Read the book: «Truly, Madly, Deeply»

Truly, Madly, Deeply
A Rose By Any Other Name Would Smell as Sweet
Adele Parks
A Sensible Proposal
Anna Jacobs
The Corporate Wife
Carole Matthews
The Art of Travel
Elizabeth Buchan
The Rough with the Smooth
Elizabeth Chadwick
Living the Dream
Katie Fforde
True Love
Maureen Lee
Love on Wheels
Miranda Dickinson
Clarion Call
Catherine King
Puppy Love
Chrissie Manby
Third Act
Fanny Blake
A Real Prince
Fiona Harper
The Fundamental Things
Heidi Rice
Summer ’43
India Grey
How To Get a Pill Into A Cat
Judy Astley
Life of Pies
Kate Harrison
Head Over Heart
Louise Allen
The Marriage Bargain
Nicola Cornick
Shocking Behaviour
Sue Moorcroft
Feel The Fear
Alison May
The Eighth Promise
Jenny Harper
A Night To Remember
Nikki Moore
The Truth About The Other Guy
Rhoda Baxter
The Fairytale Way
Sophie Pembroke
The Charmer
Jacqui Cooper
Making the Grade
Cathie Hartigan
Minuet – A Georgian Romance
Sarah Mallory
Holiday Romance
Gilli Allan
The Anniversary
Julie Cohen
Captivating Sacha
Rosie Dean
The Language of Flowers
Kate Lord Brown
Bitter Sweet
Laura E. James
One Night
Mandy Baggot
Kiss Me, Kill Me
Anna Louise Lucia
Desperate Measures
Rosemary Laurey

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Dedication
To every member of the Romantic novelists’ Association, past, present and future
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to all the many wonderful contributors to this book for their fantastic stories and to the Mills & Boon team for making Truly, Madly, Deeply possible.
The Romantic novelists’ Association was formed in 1960 to promote romantic fiction and to encourage good writing. Its membership comprises many successful writers, agents, editors and other industry professionals. These stories showcase the wonderfully diverse work of its writers.
www.rna-uk.org/
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Introduction
A Rose By Any Other Name Would Smell as Sweet
About the Author
A Sensible Proposal
About the Author
1
2
3
4
5
6
Author’s Note
The Corporate Wife
About the Author
The Art of Travel
About the Author
The Rough with the Smooth
About the Author
Author’s Note
Living the Dream
About the Author
True Love
About the Author
Love on Wheels
About the Author
Clarion Call
About the Author
Puppy Love
About the Author
Third Act
About the Author
A Real Prince
About the Author
The Fundamental Things
About the Author
Summer ’43
About the Author
How To Get a Pill Into A Cat
About the Author
Life of Pies
About the Author
Head Over Heart
About the Author
The Marriage Bargain
About the Author
Shocking Behaviour
About the Author
Feel The Fear
About the Author
The Eighth Promise
About the Author
A Night To Remember
About the Author
The Truth About The Other Guy
About the Author
The Fairytale Way
About the Author
DIGITAL EXCLUSIVE!
The Charmer
About the Author
Making the Grade
About the Author
Minuet – A Georgian Romance
About the Author
Holiday Romance
About the Author
The Anniversary
About the Author
Captivating Sacha
About the Author
The Language of Flowers
About the Author
Bitter Sweet
About the Author
One Night
About the Author
Kiss Me, Kill Me
About the Author
First Date
Second Date
Third Date
Fourth Date
Desperate Measures
About the Author
Copyright
Introduction by Jill Mansell
Well, guess what? The last compilation of short stories by RNA members was such a dazzling success that they were asked to do it all over again. And this time they managed to do it even better than before. Really, is there nothing these brilliant writers can’t do? (And I say this as an RNA member who finds writing short stories the hardest thing in the world, which is why I’m providing the foreword again. Those who can, do. Those who can’t, provide introductions…)
Someone asked me the other day where was my favourite place to read. And having given it some thought I decided the answer was: wherever I happen to have a book. Because it really doesn’t matter where you are –in bed at night, on the beach somewhere exotic or under the desk at work –if you can lose yourself in another world, you’re winning. Trapped on a train that isn’t going anywhere? A book will help you through it. Waiting in the car for a small child to finish their karate lesson? Escape to a better place through the pages of a novel and time will fly by. Just so wrapped up in a story that you keep sneaking off to read a few more pages, leaving the family to wonder where on earth you’ve got to? Ah well, never mind. If they’re your family, they’re probably used to it by now.
To love reading is a gift and I feel genuinely sorry for those who don’t have it. We’re the lucky ones. And as long as we have books like this one to entertain, enthrall and engage us, we need never be bored. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I am so proud to be a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, surely one of the friendliest and most supportive groups anywhere. We work hard, play hard and have an amazing wealth of talent among us. Best of all, we will make you laugh and cry and think about love, life and all it entails. It is our aim to entertain.
I really hope you enjoy reading the carefully selected stories in this anthology. And if you do, please do let us know on Facebook and Twitter. Most of us are on there and we love to hear from our readers. Plus –sshh, don’t tell our editors –it’s always good to have an excuse to stop writing the books and have a little online chat instead!
A Rose By Any Other Name Would Smell as Sweet
Adele Parks
ADELE PARKS worked in advertising until she published her first novel, Playing Away, in 2000; she’s since published thirteen novels, including Whatever It Takes and The State We’re In. All her novels have been top ten bestsellers; she’s sold 2.5 million copies of her work in the UK alone, and has been translated into twenty-five different languages. Adele is known for writing unforgettable heroes and lovable (although sometimes cheeky!) heroines.
She has spent her adult life in Italy, Botswana and London until 2005 when she moved to Guildford, where she now lives very happily with her husband and son. Adele believes reading is a basic human right and good for your health! Therefore she’s an Ambassador for The Reading Agency, a charity that encourages the love of literacy in all.
Visit www.adeleparks.com to learn more about Adele. Find her on Facebook www.facebook.com/OfficialAdeleParks and follow her on Twitter @adeleparks
A Rose By Any Other Name Would Smell As Sweet
‘I’m thinking of throwing a Valentine’s party this year,’ said Katie, dishing up a big, innocent grin.
‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘More partying is in everyone’s interest.’
Jane sighed and looked at her sister with a blatant mix of accusation and incredulity. ‘You’ve hosted three birthday parties this year. Why would you even think of having another party?’
‘They were for the kids. I want to throw a party for grown-ups? I mean adults.’ Katie corrected herself. The adults she knew were not all grown up; that was her point.
Jane felt sick. This was the most ridiculous and painful idea her well-intentioned, but woefully misguided, sister had come up with yet. Valentine’s Day! Jane’s own private hell. These were the two words most likely to strike fear into her heart; crueller than ‘facial hair’, more uncomfortable than ‘smear examination’.
Jane, unlike her sister, did not have children to throw birthday parties for. Nor did she have a husband or even a boyfriend. She had been engaged once, in her early twenties. They’d split up before the wedding. On Valentine’s Day. To coin an old-fashioned phrase, she’d jilted him. Sometimes, when she looked back on her actions, she struggled to remember them with absolute clarity; she laboured to justify them. She remembered feeling panicked that the wedding planning was cutting into far too much of her studying time –she had her exams to think of –and she remembered thinking that Mark was a nice enough guy but that nice enough wasn’t enough. Although it wasn’t clear exactly what might be enough for Jane. It was all such a long time ago. She’d since dated various men on and off but she’d never committed. Sexy, bad boy types disappointed her, she ridiculed and distrusted devoted romantics and she dismissed any one in between as, ‘Boring, far too normal.’
‘What are you looking for?’ Katie often asked, exasperated.
‘Just someone who understands I have a career and friends of my own. Someone who has that too but wants to share.’ Jane didn’t think this was too much to ask. It seemed practical and sensible so it should be possible. Jane was all about the practical and sensible; admittedly she gave less thought to what was possible.
Her mother had never quite forgiven her. ‘What sort of girl calls off her wedding on Valentine’s Day?’ she’d yelled. ‘You’ve ruined your one chance of happiness.’
Jane thought her mother was wrong about her ruining her one chance of happiness. It simply wasn’t true. Jane was happy. At least, she felt very content, which was a lot like happiness. She had a full life. She was a solicitor and would probably make Partner next year; all her studying and hard work had paid off. She went to gigs with the frequency of a teenager, she had good friends, two dogs –not cats, she’d resisted becoming a cliché –and a stylish home. A home in which she was free to eat whatever she liked, whenever she liked and to watch anything she pleased on TV. Microwave meals for one and uninterrupted viewing of The Walking Dead were sufficiently compensatory. The only time that she found being single difficult, and contentment illusive, was on Valentine’s Day.
On February 14th, Jane’s life felt like an enormous black hole. No matter how many computer literacy or yoga classes she fitted in, committees she sat on or hours she spent in the office, she could not fill that day. She found herself dwelling on the fact that every other woman in the United Kingdom was wearing silky lingerie under her new, fabulous dress, eating a delicious meal by candlelight and drinking vintage champagne while her husband or boyfriend serenaded her and threw red rose petals in her path. Jane told herself that it was actually, simply a materialistic, manufactured, almost grotesque commercial enterprise but the image of a more beautiful and romantic version of Valentine’s Day, largely manufactured by glossy, glorious magazines, always chewed its way into her consciousness and, secretly, she longed for it.
Not that she’d ever admit such a thing. If there was one thing a single girl understood the importance of, it was saving face.
‘Well, count me out,’ declared Jane.
‘Have plans do you?’ asked Katie.
Jane glared at her. ‘No one will come anyway. Don’t couples want time by themselves on Valentine’s Day? Isn’t that the point?’
‘I don’t just know couples.’ Actually, Katie’s friends were mostly couples but she thought they would rally when they heard her plan; all her friends were aware of Jane’s singledom.
‘Why would you want a bunch of drunks staggering around your house and throwing up in the cloakroom?’
Katie laughed at Jane, obviously unwilling to be put off. ‘It won’t be like that. I’m going to have a romantic theme and ask everyone to wear pink.’
‘Even the men?’
‘I’ll serve salmon canapés and rosé cava.’
‘You’ll find it spilt on your new cream sofa.’
Katie ignored her. ‘I’ll have a chocolate fountain.’
‘Chocolate is not pink, it’s not theme appropriate,’ pointed out Jane churlishly.
‘Don’t be such a spoilsport, Aunt Jane. A party is a marvelous idea. You might meet someone and find luuurvvve?’ Isobel, Katie’s eldest, interrupted the conversation. She had a habit of sneaking up on her aunt and mother when they were chatting. She’d found eavesdropping a tremendous source of information since she was an infant.
‘No, I won’t,’ said Jane. ‘I believe in “luuurvvve” less than I believe in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny.’
‘Don’t let George hear you. He wavered in his belief this year.’
‘At least George is eight. Your mother told me Santa didn’t exist when I was three!’ The outrage in Jane’s voice was as crystal clear now as it had been back in 1979 when the truth was first revealed.
Katie cringed inwardly. She’d only been seven when she blurted out her discovery that the man who filled the stockings was their dad and that the elves that produced the gifts didn’t exist, it was their mum who spent from November trailing the stores for treats. Katie had spent her life trying to make up for the faux pas that robbed her sister of her innocence. Sometimes, Katie worried that the early disillusionment was the reason behind Jane growing up to be such a pragmatist. She was so sensible, rational and logical which was, in Katie’s opinion, the real reason she’d never fallen in love. To do so, you had to give a little. In fact you had to give a lot. You had to trust, hope and lose control.
Katie didn’t think that being married was the only way to find happiness, but it was the way she’d found happiness. She, Graham and their three children already had ‘it’. They were healthy, loved and loving. Between them they formed that enigmatic and enviable thing –a happy family. Of course, they squabbled, snapped and snipped at one another from time to time. There had been that very worrying period when Isobel became secretive and dated unsuitable boys. George was dyslexic, which had its challenges, and Sarah, the middle child, had started to cuss this year, repeatedly and ferociously, just to see if she got a reaction. But most of the time they were one another’s heart ease. Magic dust. Happiness. Call ‘it’ what you will.
Katie wanted more of the same for her sister. Jane had the bigger home in the smarter part of town, a career, foreign holidays, a wardrobe to die for and Katie had a demanding family whose needs had long since drowned out her own desires. Unfashionably, she had no problem with that. She believed it to be the natural order of things. Her own mother had always made Katie and Jane a priority. Katie had suggested that her sister try blind dating once.
‘I don’t know anyone who knows anyone who’s single anymore! Who could fix me up?’
‘Well then, internet dating.’
‘I’m not in the market to meet psychos.’
‘Speed dating?’
‘I have to enter into enough high-pressure pitches at work, thank you. I don’t want that sort of nonsense intruding into my private life.’
So Katie had decided to go back to basics. The good old-fashioned method of meeting people at parties.
Katie made a huge effort with the party. She blew a silly amount of cash on rosé cava and she baked and cleaned for hours. She nearly passed out blowing up pink balloons and she decked the kitchen, living room and hall with enormous red crêpe paper hearts. She was very strict about the entrance policy. Not only did she insist that her guests wear red or pink, she also explained that, instead of having to bring a bottle, every couple had to bring a spare man.
Her friends were surprised but after a little cajoling, they agreed to the stipulation. After all, it was Valentine’s Day, generally, most women are secret matchmakers and delighted in the possibility of being responsible for new love blossoming even if it did mean they had to sacrifice a romantic meal in the local restaurant.
Finally, the big day arrived; Katie could not have been more excited. It was, as she’d expected, lovely to see her friends discard their coats, hats, scarves and gloves and melt in the warmth that her home oozed. But it was especially exciting to see the number of single men that had been brought along. She quickly assessed them, as though it was a beauty contest. At least two were especially handsome men, four had friendly smiles, the rest were passable. They probably had lovely personalities. Only one chap stuck out like a sore thumb. He was sitting on his own, drinking tap water instead of the frothy cava, he wasn’t wearing so much as a red tie or pair of socks, he was dressed in jeans and a grey jumper; he was not even faking an interest in the conversations around him, the only person he deigned to speak with was Isobel.
Jane was late.
‘The invite said 7.30 p.m.,’ scolded Katie as she took her sister’s coat. She noticed that Jane had ignored the dress code too. She was wearing black as though she was at a funeral. Katie shoved her towards the kitchen, where the party –like all parties –was thriving. ‘Ta-dah.’
‘What?’
‘What’s different about this party?’ prompted Katie.
Jane looked around the kitchen. It was heaving. There were a lot of men, which was a bit odd; normally at parties the women stayed in the kitchen and the men hung around the iPlayer.
She hazarded a guess. ‘Decent food?’
‘Men!’
‘What?’
‘These are all single men. I asked my guests to bring a single man rather than a bottle. I asked them all to play cupid for you.’ Katie beamed. ‘Most of them know about your broken engagement and everything, so they were really sympathetic.’
Jane starred at her sister in horror. How could she have been so cruel? So thoughtless? The humiliation was intense; a hot blush was already forming on Jane’s neck. Valentine’s had always been ghastly when Jane was privately fighting her demons –the lack of a picture perfect scenario: flowers and hearts, hubby and kiddies –but it had been bearable. Now, Katie had outed her and the mortification was overwhelming.
Jane turned, grabbed her coat and ran. She didn’t notice that she’d dropped her glove. She had to get out of the stifling house full of pitying and patronising couples.
Jane nearly slipped on the icy path. She stopped at the gate; fighting angry tears, she had never felt so alone.
‘Excuse me.’
Oh God, that was the last thing she needed. Someone had followed her out of the house. Jane pretended she couldn’t hear him calling to her and she began to walk along the street.
The man jogged to catch up. ‘You dropped a glove,’ he called.
Normally, Jane loved her soft, beige buckskin gloves. Right now, she hated them.
‘Thank you.’ She refused to meet his eye.
‘I saw your dramatic exit. Very Cinderella.’
‘I don’t believe in fairy tales,’ she said stiffly. ‘Not even on Valentine’s Day.’
‘Nor do I. Especially not on Valentine’s Day. I hate it. The sickest day of the year.’
Jane looked up startled. It was refreshing, although somewhat surprising, to find someone else who was equally vitriolic about the day. She’d always found that there was a deep and dark silence surrounding the gloomy reality of the day. Single women simply dared not roll their eyes at the torturous nylon basques that seeped from every shop window, even though it seemed that the sole purpose of such garments was to humiliate flat chested and saggy bummed women, aka normal women.
‘Do you know what I most hate about it?’ he asked.
‘The pink, plastic “I Love You” stamps for toast and similar plethora of tack that are no doubt mass-produced by children working in illegal conditions?’ Jane wondered whether she sounded bitter and defeatist.
‘Ha! No, although that is offensive. It’s my birthday too.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘Wish I was.’
Jane took the glove.
‘So why do you hate it then? I’d have thought it being your birthday made it tolerable. At least you’re guaranteed cards.’
He smiled wanly but didn’t answer her question. ‘I’ll walk with you, if you’re going to the tube station.’
Jane stole a glance. The guy didn’t look like a psycho. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Err, embarrassing thing is, nowhere. So I’ve got time to squander. It’s my birthday and Valentine’s Day and yet I have some time to kill until my sister-in-law and brother emerge from the party. Then I’m staying with them for the weekend. I think they thought that if they took me along to the party, then all their duties towards me, in terms of celebrating my birthday, were null and void. It’s always such a disappointing day.’ the man grinned as he made this awful admission.
Jane noticed he had nice eyes. Particularly attractive when he grinned.
‘Isn’t it?’
‘What were you hurrying from?’
‘All of it.’
‘I see.’ They both fell silent. It was a comfortable silence. Jane realised she was enjoying the peaceful company of her fellow anti-romantic.
He sighed deeply; his hot breath clouded the cold night air. ‘I know you think you are having a bad night but somewhere in that house, something truly awful is happening.’
‘What?’ Jane asked.
‘I was talking to this teenager. Her mother has set up this whole party to try to off-load some maiden aunt.’
Jane gasped. ‘How terrible.’
‘Isn’t it? I told the girl her mother shouldn’t be so interfering and pushy. Just because it’s Valentine’s Day doesn’t mean the maiden aunt is suddenly going to find love or even want it. It’s such an imposition.’
Jane nodded, mute with shock and embarrassment. She couldn’t let this cute guy know that she was the spinster aunt. Because he was, well, a cute guy. He had full lips and lovely curly hair. And a cynical side that she appreciated.
‘What did the teenager say?’ Jane knew that the forthright Isobel would have expressed an opinion.
He grinned at the memory of the bolshie teenager dressing him down. ‘She said I was a miserable devil. She said her mother was only trying to help and that she did believe things were different on Valentine’s Day; that there is a little more magic everywhere and, of course, the aunt wanted to find love.’
‘Teenagers,’ said Jane with a tut. ‘So damned optimistic.’
They both fell silent again.
‘Look, would you like to go for a drink? No bubbles though, anything but that.’
Jane considered it. Maybe. She quite liked him. She liked his sensible attitude to Valentine’s Day. She was so fed up of people insisting that it was a romantic, enchanted time. It’s just another date on the calendar. And it was his birthday, after all. No one wanted to be alone on their birthday.
‘I’m Jane.’ She held out her hand, he shook it.
‘Pleased to meet you, Jane.’
Jane waited for him to volunteer his name. He didn’t.
‘And you are?’
‘OK, well, this is it, I suppose. Crunch time. So it’s my birthday today, right.’
‘Yes, you said.’
‘I’m Valentino Lovelass.’ Jane snorted with laughter. ‘What’s funny?’ he asked with mock incredulity.
‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ Jane was practically choking on her laughter. ‘Are you joking?’ she asked eventually.
‘I never joke. I’m eminently sensible and practical. I’m always serious.’ There was a glint in his eyes that belied the fact that he was always serious so Jane insisted he produce his driving licence to prove he wasn’t making up a ridiculous alias.
‘I do at least understand why you hate Valentine’s Day,’ she said as they set off towards the pub.
‘And my parents too, don’t underestimate how much I hate them,’ he joked.
‘Oh get over it.’ Jane laughed. Teasingly she added, ‘It’s not like they destroyed your belief in Santa Claus at an early age.’
‘True, that would be really bad. Very bad indeed.’
Katie and Isobel were watching from Isobel’s bedroom window. Katie winked at her daughter. ‘Perfect,’ she sighed.
‘You are a regular cupid, Mum. Congratulations. You do know his name though, right?’
‘Oh yes. And how I’m going to enjoy hearing my sister introduce him!’
A Sensible Proposal
Anna Jacobs
Award-winning author ANNA JACOBS writes both historical and modern romantic novels about families and relationships. She’s had over sixty novels published, with more in the pipeline, and she’s the sixth most borrowed author of adult fiction in the UK. She and her husband live half the year in Australia and half in the UK.
This story is a spin-off from her Swan River Saga series, set in Lancashire and Western Australia in the 1860s. If you’d like to read more about the group of young women sent to Australia as maids, try her three novels Farewell to Lancashire, Beyond the Sunset and Destiny’s Path and the spin-off series The Traders (starting with The Trader’s Wife).
You can find out more about her books, each of which has a separate page on her website, where you can read the first chapters and find about what gave her the ideas for the various stories on her website: http://www.annajacobs.com
A Sensible Proposal 1
1863, Lancashire
Sarah Boswick had been hungry for so long she couldn’t remember her last full meal. She stood quietly in the queue, not expecting more from the soup kitchen at the church than a bowl of thin soup and a chunk of stale bread. It would be her only food of the day.
None of the mill workers had realised that the war between the states in America would affect Lancashire so badly, cutting off supplies of cotton and therefore putting people out of work. Sarah’s husband had been delighted to think of all the slaves being freed. He’d been such an idealist, poor Daniel. He’d died a year ago, weakened by lack of food, and she still missed him.
The line of women shuffled forward and someone poked Sarah to make her move with them.
When a gentleman with silver hair stopped nearby, Sarah didn’t at first realise he was speaking to her.
Mrs Foster, one of the supervisors, said sharply, ‘You, Boswick! Step out of the line and answer the gentleman. He’s spoken to you twice already. Where are your manners?’
Sarah moved quickly, not allowing herself the luxury of resenting the scolding –it didn’t pay to cross the supervisors, not if you wanted to eat here regularly. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid my thoughts were miles away.’
‘It’s partly my fault. I should have waited to be introduced to you before I spoke. I’m Simon Marville, from the town of Swindon in the south, and I’m here because my church has raised some money for the relief fund in this area.’
She tried to pay attention but the smell of food nearby was intoxicating. Sometimes gentlemen or ladies came to the north to stare at the poor starving cotton operatives. It was annoying to be treated like a wild animal on display and it did little good that she could see. There would still be no work for those in Lancashire after the visitors had gone back to their comfortable lives.
‘Could we talk for a few minutes, Miss Boswick?’
‘Mrs I’m a widow.’ Sarah couldn’t help looking towards the food and as she did, her stomach growled.
‘Have you eaten today?’ he asked, still in that same gentle tone.
‘No, sir. The only food I’ll eat today is what’s offered here at the soup kitchen.’ She saw Mrs Foster looking at her and added quickly, ‘For which I’m very grateful.’
He turned to the supervisor. ‘Do you think we could have some food brought for this poor woman, ma’am? It’ll be hard for her to concentrate on what I’m saying if she hasn’t eaten anything yet.’
‘Of course. If you sit down over there, I’ll bring some across for you both.’
‘None for me, thank you. Save it for those who need it so desperately.’ He led the way to the table indicated, pulling out a chair for Sarah.
At least this visitor was treating her courteously, she thought as she sat down.
He took his own seat and was about to speak again when Mrs Foster brought her a big bowl of soup and two pieces of bread.
Sarah’s mouth watered at the sight of the larger bowl and extra bread. Clearly the lady patronesses were out to impress. She looked at him, wondering whether to start eating.
He waved one hand as if giving her permission and she could hold back no longer. She didn’t gobble down the food, because that would make her ill, but chewed slowly, spooning up soup in between each dry mouthful of bread. As she finished the first slice, she looked round and whispered, ‘Would you mind if I put this other piece of bread in my pocket, sir? I have a neighbour whose child isn’t thriving.’
‘No, of course not. Though you look as if you need it yourself. You’re very thin.’
‘I’m managing but it’s harder on the little ones.’
When she’d finished, he asked, ‘How long have you been hungering?’
‘Since my husband died last year, before that even.’
‘May I ask what happened to him?’
‘Daniel came down with a fever and hadn’t the strength to resist it. He was low in spirits, took it very badly not to be able to earn a living.’
Mr Marville’s expression was so genuinely sympathetic, Sarah felt tears rise in her eyes. She tried to change the subject. ‘What do you wish to talk about, sir?’
‘You, my dear. I’d like to find out more about your life.’
That puzzled her. What had the ladies been telling him?
‘I’ve been charged with helping select a group of cotton lasses to go to Australia, where there is plenty of work for those willing to become maidservants. The supervisor has suggested you. What do you think?’
She gaped at him. ‘Go to Australia? Me?’
‘Yes. Do you know where Australia is?’
‘On the other side of the world. I saw it on the globe at school. But I don’t know much else about it. I’ll have to see if there’s a book in the library.’ It had saved her sanity, the new free library had. If you could lose yourself in a book, you could forget the gnawing hunger for a while.
‘A ship going to the Swan River Colony will be leaving in two weeks. How long will it take you to decide whether to go?’
She looked round and laughed, though it came out more like a croak. ‘I don’t need any time at all, sir. If there’s work there, I’ll be happy to go because there’s nothing for me here, not now.’ Only Daniel’s grave, and beside him in the coffin a tiny baby who had not lived even one day.
‘How long will you need to get ready, pack your things?’
She looked down at herself and grimaced. ‘I have very little beyond the clothes on my back. I regret that. I’d keep myself cleaner if I could.’
‘A complete set of clothes can be supplied.’
‘I’d be very grateful.’
He hesitated and asked again, ‘Are you quite sure?’
She wasn’t sure of anything but to do something was surely better than doing nothing. ‘I shan’t change my mind, sir.’
‘Then you may as well travel south with me when I return. I’m sure Mrs Foster will provide you with clothes for the journey and we have other clothes in my church.’
‘Thank you.’ Poor box clothes. She knew what those were like but beggars couldn’t afford vanity.
‘Do you have any family here, anyone you should consult?’
‘No, sir. I’m an orphan.’ She’d only had Daniel. At the moment she was sharing a room with five other young women to save money. The others would be jealous of this chance she’d been given, so the sooner she could leave the better.
When Mr Marville had gone, she took her platter to the clearing up table and went to thank Mrs Foster for recommending her.
The other woman nodded then reached for a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. ‘You’ll need better food to face such a long journey. There’s more bread here and a boiled egg. Eat it all yourself.’ She held on to the cloth. ‘Promise you’ll not give this to anyone else like that bread in your pocket.’
She blushed in embarrassment. ‘I promise. Um, could I ask why you recommended me?’
‘Because you’re still trying to help others, sharing what little food you have. You deserve this chance.’
‘Thank you.’ Tears welled in Sarah’s eyes at these unexpected words of kindness.
‘Come back at four o’clock and we’ll go through the clothing in the church poor box to see what else we can find for you.’
She’d look a mess, Sarah thought, but at least she’d be decently clad. And warm. She’d been so cold during the winter.
2
Ellis Doyle stood by the rails, his back to Ireland, staring out across the water towards England. He and his wife had planned to go to Australia, and now it seemed the only place far enough away to escape the anger of his employer, an arrogant, spiteful man.
After the funeral he’d overheard Mr Colereigh gloating to his wife that Doyle would make a fine new husband for Mary Riley and get the expense of her and her children off the parish –well, he’d better marry her if he wanted to keep his job.
Mary was a slovenly woman with a nasty temper and three whining children of her own. Ellis wasn’t having his sons raised by such as her, nor did he want her in his bed.
He and Shona had made such plans for their boys and saved their money so carefully. As he saw her splintered wooden coffin lowered into the ground, he’d sworn that somehow he’d still make her dreams come true.
Ellis had heard good things about Australia. A man had come back to the next village to take his family out there to live. Ellis had spent hours talking to him.
He watched the massive buildings of Liverpool show on the horizon in the chill grey light of dawn, then went to wake Kevin and Rory, who were huddled together on a hard wooden bench below decks. ‘We’re nearly there and it’s light already. Come and look at Liverpool, boys.’
He helped seven-year-old Rory straighten his clothes, and checked nine-year-old Kevin, annoyed that however hard he tried, he couldn’t keep the lads looking as neat as his wife had.
He wondered what Mr Colereigh would say when he found that Ellis had run away while the master was visiting friends. Would he come after them? Surely even he wouldn’t go so far to get his own back?
By the time they arrived in Southampton, after a long rail journey from Liverpool, the boys were bickering and complaining. Ellis was exhausted but didn’t dare take his eyes off his sons.
The emigrant hostel consisted of large rooms full of bunk beds: families and single women were housed in one, single men in another. After they’d eaten, he put the boys to bed, warning them sternly that if they moved away from their bunks without his permission, they’d be in big trouble.
In the middle of the night he woke with a start to find Kevin standing beside him, tugging his sleeve.
‘I need to go, Da. You said not to go on our own.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
They used the necessary, then Rory said, ‘I don’t like it here, Da.’
‘It’s just a place to stay till we go on the ship.’
‘There’s nowhere to play.’
‘There’s a yard outside. They’ll let you out tomorrow after we’ve seen the doctor.’ He knew they were all three healthy, so didn’t fear failing the medical –well, not much. But they couldn’t leave the hostel now until they went on the ship. The supervisor had been very clear about that.
Ellis didn’t care. He didn’t want to go anywhere in England. All he wanted was to make a new start in Australia.
3
Passage was booked for the group of sixty female paupers from Lancashire on a ship called the Tartar. Sarah hated being called a pauper but it was just one indignity among many. They were sent to the emigrants’ hostel, which was crowded with people waiting to board the ship.
She was dreading the medical examination. Her new underwear wasn’t ragged or dirty but it was an older woman’s sensible flannel clothing, washed until it was grey and matted. She should be glad of it but with better food, vanity had returned. She hated to see her gaunt face and dull hair in the mirror. She looked years older than her age.
Most of the other women were haggard and some didn’t look respectable. A few even had the cropped hair of women coming out of prison.
Sarah saw a young woman from their group beckoning to her from the corner where there were four bunks. She hesitated but soon went across to join the woman and her two companions. They looked better fed than most and proved to be sisters.
‘I’m Sarah,’ she said to the one nearest.
‘I’m Pandora Blake. These are my sisters: Maia and Xanthe.’
Maia was weeping, mopping up the tears with a handkerchief, then having to use it again.
From what she overheard during the next few hours, Sarah realised the sisters had been forced to go to Australia by an aunt and were leaving behind a much loved older sister, for whose life they feared.
‘I have no one,’ she said when they asked about her family.
But she had hope now, shining brightly in her heart.
The medical examination took place the next morning: quick but still embarrassing. Then Sarah was sent to wait in the yard.
Some lads were there waiting for their father, and when two of them got into a fight, she took it upon herself to separate them.
‘What will your mother say if you tear your clothes?’ she scolded. ‘You want to look your best when you board the ship.’
‘The Mammy died,’ the older boy muttered. ‘And Da’s taking us to Australia. I don’t want to go.’
‘I do,’ the younger boy said
‘Well, I don’t! I won’t have any friends in Australia.’
A man came across to join them. ‘I hope my boys weren’t giving you any trouble?’
‘No, but they were quarrelling and needed settling down.’
He turned to glare at them. ‘Did I not tell you to behave yourselves?’
They scuffed their feet and stared at the ground.
He turned back to Sarah, sighing. ‘Thank you for your help, ma’am.’
Just then there was a disturbance by the gate. As he turned to see who it was, his face turned pale. ‘Dear God, the master’s sent his bailiff after us.’
Sarah looked at him quickly. ‘What did you do?’
‘Left the estate after my wife died instead of marrying a woman the landowner chose.’
Sarah saw the desperation on his face. She knew how arrogant some employers could be and her heart went out to him. ‘You could pretend I’m your wife. He won’t have any use for you then.’
He stared at her. ‘Are you sure? Thank you.’
‘My name’s Sarah Boswick.’
‘Mine’s Ellis Doyle.’
‘Put your arm round my shoulders and look affectionate. Rory, in this game I’m your new mother. Come and stand next to me.’
‘I want to go back,’ Kevin said.
‘And have Mary Riley for your mother?’
Kevin hesitated then went to his father’s side.
By the time the constable got to them, they were standing as a family group.
‘This is Doyle,’ the bailiff said. ‘He’s running away from the woman he promised to marry. Mr Colereigh wants him back.’
Ellis seemed to be fumbling for words, so Sarah spoke for him. ‘Well, he can’t marry anyone else. He’s married to me.’
‘There hasn’t been time.’
‘We bought a special licence.’
‘I’d not have come back, even if I hadn’t married Sarah,’ Ellis said. ‘And there’s no law that says I have to.’
The bailiff leaned forward. ‘What if the master said you’d stolen some money? You don’t have enough for a special licence.’
‘You never said anything about stolen money,’ the supervisor said, looking suspiciously from the bailiff to Doyle.
‘It was my money that bought the special licence,’ Sarah said. ‘It took every penny I had. He had none left from paying the fares.’
Ellis put his arm round her and pulled her close. ‘Even if you forced me to go back, I couldn’t marry Mary Riley now, could I?’
Everything hung in the balance for a moment or two, then the bailiff stepped back. ‘I’d not marry her either. It’d be better if I tell him I couldn’t find you. Don’t ever come back, though.’
They watched him walk away, then Sarah realised Ellis was still holding her close. She didn’t dare move until the bailiff was out of sight. And she didn’t want to move either. She’d missed the feel of a man’s strong arm round her shoulders.
Ellis moved away. ‘Your quick thinking saved us. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’
‘He didn’t ask to see the marriage lines. He could have proved us wrong.’
‘No. He’s not a bad fellow but if he wants to keep his job and home, he has to do as he’s told.’
Rory tugged at her skirt. ‘Are you really our new mother?’
‘No. We were just pretending. But I can be your new friend.’ Her eyes sought Ellis’s for permission and he nodded.
4
As they stood there, Ellis cleared his throat. ‘Um, I probably need to go and see the supervisor and explain to him that we aren’t really married. Will you keep an eye on these two rascals for a few moments?’
‘Of course.’
But suddenly the supervisor came striding back into the yard. He walked across to Sarah and Ellis, scowling. ‘I want the truth now. Are you two married or not?’
‘No, we’re not,’ Ellis said in his lilting Irish voice.
‘Well, you’ll need to get married if you want to travel as a family.’ The supervisor studied the children. ‘Looks to me as if these two need a mother’s care.’
Sarah could feel her cheeks burning because she’d had a sudden fervent wish that she was married again. She was so tired of being alone, fending for herself.
The supervisor looked at her disapprovingly. ‘We don’t allow any hanky-panky on board, Miss. They’re very strict about that sort of thing.’
‘I’m a widow, not a “Miss”.’
‘It’s not hanky-panky to be courting someone,’ Ellis told him. ‘And that’s what we’re doing, courting.’ He put the arm back round her shoulders.
It felt good.
The supervisor’s voice softened. ‘Oh, it’s like that, is it? Well, I’ll have to report this but no one can stop you talking to one another on deck.’
He walked away and Ellis turned to Sarah. ‘I had to say something to save your good name.’
‘I’m really grateful. But…we’ll have to meet and talk to one another or they’ll be suspicious.’
‘I know. I hope you don’t mind.’ He looked at her as he spoke but not the way a man looks at a woman he desires. Pity.
There would be other women on the ship who were nicely dressed, who would attract and keep the attention of a man like him. Such a nice-looking man.
She sighed and told herself not to be stupid. But she wasn’t used to being ignored. She’d been told many times she was a fine-looking woman. Other men had wanted to court her when she was younger, not just Daniel.
She wasn’t fine-looking now, wouldn’t have been even if she had been dressed nicely. Haggard was the best way of describing her, and she knew she looked years older than her age.
Perhaps one day she’d attract a man again, even if not this one. She’d like to marry, have children, live a normal life.
In the meantime, she had an adventure to face: a journey by ship to the other side of the world.
She had new friends: Ellis and his boys, and the Blake sisters. They were well-read and always had something interesting to say. She envied them their education. They must have read many more books than she had. She would enjoy their companionship on the ship.
5
Sarah was glad when it was time to board the ship but sorry to find herself lodged with another group of single women –widows like herself –instead of with Pandora and her sisters.
Her cabin was large. It had a long narrow table down the middle and cubicles down the sides, each sleeping four women in two pairs of hard, narrow bunks. They were placed in messes of eight with a leader appointed to take care of the food for the whole group. Why they chose Sarah as leader, she couldn’t work out. She didn’t want to be singled out in any way, just wanted to build up her health.
When they went up on deck, the matron kept a careful eye on the single women. That amused Sarah. Did they think any of the men would want women who looked like starvelings?
She didn’t see the Doyles the first time on deck, but on her second outing little Rory came running towards her smiling and she found herself sitting there talking to him, telling him stories as her mother used to do with her.
Kevin stood to one side pretending not to listen.
Ellis came across to join his sons, speaking politely about the weather, not staying long. He didn’t waste words, that was for sure.
At first time hung heavy on their hands. Everyone feared for the three months the voyage would take, but to her delight the ship’s passengers organised classes to help pass the three month journey to Australia. She joined groups for reading and sewing, went to the regular weekly concert. She’d have joined the choir, because she loved music, but she was a poor singer, often making people wince when she did join in.
She noticed that Ellis was in the choir and found the boys coming to sit with her during the concerts. Afterwards he would always hurry them away.
There was no pretence of courting. Well, it wasn’t real, was it? He probably found her ugly, with her scrawny body and horrible old clothes.
Only once did they have a real conversation.
‘What did you do in Ireland, Mr Doyle?’ she asked.
‘I was a stable hand. I’m good with horses. But I’ll work at anything to make a good life for my lads in Australia. It must be hard for you, going so far away on your own.’
‘Yes, but I have a job waiting, as a maid.’
‘Will you like that?’
‘I’ll like eating regularly and being paid. And it’ll give me a start.’
‘I don’t have a job waiting. But I’m hopeful. People always need help with horses, don’t you think?’
He stood as if trying to think of something to say, then walked away abruptly.
Although the journey was long and the confines of the ship so stifling, Sarah found enjoyment in reading and sewing classes.
In the reading class, the Blake sisters were the best speakers. Sarah could have sat and listened to them all day.
Ellis was also a member of the reading group but when he was asked to take his turn, he read so haltingly and looked so embarrassed that he wasn’t asked again. The teacher was tactful like that.
A very short woman called Miss Roswell was the best at sewing. It was obvious that she didn’t need lessons, just wanted the company. She soon began helping the teacher, who could get a bit impatient if people were clumsy in their work.
When the teacher claimed exhaustion and gave up running the class, Miss Roswell took over, which was all to the good.
One day she asked Sarah to stay behind. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being too personal but I know what it’s been like for the people of Lancashire. I can see that your clothes were made for other women and I wondered if you’d like me to help you alter them?’
Sarah felt ashamed but wasn’t going to miss an opportunity like that. ‘Would you have time?’
‘I have all too much time on my hands at the moment. You’d be doing me a favour.’
Gradually, Sarah’s hand-me-downs were transformed into well-fitting and even stylish clothes. Oh, that made her feel so much better.
But out of perversity, she didn’t wear the best of them, even though Miss Roswell had hinted that Ellis kept looking at her when he thought no one would notice and she should encourage him.
Sarah knew her face had become rosier, could see for herself that she was getting her shape back under her newly altered clothes. But if he had to have her wearing new clothes to want her, then he wasn’t worth it. Was he? Or was she being too proud?
Ellis joined the reading group to while away the long hours of doing nothing. He sent his lads to a class for children, relieved that they wouldn’t see how poor he was at reading. Well, when had he ever had the chance for a proper education?
He saw Mrs Boswick in the class but when he made a mess of his first reading and heard how well she could read, he felt too ashamed to do anything but sit at the back and try to escape everyone’s notice.
He was glad to see her looking better, filling out a little, getting nice rosy cheeks. She must have been short of food for a long time. She wasn’t the only woman whose appearance had changed since they set off. Quite a few of them had blossomed. But the others didn’t interest him. She did.
After the second reading group meeting the teacher asked him to stay behind.
‘Would you like me to give you some extra help with the reading, Mr Doyle?’
‘Why would you do that, Mr Paine?’
‘Because I have too much time on my hands and because reading is such a joy to me that I like to share it with others.’
‘Oh. Well. If you don’t mind, I’d be grateful, I would so.’
‘You can come to my cabin for the lessons. We can be private there.’
But what was he going to do with his boys? They were so lively, they needed someone to keep an eye on them. He didn’t want them falling overboard.
After some thought, he asked Mrs Boswick if she’d mind watching them because she seemed to enjoy their company. He was too embarrassed to explain why, but she didn’t ask, just said in her usual quiet way, ‘I’d enjoy that. We can play games or I can read to them.’
Rory in particular seemed very attached to her. Ellis wasn’t sure whether that fondness for her was a good or bad thing. After all, they might never see one another again after they arrived in Australia and Rory had already lost one person he loved. But learning to read better was so important, Ellis took the risk of her finding out what he was doing and looking down on him.
The free sample has ended.