid blue they were, in which the clear northern light had put the brilliance of a sapphire. They were framed by long black lashes. He could not be considered handsome, though many women thought so, since he was too fierce, his chin too arrogant but there was about him an observant, mocking humour which allowed him to view those of his acquaintance with something less than the serious application they often thought their due. There was in the casual stance of his long, lounging body and the insolent lift of his dark head, a sure belief in his own infallibility and the sense that here was a man who was diverse, complex, a man with many shades and nuances to his nature which no one had ever been allowed to penetrate .
    His obvious and complete masculinity did not prevent him from dressing in a way which in another man, particularly one from these parts, might have been considered dandified. The men of the lakelands of Cumberland, his own father among them, wore what their fathers and grandfathers had always worn. Homespun of hodden-grey made from the mixed wool of their own sturdy Herdwick sheep. Serviceable, durable and warm, jackets, breeches, gaiters and sturdy boots, for the climate of the lakes was damp and chill for a good part of the year. Not for them the immaculately tailored dove-grey trousers Reed Macauley had taken to wearing after the death of his father, nor the fine worsted, plum-coloured coat, and as for the cloak which was lined with fur of some sort, well, what kind of man went in for such fripperies and more to the point, what would become of him? Certainly not the taciturn, blunt-spoken, independent men who were Reed Macauley's neighbours and business associates .
    He removed one of his buff-coloured kid gloves and took out his pocket watch, a magnificent gold hunter, flicking open the case to check the time before returning it to his waistcoat pocket. A thick chain hung across his chest and on the smallest finger of his hand a diamond sparkled. He took out a cigar case, selected a cigar, lit it and breathed in the smoke with a lingering pleasure which was almost