Friendship's Bond by Meg Hutchinson

both hands resting firmly on his walking stick Ezekial Turley had looked him straight in the eyes, saying quietly:
    ‘ I ’as no cause to be askin’ where it be that idea were mooted for we both knows where, same as I be thinkin’ to know who be wieldin’ of the spoon that be stirrin’ o’ that particular pot so I be sayin’ to you what I answered o’ them women: think long an’ hard afore layin’ trouble to Leah Marshall’s door for though her meks a sturdy friend ’er meks a stronger enemy. ’
    Turley had left it at that; with a brief nod he had turned back along the passageway leading to his home. But what he had said had lingered in Thorpe’s mind.
    He walked slowly along the aisle to the pulpit where he mounted the three shallow steps to stand within it.
    ‘ . . . think long an’ hard afore layin’ trouble to Leah Marshall’s door . . . ’er meks a stronger enemy .’
    Perhaps he might follow that advice. Leah Marshall was already no friend of Thomas Thorpe and would not hesitate to demonstrate the fact should she be given reason to think he threatened Ann Spencer.
    He laid the hymn book on the pulpit, hands spread one each side of it as he cast a long look about the room. Leah Marshall’s leaving the congregation so abruptly had, though they had not said so, left some asking themselves why. And to have that woman voice any accusation could have them ask that same question again, this time openly.
    Deborah Marshall! Hair more gold than brown glistened in the light of candles, eyes starlit with tears gleamed in a face pretty as could be wished, and the body . . .
    He breathed deeply to suppress the fierce pull at the base of his stomach.
    Breasts high and firm, a tiny waist above gently rounded hips, her body held the very essence of desire, desire which had throbbed in him that evening she had been alone in the chapel.
    ‘ I’m so afraid . . . ’
    She had turned to him, her eyes gleaming blue crystal.
    ‘ I’m afraid Edward will die, that he will be killed the same as Joshua and Daniel have been killed. ’
    He had drawn her to him, holding her gently as a father might, but the feeling which pounded in his loins had not been that of a father.
    ‘ I fear each morning I wake that a telegram will come, that it will say Edward is dead. ’
    She had sobbed against his shoulder, the trembling of that delightful body adding to the throb of his own.
    ‘ We will pray together . . . ’ he had murmured, fighting the urge to fondle the breasts he could feel against his chest.
    ‘ . . . we will pray the Lord protect Edward and comfort us with His mercy. ’
    Anxiety or the tenderness of years? Either way, Deborah Marshall had been easily duped. She had complied without question with the suggestion they go to Chapel House, where she might feel more comfortable free from the possible embarrassment of explaining the reason for her tears to anyone taking a moment after work to ask the Lord’s protection for loved ones away at war.
    They had gone to the house not just on that evening but several more, the sympathetic touch of his hand on her shoulder when she left being gradually replaced with the touch of lips first to her forehead and later her cheek. He had played his hand carefully and she had not suspected.
    Then had come the dreaded telegram. Edward Langley was ‘missing, presumed killed in action’.
    She had come to the chapel as had become her practice, to seek consolation and support, and he, as had become his practice, had taken her to the house there to pray together, to seek the comfort of the Lord.
    And comfort had been given . . . to Thomas Thorpe.
    Wrapped up in her grief she had not been aware of the buttons of her dress being loosed, of the hand he slipped inside to caress her breast. She had stayed unaware that he was pressing her backwards on the couch, lifting her skirts, pulling away the cotton bloomers; only the touch of his fingers brushing the cleft between her legs alerted her