I Love to Write

“Matthew,” I whispered the name into the dark. “Matthew, it’s me.”
“Miss Moffat?”
“That’s right.” Emerging from the shelter of a tree, I scurried to the folly. “I’ve brought you some food.”
Matthew sat in the farthest corner of the draughty building. Huddled beneath one of the windows with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his shins, he looked very vulnerable. “Thank you.” When he stood up, I could see he was shivering with the cold. His eyes seemed too large in a face thin with lack of nourishment.
Glancing behind me, I unwrapped the bundle I had brought. “Look,” I said. “Bread and cheese, with a portion of a pie Cook made. It’s not much but better than nothing.” I saw Matthew reach forward hungrily before he remembered his manners and thanked me again.
“There are some candles and a tinder box to make a spark,” I said, “and a small flask of whisky.” I was sure Father would not miss the whisky, which I suspected had been illicitly distilled in some secluded glen in the Pentland Hills.
“Thank you.” Matthew’s face twitched into a bleak smile. “I don’t drink.”
“Nonsense. It will help keep the cold out.” I knew that all colliers liked their whisky – that was a generally accepted fact.