There were deep fold lines around the older woman’s mouth and between her brow. The corners of her mouth dipped downwards; her eyes were a dark blue but the whites around them were faintly yellow. Effie could see she had never been a beautiful woman, but her plainness had ripened with age to a bright sourness. She enjoyed her bitterness. It imbued her with a character her face had not.

‘You are Euphemia Gillies.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve just been hearing about you.’

Effie didn’t reply but her gaze flickered towards her old neighbours, now standing in a gaggle, watching them. Like the men, there was pity in their eyes, but none would step forward to defend her. They were gathered meekly in a huddle like the very sheep they had once chased, herded, plucked, and she realized why they weren’t fighting. They were terrified that this new life – miserable and meagre though it may be – might be ripped from their arms at any moment and they would be left with nothing at all.

‘No. It wasn’t them as said anything,’ the woman said, watching her eyes track her old neighbours. ‘Mr Lennox rang ahead, saying you’d caused trouble at the forestry.’

‘I didn’t cause anything! I went seeking employ—’

The sudden slap stung her cheek. For a moment she thought she’d been hit with a paddle.

‘You’ve a tongue on you, I can see that. And there’s fire in your eyes.’ The woman was scrutinizing her through narrowed slits of her own. ‘You’re trouble, Effie Gillies. I know your sort. Don’t flatter yourself that you’re an original.’ Her voice lowered threateningly. ‘You’d do well to understand folks have put themselves out for you. Homes have been found. Jobs too.’ A quick toss of her head indicated the weaving machinery set up behind her. ‘But there’ll be no favours either. No talking back, no shirking, no arriving late. You’ll work hard, and to my rules, or there’ll be no work at all. Am I clear?’

Effie’s eyes watered. Her blood was boiling. Every part of her wanted to scream. She owed nothing to this woman. She was free to work where she chose; this job may have been allocated to her by some bowler-hatted bureaucrat in London, but why should she accept it? She would turn it down and work where she pleased. Her life was her own.

At least, it would be . . . but not yet. She couldn’t just leave. She was hamstrung by the economic reality over here of earning a wage. There had been more freedom, more equality, back home, where she could catch their own meals and live in their ancestors’ house. But their new home had been given to them, and these jobs too. Until she could arrange something else, she must submit, like all the rest.