Hester could no longer bear to be mistreated at her father’s inn . . .
BY GABRIELLE MULLARKEY
Set in the 1800s
MORE ale here, girl!” Simeon Burke shouted, his harsh voice bouncing off the beams of the Golden Calf.
It was a fitting name for a godless man, Hester thought as she scurried to do his bidding.
When Simeon married her mother and came into possession of the inn, he had changed its name, ignoring the fact that the inn had been known as the Lamb for generations.
Hester couldn’t blame her mother for seeking the protection Simeon offered when she found herself widowed at thirty-four, with a ten-year-old daughter and an inn to run.
Mary Crowe had never been strong after a bout of scarlet fever in childhood, her constitution further weakened by hard work in her husband Alec’s inn.
Widower Simeon Burke had proved a harsh choice of protector, however, and Mary had died four years after remarrying.
The inn had become his the day he married her.
He had brought to the marriage his business skills and his daughter, Clemency, a mere 18 months younger than Hester.
Today, the inn was packed with drovers on their way home after driving their cattle to London for market.
The inn was a well-known spot where they could rest up after weeks driving their beasts across the country.
Most drovers travelled by foot in small groups, moving their cattle across varying terrains.
Hester recalled her mother telling her how, as a girl, she’d seen black Welsh cattle swimming in one dark mass across the Menai Straits.
Hester busied herself bringing a round of ale to a group of men at a table, pipes tapped out on the table top, a brace of lurchers lying at their feet.
The drovers often travelled with dogs to keep the livestock in order.
“You’re a pretty young thing!” a red-faced man bellowed as she set down his ale. “Sing us a song for a penny. ‘Tis a while since we heard a pretty voice.”
“You heard many a pretty voice in your ear in London!” his companion roared, Hester dodging deftly out of reach and heading back to the beer barrels.
As she did so, she locked eyes with the youngest man at the table, whose eyes held no such coarse intent.
“I see you’ve got sheep’s eyes for my nephew,” the red-faced man boomed. “Ned Taylor, doff your hat when you meet a lady!”
The young man obliged, blushing a fiery red, but Hester
