Alice’s Secret
Lynne Francis

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HarperCollinsPublishers

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First published in Great Britain in ebook format by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Copyright © Lynne Francis 2017

Cover design © Alison Groom 2017

Cover image © Shutterstock.com

Lynne Francis asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © March 2018 ISBN: 9780008244286

Version: 2018-01-09

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Part Two

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Part Three

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Part Four

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Part Five

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Part Six

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Part Seven

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Part Eight

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Part Nine

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Epilogue

Recipes

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Keep Reading…

About the Publisher

To my children, for growing up and giving me the time to write.

Prologue
Summer 1893

A lice felt the hem of her skirt getting wetter and heavier as she brushed through the bracken. This summer had been damp and it had rained hard last night. The fern fronds continued to grow and unfurl across the path, no matter how many of them passed to and from the mill each day. She hated the feel of the sodden wool against her legs. It would bother her all morning until it dried: the smell of the wet cloth, the chafing. She sighed. She’d be working in the weaving shed this morning. It would feel cold at first with the door open, and no easy way to dry off.

Alice clutched her shawl tighter around her shoulders and hooked the basket into the crook of her arm. She lifted it clear of the foliage, which was still heavy with rain. Her work clogs bounced in the bottom of the basket, along with her lantern, and a crust of bread loosely wrapped in rough cloth. Her mother had pressed the bread into Alice’s hand with a brusque, ‘On your way. You’ll not get through the day without it. We’ll manage.’ Then she’d limped her way painfully to the grate to set the kettle on the hob. Alice’s brothers and sisters would have to make do with tea and porridge until tomorrow.

Tomorrow: Alice shuddered. It was the day that they lined up in front of Williams, the overlooker, as he counted the florins, shillings and pennies into their hands. She thought about how Williams used to look meaningfully at her as he dispensed the coins. He’d close her palm around them, letting his fingers linger just that moment too long. She’d been aware of his eyes following her as she moved around the mill or bent to her machine in the weaver’s shed. He’d made a point of singling her out for praise for her work, so that the other girls had noticed and teased her, making her anxious. Betty Ackroyd had drawn Alice to one side. ‘Alice, you need to watch yourself with Williams,’ she’d warned. ‘He’s got an eye for the young girls here. He don’t take no for an answer.’

Despite Betty’s warning, Alice had been unperturbed when, as she collected her lantern one evening to start the long journey home, Williams had summonsed her.

‘Alice, in here a moment,’ he’d said, holding open the door to the office. She’d stepped into the warm glow of the room, startled when the door snapped shut behind her and she found herself pinned against it. She’d tried to shut out what came next – rough bristles against her cheek and neck, panting, heat, hands fumbling at her buttons, tugging at her skirt.

She’d no idea how she had broken free. She dimly remembered Albert coming into the room by the other door – a muffled shout. She remembered fleeing up the path, no time to light her lantern, and having to pick her way home in the dark. She was stumbling, weeping, horrified –frightened of slipping off the path but more fearful of what lay behind.

After that, Williams had started to lie in wait for Alice: pouncing on her in dark storerooms where she’d been sent on pointless errands, trying to corner her on her way home. For weeks, she’d had to submit to his pestering, sickened by his actions, furious with herself. Then she’d found the strength to fight against him, to threaten to report him, to stand up to him. Williams didn’t take kindly to having his advances spurned. He made a point of picking on Alice: for faults in her spinning, for talking too loudly, for smiling. She’d shrunk in on herself, making sure that she didn’t set a foot wrong, that she left each evening along with Ivy and Betty, parting ways a little further up the path. Williams still found fault. He dropped the coins in her hand on pay day now, glaring at her. He watched her like a hawk, checking to see what time she arrived each morning.

Alice picked up her pace, trying to lift her skirt clear of the bracken. She’d been late twice already this week, her mother too sick to get the children up in the morning. Williams had warned her that one more day’s lateness would mean the loss of her job. This morning, she was late again. It was too dangerous to run, the grey stones slippery after the rain, the surface uneven. She’d reached the Druid Stone, only a short distance to go now. She knew every twist and turn of the path, had names for the landmarks along the way. Just the Packhorse Steps to negotiate now. Maybe Williams would be distracted this morning? Maybe she could slip in, unnoticed?

At that moment, her feet flew from beneath her. It was a hard fall. Alice’s basket bounced down the steps, her lantern smashed, bread flung into the bracken. The rushing tumble of the river over the falls sounded loudly in her ears. Sharp stones pressed into her cheek; cold, damp moss pillowed her neck. Alice lay still.

Part One

Chapter One

‘Oh, my goodness.’ Kate, Alys’s mother, had stopped, cup halfway to her lips, peering at the screen over the top of her glasses. She’d got a new pair of those ready-readers, Alys noticed. Bright-green frames this time: they worked rather well with her silver hair. Kate said that she kept losing them, so that was why she needed to buy more pairs, but Alys suspected that they were a fashion accessory rather than a necessity. Alys had once picked up a pair belonging to her mother and looked through them. The lenses could just as well have been plain glass for all the difference they seemed to make.

‘What’s up, Mum?’ Alys was only half interested. She was used to her mother’s exclamations. Kate had a tendency to be alarmed by the warnings of fraud scams or deadly computer viruses emailed to her by her friends.

‘It’s your Aunt Moira,’ said Kate, glancing up at her youngest daughter over the top of her laptop screen. She paused a moment, arrested – as usual – by Alys’s appearance. Wild hair, scraped back into an elastic band, from which crinkly blonde curls escaped at random. Forget-me-not blue cardigan, rather shrunken, buttoned over one of her signature crêpe-de-Chine dresses, orange flowered this time. 1940s vintage, surely. Where did she get them from? Kate wondered. And not a scrap of make-up, at a guess. Kate favoured the woven- or knitted-linen look once spring had arrived, in the sort of tasteful shades that also graced her walls. She couldn’t understand her daughter’s taste and style – or rather, her lack of it. She must have inherited it from her father’s side of the family, Kate decided.

‘She’s had a bad fall. Hurt her hip and shoulder and put her back out. The doctor said she’ll need to rest for a couple of weeks at least, but she’s got the café to run. Looks as though she might have to close it, just as the holiday season is about to arrive. It’s her busiest time – she sounds pretty upset.’

Kate chewed her lip and frowned. She really ought to offer to go up and help her sister out. She mentally ran through her diary for the next few weeks. Since she’d retired, it seemed as though she was busier than ever. Voluntary work at the hospital, her book group and walking group. The garden-committee trip to Sissinghurst, planning and preparations for the village carnival. Kate smiled wryly to herself. When had she become so middle class? ‘Must have been when I married David,’ she thought, then was dragged back to the present by Alys, saying ‘Mum? What should we do?’

‘Well, I really should go up and help her,’ said Kate, picking up her cup and absently sipping the cooling tea. ‘But I’ve got so much on over the next few weeks. And you know how I feel about Yorkshire …’ She tailed off, expecting Alys to laugh, but instead her daughter was gazing into space, clearly caught up in her own thoughts.

‘I’ll go,’ she said, unexpectedly.

Kate stared at her. ‘But darling, do you have any holiday owing to you? You’ve only just come back from your trip with Tim? I’m sure Moira would be grateful, but by the sound of it a week, or even two, won’t be enough. Although I suppose I could take over after you leave?’ Kate mentally prepared herself to go into martyr mode.

‘The thing is, Mum –’ Alys suddenly looked apprehensive. ‘I came here today to tell you something.’ She paused. Kate looked at her expectantly, her mind racing ahead. Could Alys and Tim have decided to settle down together at last, start a family? Alys was in her mid-thirties now – she really couldn’t afford to leave it much longer. Of course, she’d have to sell that tiny house of hers, lovely garden or not. Heaven knows Tim must earn enough, with that job of his in the city. Maybe Alys was already pregnant? Kate tried to see if there was a bump in evidence, but that shapeless dress made it impossible to tell. She calculated rapidly. It would be an autumn baby, so that would work perfectly. She’d have time to rearrange a few things and she’d still be able to help out at the Christmas Fair, the carol concert, make the mulled wine and mince pies. The run-up to Christmas was always such a busy time.

‘Mum!’

Kate snapped back to attention again. Alys had been talking. ‘Mum, did you hear me?’

‘Yes, no – sorry, darling. So, where will you and Tim live?’

Alys looked at her blankly. ‘Mum, you really weren’t listening, were you? I told you. I’ve given up my job. I need a break from Tim, from London. I hadn’t planned what I was going to do. A bit of travelling, perhaps. I can delay that, though, and go and help Aunt Moira for a couple of months. I’d be glad to. You know I’ve always loved it up there. And, of course, I wouldn’t expect any payment.’

Alys felt a small burst of excitement at the thought. She’d given up her job as a graphic designer almost on a whim, although the plan had been taking shape in the back of her mind for some time. Days spent staring at a computer screen held no joy for her, and that tricky work issue had finally helped to make her mind up. She’d been putting money aside for a while now, supposedly so she could move from her little house – the closest thing to a cottage that she’d been able to find in London – but really with half a mind to doing something completely different. Travel, voluntary service overseas, who knows? Alys was restless. She knew Kate would say that it was her biological clock ticking and that it was time she settled down and started a family. But she wasn’t entirely sure that Tim was the right person for her.

Nice, well-brought-up Tim, with his warehouse flat and a good job in the city that took him abroad a lot. Great salary. Good prospects. She’d purposely set out to look for someone other than the sensitive, creative types that she normally fell for. She’d succeeded. Tim was stable and solvent but he was also boring.

It was Alys’s turn to come back to earth with a bump.

‘Alys, whatever were you thinking of?’ demanded Kate. ‘Here we are, with good jobs hard to come by, and you throw yours away! Have you gone mad? I don’t know what your father will say!’

Alys allowed herself a wry smile. Her father would be too busy on the golf course or at the Rotary Club meetings to pay much attention to what she was up to. As far as he was concerned, his three children were off his hands now they were grown up. He’d step in if he had to, but really, he felt that he’d done his duty by them. Of course, it went without saying that Kate and all of them would be well provided for should anything happen to him.

Alys pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘Well, I’d say it’s rather good timing myself, considering Aunt Moira’s situation. Look, you email her back and say I’ll be there by Tuesday. I’ll head back to London, sort out a few things at the house, book my ticket and I’ll be on my way.’

And with that, Alys left the kitchen, leaving Kate stunned, staring blankly at her computer screen. The kitchen door opened again. It was Alys, the rucksack that served as her handbag in hand.

‘I’ll be off, then. There’s a train back to London in twenty minutes. If I leave now I’ll just make it. Love to Dad. I’ll be in touch when I’m in Yorkshire, to let you know how Auntie Moira’s doing.’ And then Alys was gone.

Kate, still reeling after the swift turn of events, noted that the hem was coming down at the back of Alys’s dress. And those army boots looked like they’d not seen any polish in a long, long while.

Chapter Two

The interior of King’s Cross station seemed to have been rebuilt when Alys arrived there, which was baffling. Surely the last time that she’d been up to Yorkshire it was as reassuringly familiar as it had been for the last twenty or thirty years? She struggled to get her bearings, disconcerted. She queued in WHSmith for a book of stamps, needing to post a letter before she left, only to discover that the new station seemed to lack a postbox. After dragging her suitcase around outside in the pouring rain, in the hope of spotting a familiar red pillar box, Alys gave up, wet through and anxious about time passing.

If she’d been travelling with Tim, of course, he would have been at the station far enough in advance to lunch nearby, having worked out beforehand where to eat. His packing would have been well-practised perfection. He would have had exactly the right amount of clothes, with one set to spare. He wouldn’t have had to unzip his case eight times before leaving the house to stuff in more shoes and a hairbrush, then take the shoes out again and put in two jumpers, then take one of the jumpers out and put in a T-shirt instead. Indecision wasn’t Tim’s thing.

Alys’s forward planning had stretched to buying a sandwich in WHSmith along with the stamps, so now she only needed to stand and stare at the departures board along with everyone else. She tried to think back to when she’d last travelled alone. France, Greece, and that ill-fated trip to India – they’d all been with school or college friends. Paris, Venice, Florida – with Tim, or previous boyfriends. Could this really be the first time ever?

The train was up on the board, prompting a flurry of activity on the concourse, and a determined rush for the barrier. Alys trekked along the platform to Coach B. It looked as though all the pre-booked seats had been crammed into one carriage, instead of spread out through the train. She settled into her seat with her book, waterproof jacket in the rack above. The letter to Tim was still in her bag so, as soon as she arrived, she’d post it. It stated pretty clearly, she thought, how fondness was not really an option. She was looking for more, or maybe less, than that and so she was going to use this time away to think things through. She allowed herself a small smile, then sighed. It was her way of dodging the issue. In her heart, she knew things were over but she couldn’t bring herself to spell it out. She hoped that he’d get the picture, but Tim was used to things going his own way. He’d call, text, email. Of course, he’d try to change her mind. But she didn’t have to reply, did she?

Rain coursed down the window. It was such a long train that her coach was already out in the open, exposed to the elements. Every raindrop reflected the leaden sky. The weather was doing nothing to lighten her mood.

Resolutely, she opened her book. A rare chance to read: something else to be thankful for. This was going to be a journey into a better future, she told herself firmly. No dwelling on past mistakes. It was time to move on.

Chapter Three

Alys’s book had remained face down on her tray table, spine creased, pages open, for most of the journey. She had read for a while then, once they were clear of London, she’d gazed out of the window, wrapped up in her thoughts, looking back over the past few months, her newly formed resolution already forgotten.

When she was younger, she’d always preferred to do things on the spur of the moment, hated having to plan ahead, have her life mapped out for her. Her friends, and Tim for that matter, liked to sort out their calendars for several weeks ahead. Her friends’ lives followed the same routine. Drinks after work on Friday, meet up late on Saturday afternoon for shopping and a gossip about the previous evening, and a discussion about what to wear that evening, probably necessitating the purchase of something new. Recovering from Saturday night on Sunday, maybe the afternoon spent in the pub. Posting up the drunken photos on Facebook to remind themselves that they were having fun. The gym a couple of nights a week to knock themselves into some sort of shape for the holidays, which would be planned months ahead ‘so there’s something to look forward to’.

Alys’s snap decisions – first to leave work and now to go up to Yorkshire – were not as simple as they first appeared, perhaps even to herself. She’d told herself that she was bored in her job, and it was this that was making her feel restless. In addition, though, she had a strange sense of not belonging anywhere anymore.

Late one Sunday afternoon a few weeks previously, as she took the chain off the door to head out to buy some milk, she had realised that the chain had been in place since she went to bed on Friday evening. She’d not left the house, nor spoken to anyone, not even on the phone. Tim was away, and she’d sidestepped texts and emails from friends about meeting up, making vague allusions to visiting family. It was hard for her to acknowledge what lay behind this new tendency to be a hermit. It was true that she’d become increasingly reclusive after her best friend Hannah had gone travelling with Matt, her boyfriend. Their planned six-month trip had already stretched beyond a year. But since Alys had been a teenager, she’d always loved to be out and about, always had a feeling of excitement and anticipation on a Friday evening, wondering what the weekend had in store. Now she couldn’t remember when she’d last felt like that, and she was pretty sure that the reason behind the change lay not with her friends, nor with Tim or with her social life, but in a stupid incident at work.

Her company, publishers of a trade magazine, was small and family run: her boss, Charles, was the son of the chairman. He was funny, Alys supposed, if you didn’t mind being the butt of suggestive jokes. The general atmosphere in the office was so relaxed that she’d never paid his behaviour much attention, apart from sighing and rolling her eyes along with the other girls at his so-called witty innuendos. She’d met his wife at the Christmas party, and his kids sometimes came into the office during the school holidays. So far, so normal, until she’d noticed that whenever he came to look at work on her screen he started off with one hand on her desk, one hand on her chair, effectively trapping her there. The hand on the chair often strayed to her shoulder. She’d learnt to swivel the chair to reach for something, so that he had to move. She didn’t think he suspected that she’d noticed what he was up to.

One evening a couple of months previously, when an urgent deadline meant that they had to work later than usual, he came in with wine, crisps and pizza ‘to keep the troops going’. Alys began to feel uneasy as the others finished their work, packed up and started to drift away. She still needed to put the finishing touches to the cover and it looked as though she would be the last to leave. She’d barely sipped her wine, wanting to keep a clear head until everything was signed off, but she noticed that Charles had kept a bottle all to himself and he was well on the way to finishing it.

‘I’m done here,’ she said at last, shutting down her computer and gathering up her belongings.

‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to tell you how pleased I am with how hard you’ve been working to meet the deadlines. Can I buy you a drink to say thanks?’

‘Oh, there’s no need, you’ve already done that,’ said Alys, pointing at her wine glass, now half empty.

Charles wasn’t going to give up so easily. ‘Dinner, then?’ he said.

Alys started to put on her coat. ‘That’s very kind of you, but I really must get going.’ She was already heading for the exit but he was there before her, back to the door, arm stretched across the doorway.

‘You must have noticed how I feel about you?’ He breathed wine fumes into her face.

Alys’s heart lurched. ‘Well, I –’ Was yes, or no, the best answer?

‘You did know!’ he said, triumphant. ‘You were just leading me on …’ Before Alys could protest, he’d pulled her to him and was kissing her hard. Part of her brain was detached, dispassionate, aware of the sour wine on his breath, the prickle of stubble. Alarm bells were ringing in the other half – she needed to make him stop.

She tried to pull away from him, but he was too strong for her. ‘Oh, I’ve been watching you for so long,’ he murmured into her neck. His skin was radiating heat and he was tugging at her buttons, slipping his hand inside the neck of her shirt. Alys felt paralysed. Was this really happening? Could she kick him? Knee him in the groin and make a run for it? Even as she thought these things, images of how the next day would play out were crowding in. Was this going to be the end of her job? The one she took pride in and had worked hard at over the last couple of years, to become part of the close-knit team?

Summoning all her strength she pulled away from him, grabbing his arms and holding them at his sides.

‘For God’s sake Charles, you’re a married man.’ It sounded positively Victorian, but it was the best she could come up with. Could she preserve her job by maintaining his dignity?

He just laughed. ‘And that’s what makes it all the better. No strings attached on either side, eh?’

Alys took a deep breath. There was no way out of this. She was going to have to tell him exactly what she thought of him. At that moment, the door behind him flew open, and a face appeared in the doorway.

Startled, the new arrival said, ‘Sorry, sorry. I thought you’d all left. I’ll come back. Five minutes?’

Alys seized her chance, pushed past Charles and resisted the urge to hug the cleaner. The poor man looked embarrassed enough already. ‘No, it’s absolutely fine,’ she said. ‘I was just on my way out.’ Then she fled, without looking back.

She ran all the way to the Tube and felt blessed when the train arrived at the platform at the same time as she did. She slept fitfully that night, anxious about the next day, about how Charles might react to her. Would there be a trumped-up dismissal? Or another clumsy attempt at seduction?

Nothing happened. Instead of feeling relieved, Alys found herself jumpy and unable to relax. She wanted to discuss it with him and clear the air, but it was too awkward a topic to broach. How would you start? ‘By the way Charles, about last night when you tried it on?’ ‘How’s the wife, Charles? I’d love to catch up for a chat.’

Her inability to take action seemed to have sapped her vitality. Increasingly, she found herself observing, rather than taking part in, social gatherings. There’d been that after-work drink she’d dragged herself along to, a week or so after the incident, when Laura, one of her workmates had asked her, ‘What have you done to upset Charles? I’ve noticed him picking on you for no reason.’ Alys had looked at her in mute astonishment, not sure what to say, indeed, whether it was safe to say anything at all. Laura looked puzzled, then gasped. ‘Oh, you weren’t treated to one of his late-night working specials, were you? Just ignore it and pretend it never happened. I always say it should be written into the contract. Clause 2.5. Permission for Mr Rollinson to try it on at least once without employee inflicting grievous injury.’

Alys was horrified but she tried to give herself a talking-to. Laura had shrugged off Charles’s behaviour – why couldn’t she? She couldn’t get rid of the feeling, though, that Laura should have warned her to be on her guard.

Her feelings started to turn to anger as time passed, but she felt that there was no one she could take her complaint to in a small family firm. It would be her word against that of her boss. Rather than having it out with Charles it felt easier to do nothing. Instead, she brooded on the incident. She no longer looked forward to going into work each day and she was hardly aware of how insular she’d become. She found herself going through the motions of life, following her normal routines, but simply not engaging with them anymore. And soon it became easier to dodge invitations and shut herself away.

The Sunday when Alys, setting out to buy milk, realised that she hadn’t left the house or spoken to anyone all weekend, had provided a rare moment of clarity. It had pierced the fug of inertia that had descended upon her. She had decided there and then that the best thing to do was to leave work after all. She was bored in her job, she told herself – blocking out the fact that once upon a time she’d looked forward to each day in the office. She needed a change of scene. As the plan took shape in her mind, the original reasons were gradually buried, and before long she had convinced herself that boredom and restlessness were her only motivations.

Alys dragged herself out of her reverie, aware that the train had just pulled into a station. She forced herself to focus, looking for the name on the platform. It was Doncaster – they were well on the way. She people-watched from the window as the train waited there for a few minutes. A portly, balding gentleman in a suit drank from his polystyrene coffee cup, gazing intently down the tracks. He turned, and Alys caught a glimpse of an unexpected thin, greying ponytail. As the train pulled out, she saw local buses, the top decks filled with people, heading home after shopping. Who knew where to, or what awaited them there? At the next stop, Wakefield, a man stood in shorts and sunglasses, apparently oblivious to the rain and the fact that all those around him sported coats and umbrellas. Alys was intrigued by these little glimpses into other people’s worlds. Who were these people, and what were their lives like? It was a reminder that there were other lives apart from her own, equally filled with problems, challenges, achievements, boredom, and happiness.

She changed trains at Leeds, struggling to pull her case out of the rack. She found herself caught up in the confusion of what seemed to be rush hour, even though it was only four o’clock. The train for Northwaite was already standing at the platform, just a couple of carriages this time, heat belting out as though it was a winter’s day rather than early April. She took a seat near the door, calculating how many stations there were until her stop. Passengers got on, looked uncertain, asked Alys if they were on the right train. She hadn’t a clue, but smiled politely and tried to help.

Once the journey was under way, the elderly man across the aisle tried to draw Alys into conversation. She was guarded in her responses, then felt bad. This was Yorkshire, after all, not London. It was normal here to chat, to be interested in others and what they were up to. This was something she was going to need to embrace: all part of reinventing herself and beginning her new life.

Chapter Four

The approach to Bradford held both mosques and mills. It seemed like an odd juxtaposition, the graceful exteriors and gleaming domes of the mosques standing out against the soot-blackened and forbidding Victorian architecture, smoke stacks and minarets paired. No sign of towering office blocks or cranes creating yet more high-rises: this was a landscape new to her. The train rested at the station for longer than usual and, with only a few stops to go now, Alys suddenly felt a flutter of apprehension. What had she done?

Rain was still coursing down the train windows when they pulled into Alys’s stop. She heaved her suitcase onto the platform. She had received a text from her aunt on the train, saying that she’d send someone to pick her up and that there was no need to get a taxi. Alys headed into the car park and looked around. She hadn’t thought to ask for any further details, she’d been so caught up in her thoughts. She’d have to call her aunt and find out who she should be looking for.

She dug into her rucksack, feeling around. She couldn’t locate her phone. ‘Damn’, Alys cursed under her breath, panic rising in case she’d left it on the train. She rested the rucksack on top of her case and began to dig deeper. It was then that a battered Land Rover, the old, green variety, roared into the car park, and pulled up beside her.

‘You must be Alys,’ said the driver, leaning across and flinging open the passenger door, without switching off the engine. ‘Hop in.’

Alys was rather taken aback. ‘How do you know I’m Alys?’ she demanded suspiciously. The driver was a man of about her own age, casually dressed in jeans and a jumper, and apparently oblivious to the weather.

He looked her up and down, taking in her rain-soaked hair, the escaped strands which were plastered to her cheeks for once, rather than springing wildly in all directions, the crêpe-de-Chine dress only partially covered by a rather horrid red-and-grey cagoule that had once belonged to her brother, and the army-type boots.

‘Your Aunt Moira gave me a pretty accurate description when she asked me to collect you,’ he said, with a wide grin.

Alys, feeling her cheeks redden, and trying to hide her embarrassment, attempted to pull her suitcase closer to the Land Rover. There was a grinding noise as one of the wheels caught in the paving stones. She tugged impatiently. The suitcase pulled free of the paving, but left a wheel embedded there and keeled over. Her open rucksack flew off the top of the case and upended itself, scattering her possessions everywhere. Alys watched, horrified, as her phone – clearly not left on the train after all – skidded along the ground and came to a halt perilously close to the grille over a drain.

‘Oh crap!’ Alys bent down and scrabbled around, trying to gather all her belongings before the rain soaked everything, stuffing them haphazardly back into the rucksack.

‘I’m Rob, by the way,’ said her driver, who’d now hopped out of the Land Rover, leaving the engine still running, and was trying to help Alys gather her things. She rather wished he wouldn’t – the emptying of the rucksack had exposed a muddle of dirty tissues, receipts, scribbled shopping lists, half-full packets of chewing gum and sweets, coins, a pine cone and a less-than-clean comb.

‘What about this?’ Rob held up a letter, now crumpled and damp, by his fingertips.

‘Oh!’ Alys almost snatched it from him. ‘I meant to post it before I left. Is there a postbox here?’

‘Maybe you should let it dry out for a bit first? If it’s important.’ Rob seemed to have judged from her reaction that it was. ‘Here,’ he took it back from her and flattened it out on the vehicle’s dashboard. ‘You can post it up in Northwaite later.’

He turned his attention to her suitcase, heaving it into the back of the Land Rover. ‘I see you’ve come to stay for a bit,’ he remarked, looking back at Alys over his shoulder. ‘Good job you didn’t try to fly up – they’d have charged you excess baggage!’

‘It’s mainly books,’ muttered Alys, on the defensive. It was partly true. Moira had asked for several cookery books for inspiration, and she’d tossed in some travel guides for good measure, so she could start planning for her trip.

‘Hope you haven’t been waiting long,’ added Rob, climbing back into the driver’s seat and patting the passenger’s seat to encourage Alys to get in. ‘The battery was flat, so I had to get a push down the hill and hope for the best. That’s why the engine’s running, just in case.’ And with that he slammed the Land Rover into gear and they were off. The letter to Tim sat on the dashboard, an uncomfortable reminder to Alys of something that she needed to resolve.

She settled herself rather gingerly in her seat, aware that it looked as though it might have held a dog or a muddy jacket until recently. She wrinkled her nose: yes, there was a definite aroma of wet dog. Alys looked away, gazing out of the window. The hill out of the town looked nearly vertical. Rob obviously knew the road well – he drove speedily but carefully. He didn’t say another word and Alys began to wonder whether she should try to make conversation. She looked at him surreptitiously out of the corner of her eye, registering wavy brown hair, a checked shirt topped with a ribbed navy sweater (holey at the elbows) and broad hands (none too clean) grasping the steering wheel.

‘Um, Rob – is that short for Robert?’ she ventured, to break the silence.

‘No,’ said Rob, shortly.

‘Oh.’ The silence grew, developing a portentous quality. Alys had the feeling that she had said something wrong.

Finally, Rob sighed, shifted up a gear as the road levelled out, and said, ‘Robin’.

‘Robin!’ Alys tried to stifle a snort of laughter. The name really didn’t suit him.

‘Ok, I know.’ Rob glanced sideways at her. She was relieved to notice the hint of a smile lifting his previously stern expression. ‘Blame my mum. When she was expecting me she was stuck at home with bad morning sickness. She fed this robin in the garden every day, apparently. It got so tame that it would fly over to sit on her hand as soon as she stepped outside the back door. She saw it as some sort of good omen, so she promised to name her firstborn after it.’

It was Rob’s turn to snort, sardonically.

‘Aah, that’s a lovely story.’ Alys was encouraged by how positively chatty he’d become. ‘Well, I don’t know who I’m named after. Alice in Wonderland, perhaps?’

‘Hmmm, that figures,’ said Rob, but before she could ask him what he meant by that, the Land Rover came to a halt and Rob leapt out, leaving the engine still running. He opened her door, and turned to haul her suitcase from the back.

‘Don’t forget your letter,’ he said. ‘The postbox is on the main street. Moira will be pleased to see you. That back injury has been making her feel a bit desperate. Can you manage now?’ He paused. ‘I’ll give you a hand with your case onto the path. It’s that door along there – the blue one. Don’t let Moira lay a hand on this case, mind, or she’ll be in hospital.’

Clearly finding this funny, he chuckled to himself, settled back in the driving seat and drove off, leaving Alys to struggle her one-wheeled case along the path that ran between a row of cottages and the church. She had the distinct feeling that she hadn’t made a very good impression and she couldn’t for the life of her work out why she even cared.

The blue door flew open before Alys reached it, and there was Moira, leaning heavily on a walking frame. Her short wavy hair was threaded with far more grey than when Alys had last seen her, and she looked pale and drawn, but she was beaming from ear to ear.

‘I thought I heard Rob’s Land Rover,’ she said. ‘You’re here at last. Come in, come in. There’s tea, and cake, of course.’

Chapter Five

Later that evening, after Moira had shuffled painfully up the stairs to rest in bed, and Alys had made sure that she’d swallowed her painkillers, before arranging her pillows to support her back and ease any pressure on her spine, Alys decided it was time to get her bearings and take a tour of the village before it got dark.

Latching the door behind her, she headed along Church Lane into the cobbled main street. Seen up close, the cobbles came as a shock – she had expected smooth, polished, rounded stones of different hues of brown. She’d seen something like that before, but where? Perhaps in a museum in York, when she was small? The Northwaite cobbles, however, were pretty much uniform in size and looked as though they might have come from a garden centre. Alys wasn’t sure that the local tourist authority would appreciate her description, but they’d added nothing to her journey along the road in the Land Rover. She’d be surprised if any of the cars around here still had their suspension intact.

She spotted the postbox: a flat, red panel set into the grey-stone wall, a tub of bright daffodils beneath it. She hesitated a moment – the letter now looked a bit of a mess. Tim wouldn’t be happy. Then she shrugged, and posted it. After all, he’d be even less happy when he’d read it …

Turning her gaze to the road ahead, she took in the grey-stone houses fronting the street, hugging it on each side. Window boxes and flower tubs and, in one case, a tiny stone seat, had been squeezed into the available area between the front windows and the pavement, the strong colours of the spring flowers throwing the blackened and weathered stone into sharp contrast. The front doors opened straight into the sitting rooms and, where lights had been turned on inside, Alys could see that the rooms were dominated by huge stone fireplaces that seemed out of place in such small spaces.

Pausing to catch her breath as the road climbed steeply out of the village, she found herself already high up and quite exposed, gazing out at three surrounding and distant hills of a similar height. The road swept off into the distance over one hill, a monument topped a second, moorland the third. Lights were starting to twinkle here and there in the gathering dusk.

Although it was past eight in the evening it was still not quite dark. The light had the strangest quality, tinged with both a grey and a yellow hue. Dark clouds were gathering over to her left and Alys could see a mist sweeping through the valley. It looked as though rain was heading her way. Her hair, whipped by the wind, was springing free of the elastic band and blowing across her eyes. She shivered, wishing she’d worn something warmer under her cagoule. She remembered Moira’s advice before she’d left London. ‘Pack some warm clothes. It always feels about ten degrees colder up here.’ Perhaps this wasn’t the right evening to continue her explorations?

She turned, heading back towards the lights of the village. The last cottage on the high street was more noticeable viewed from this angle. She’d been struck by its ornate stone gatepost and the front door with a carved stone arch above it as she’d headed out of the village. It had seemed unusually grand for a cottage. She now saw that there was a side door, too, with a little niche cut quite high on the wall beside it, similar to the type of thing you might see in a church. This was also decorated with a stone arch, and a pillar candle burned in a glass storm lantern placed in the niche. It was a nice touch, thought Alys, hurrying back towards the haven of Moira’s cottage as the first drops of rain began spattering the paving stones. She hoped the flame would survive the coming storm.

Chapter Six

The key felt weighty in Alys’s pocket, where it sat along with the code for the café alarm on a folded piece of paper that she turned through her fingers as she walked. She felt a mixture of trepidation and excitement: trepidation that she would fumble the alarm code and trigger the alarm, and excitement at getting a proper look at the café for the first time. It lay in the opposite direction to the one she had taken when she had explored yesterday evening. The memory of posting her letter came back to her and she experienced a frisson of worry as she walked. Her letter would be on its way to Tim now. When would the consequences be felt?

At breakfast that morning Moira had said, ‘Why don’t you take the keys and go and have a look around the café? Then maybe we could think about baking and you could open it on a part-time basis until I’m feeling a bit better, so that my regulars don’t think I’ve abandoned them.’

Then she’d given Alys directions and the instructions for the alarm and so here she was, standing outside the door. The Celestial Cake Café was well placed, on a bend shortly after you came into the village. They must have driven right past it after Rob had collected her from the station the day before, Alys reflected, but she had failed to register it. The café had one large window and a smaller one on either side of the front door, which was set back, providing shelter from the weather. Yesterday’s rain had given way to clear skies and a brisk wind that had buffeted her on her walk and Alys appreciated the moment’s respite as she prepared to open the door. The door handle, fingerplate and letterbox were made of ornate brass, polished and with a lovely soft sheen that suggested years of use. The exterior paintwork had been freshly done, in a light-sage green to match the door, and ‘The Celestial Cake Café’ was lettered in a simple black script across the top of the façade. The most striking thing, though, was the pair of white angel’s wings that hung in the largest of the two windows. They looked as though they might have been taken from a statue. Alys smiled to herself – she wondered where Moira had got them. They were an original and memorable touch.

She steeled herself to open the door and deal with the alarm but, as Moira had promised, it was perfectly straightforward and, with the beeping of the keypad stilled and the door closed behind her, she could examine the interior at leisure. The whole room was half panelled in duck-egg blue tongue-and-groove, and the upper part of the walls was painted to match. Framed prints of cherubs and line drawings of angels were intermingled with small watercolour sketches that looked as though they might be of the local area: waterfalls, woodland paths and views of grey-stone cottages. Mismatched wooden chairs painted in a soft palette of colours – blues, greys, greens and stone – had been provided with seat cushions in an Indian paisley fabric that added a bright splash of hot pink, turquoise and orange. There was a window seat under the angel’s wings, piled with cushions in the same soft shades as the chair colours, and a wooden serving counter looked as though it had been created from recycled hefty wooden planks, marked here and there with black strips and holes where iron fixings or nails had been removed.

The café interior was L-shaped and the back section held tiny tables and a wood-burning stove. It was now cold but Alys could imagine how the room with its stone-flagged floor would benefit from the heat in the colder months. She peeped out of the narrow window in the sturdy back door to catch a glimpse of a small courtyard, lined with tubs filled with spring bulbs in full flower: scarlet and orange tulips, creamy yellow narcissi and bright-blue grape hyacinths. Scrubbed tables folded against the wall told her that this would be an extra seating space in the warmer months. All in all, Moira had done a wonderful job, Alys thought as she looked around. And the place was spotless, not a crumb or sticky smear to be seen. She tried to imagine what the café must be like when it was busy with the buzz of conversation, the smell of coffee in the air, the serving counter piled high with cakes and biscuits ready for the customers.

One or two people had passed by the café and Alys noticed their curious glances through the window. She decided that it was time to head back to Moira’s before it became necessary to turn customers away so, with the alarm reset and the door locked behind her, she turned her steps back up the hill. She felt a surge of impatience. She wished that she was coming straight back, cake tins and boxes already full, ready to open up the café and get to work. As it was, there was much to be done and her head whirled as she mentally listed all the things she would need to ask Moira about. First things first, though. There were cakes to be made.

Chapter Seven

The larder in her aunt’s kitchen was a thing of delight to Alys. A relic of days gone by, its neatly ordered shelves held all manner of ingredients that Moira used for cake making. Apart from paper sacks of flour from a local mill there were eggs supplied by a nearby farm, slabs of chocolate, packs of sugar in shades from purest white through caramel to dark brown, packets of coconut, and oats, and pats of butter wrapped in paper.

Her introduction to this Aladdin’s cave of baker’s delights had come on her return from the café when Moira, resting on a chair at the kitchen table, had told her to go and open the door in the corner of the kitchen. Half expecting to find a storage cupboard or a hidden staircase, Alys had stood transfixed on the threshold. Within, all was cool, ordered calm. One section was reserved for Moira’s own household needs but the rest was given over to baking. Alys didn’t need to ask why the butter and eggs were stored there, rather than in the fridge. She knew that it made it much quicker to bring them up to ideal room temperature for cake-making; the larder, which was tiled, was cool in both winter and summer.

Alys could almost feel her fingers twitching as she surveyed the ingredients. She wanted to make a start right there and then, to fill the kitchen with the wonderful aroma of baking. But something told her to proceed with caution. Moira was in pain and although she’d asked for help to run the café, now that Alys was here she could see that her aunt needed help around the house too.

‘Let’s move you through to the other room,’ Alys said, helping Moira up from the hard kitchen chair. ‘I’m going to make you a cup of tea, then you can tell me a bit more about the café. And we can make a plan.’

With Moira settled by the wood burner, and tea on the table beside her, Alys sat down on the sofa. ‘So, tell me the story of the café. How did you come up with the name? Where did the lovely cushion fabric come from? And the angel’s wings?’

Moira eased herself back against the cushions that Alys had stacked behind her, and over the next hour she described how the transformation of the business had come about. She had taken possession of the café a couple of years previously, when the style of the interior had still reflected the previous owner’s taste. It had floral wallpaper, rather faded curtains at the windows and the general feel of being stuck in a 1950s time warp.

‘I just ripped off the wallpaper and gave it all a lick of paint. The wings came first, though,’ Moira said. ‘They inspired me to give the café its new identity. I spotted them in an antique shop in Nortonstall shortly after I took over the lease. I just had to have them – they were so unusual. I thought they would be made of wood or plaster and really heavy but they’re not. Otherwise, I would have hung them on the wall rather than in the window. Wouldn’t like to think of them falling and squashing the customers.’ She chuckled, and then winced – her back muscles were very sore. ‘I think they must have been carved out of a block of polystyrene and then given a paint job. Maybe they were a prop from a theatre or something?’ She paused to sip her tea. ‘So, the name of the café came from the wings, really. I liked the way it sounded, too. Alliterative.’

Alys grasped at some half-remembered fact from her schooldays. ‘All the C’s at the beginning?’ she asked. ‘Celestial Cake Café?’

Moira nodded. ‘Then it was a case of trying to do the place up as cheaply as possible,’ she continued. ‘The chairs came from a junk shop and I painted them to use up the tester pots I’d bought when I was trying to get the colours right for the walls and the front door.’

‘And the cushions?’ Alys asked. ‘They’re such glorious fabrics.’

‘Lovely, aren’t they?’ Moira was smiling. ‘I’d had the fabric stashed away for years, wondering what to do with it, and it seemed to work perfectly. Otherwise, I think the place would have looked a bit too tasteful. I wanted it to look smart but also feel relaxed and homely.’

Moira went on to describe how she had built up the business. Apart from the Post Office and a general store, the café was the only other shop in the tiny village. Locals dropped in for bread, for cakes to take home for tea, for a takeaway sandwich as a change from what was to be found in the fridge at home. Wet mornings found them drawn in for coffee and the chance for a chat and a gossip with the other villagers. Her other customers were tourists, who found their way off the beaten track to visit the imposing church with its beautiful stained glass, or hikers striding out on the trails that took them down into the valley and up again, to the open moorland and the Pennine Way.

‘I’ve mainly concentrated on building up the clientele, finding out which cakes people like best,’ Moira said, but Alice could tell that despite her modest assertion she was really pleased with what she had achieved. The picture that Moira painted, of a thriving, bustling business with many loyal customers, made Alys all the more determined to have the café open again as soon as possible. Moira was clearly thinking along much the same lines.

‘I made a phone call this morning,’ she said. ‘To Flo, who helps me out when it’s busy in the summer. She’d be happy to come in and work alongside you for a while, to show you the ropes, help you with the coffee machine and the cash register until you get the hang of it. And until I feel more able to be there.’

‘That sounds great!’ Alys was enthusiastic. ‘But who’s going to look after you? You can’t stay here alone all day. You can barely move as yet.’

‘It’s not quite that bad,’ Moira protested. ‘I’ve got a couple of friends in the village who will pop in and help me out – make me some lunch, get me a cup of tea, that sort of thing. And I need to keep moving otherwise I will stiffen up. I can’t be just sitting around all day.’

Alys was longing to experience the café routine that Moira had described to her but she insisted on probing further to make sure that her aunt was going to be properly cared for over the coming days. Finally reassured, she got to her feet to prepare some lunch.

‘And then,’ she announced, ‘you’re going to have a rest and I’m going to bake.’

Baking had been an important part of Alys’s childhood. It wasn’t an interest she had inherited from Kate, who had shown only puzzlement when nine-year-old Alys spent her Sunday afternoons turning out fairy cakes and chocolate cake from packet mixes. She’d graduated to homemade scones after a family summer holiday in Devon, where the whole family – apart from Kate – had embraced cream teas with enthusiasm. Kate had got over her worry about the amount of cake that she might be forced to eat, and the number of calories it contained, when she realised that David, along with Alys’s older siblings George and Edward, were only too happy to fulfil their duties, and hers too, in that respect. She left her daughter to it, buying whatever ingredients she requested.

By the time Alys was thirteen, she was in demand among friends and family for birthday cakes, millionaire’s shortbread, flapjacks, Bakewell tart, and ginger parkin for Bonfire Night. Then, almost overnight, she’d stopped baking. Kate had suspected that it wasn’t cool for a Nineties teenager to be into baking. The usual teen interests had taken over: music, fashion magazines and flushed and giggly phone conversations achieved by dragging the household phone out into the draughty hallway for some privacy.

However, in her late twenties, Alys had discovered that the ability to bake wasn’t a universal skill and her contributions to her friends’ Sunday gatherings were always sweet in nature, guaranteeing open-mouthed admiration. So, she hadn’t been daunted at the prospect of helping Moira out in the café. In fact, as soon as she had said that she would do it, she had been looking through recipe books and bookmarking her favourite Internet sites, and she was itching to get started. Tim hadn’t been a lover of cake or dessert so her baking opportunities had dwindled of late, although her contributions to charity cake bakes at work had always been the first to sell out. Now she couldn’t wait to make a start.

Moira had said it would be best to keep things simple at first – maybe two or three cakes and a couple of different types of biscuit. Everything needed to be sold as freshly made as possible and Alys wouldn’t have the speed to batch-bake that Moira had developed over the last year or so.

‘If only I could stand for any length of time I could be baking while you are at the café,’ Moira said, frowning. ‘As it is, you’ll have to come home and bake once you’ve closed up the café for the day.’

Alys caught her eyeing her walking frame in a speculative fashion. ‘Oh no you don’t.’ She laughed. ‘You’ll get better all the sooner if you rest like the doctor said. You don’t want to risk a setback. I’ll be able to manage, I’m sure.’

‘It’s the Easter break next weekend.’ Moira sighed. ‘If the weather’s good there’ll be plenty of walkers around. It will be a baptism of fire for you, I’m afraid.’

‘First things first,’ Alys said, determined not to let Moira’s worries rattle her. ‘I’m going to get baking so that at least there’s something to sell. Then I’ll get the café open again. It probably won’t be operating in quite the way you’d like it, but it will be better than it being closed at such a busy time.’

Moira laughed. ‘I consider myself ticked off. You’re right. Time to make a start.’

Alys had been planning which cakes and biscuits to make to impress her aunt but on this subject Moira was firm. ‘The regulars have their favourites. They’re slow to adapt to change so it will be safest to stick to what they know at first. So, I’m afraid it’s biscuits this afternoon – flapjacks and shortbread. Then tomorrow a Victoria sponge, lemon drizzle cake and maybe a coffee-and-walnut loaf. Or something chocolatey?’ Moira was suddenly undecided.

Alys’s expression must have given her away. ‘I know, I know,’ Moira said. ‘A bit safe and traditional. When I’m up and about properly we can build on these. I can bake them with my eyes closed but I’m really looking forward to trying some new recipes and I’m sure you’ve got plenty of ideas.’

Ideas were practically bursting out of Alys, but she limited herself to suggesting that brownies were popular with everyone and would fulfil the need for chocolate, and millionaire’s shortbread would make more of a treat than plain shortbread and so it was agreed.

Chapter Eight

Alys answered a knock at the cottage door the next morning to discover Flo standing there, waiting to help Alys carry the cake tins and boxes to the café. A slender lady in her late forties, her brown hair was swept into a casual up-do, Flo looked tanned and healthy, as if she’d just returned from a holiday abroad. As they chatted on their way to the café it became clear to Alys that this was actually a product of being outdoors most days – she learnt that Flo had given up her high-flying job in London ten years ago to live in the country and indulge her passion for riding. Flo made ends meet with a succession of seasonal jobs and, although she wasn’t a baker, Moira had said how invaluable she was to the business.

Alys was feeling excited at the prospect of opening up and serving her first customer, but also more than a little nervous. The last time she had worked in a shop was as a schoolgirl, when she hadn’t even had to deal with the till, let alone card payments. Moira had sought to reassure her by saying that most people paid by cash which had unnerved her even more – would her change-giving skills be up to it? Luckily, Flo was more than happy to deal with making the hot drinks and managing the till, leaving Alys to serve the customers. Flo also promised to coach Alys in the use of the shiny and impressive coffee machine and talk her through the general routine of the café in their quieter moments.

However, it was as though the villagers had been watching and waiting for signs that the café had reopened. No sooner had Alys checked that the display of cakes and biscuits looked appealing, and turned the sign on the door to read ‘Open’, than the first customer was across the threshold.

‘I was just passing and wanted to come in and see how Moira was doing. Ooh, that Victoria sponge looks delicious. I think I’ll just have a little piece. And a pot of tea, please. Now, you must be Moira’s niece?’

‘Hello Nancy.’ Flo swiftly set out a tray with a teapot and cup and saucer for the white-haired lady standing expectantly at the counter. She was so tiny that she could barely be seen over the cake stands. Alys smiled as she selected the largest piece of sponge for Nancy, her first customer of the day.

‘Moira’s doing well, thank you. And yes, I’m her niece, Alys, and I’ll be here at the café for as long as Moira needs me.’

News of Moira’s injury and Alys’s arrival to help her out had clearly spread like wildfire around the village and the afternoon sped by, with people dropping in to ask about Moira, then staying for cake and to quiz Alys. At five o’clock, Alys turned the sign to read ‘Closed’; her face ached from smiling and she didn’t think she could bear to repeat why she was there even one more time.

‘Now then,’ Flo said mischievously. ‘Why did you say you were here again?’

Alys burst out laughing. ‘Well, I was taking a break from work with the aim of going travelling and so, when Aunt Moira hurt herself, I was delighted to be able to come and help her out. And yes, I love baking’. She smiled wryly at Flo. ‘You must be word-perfect, too, by now.’

Alys surveyed what was left of the cakes. ‘We’ve been busy. Thank you so much for your help. I could never have made the teas and coffees, served cake and given everyone my life story at the same time.’

‘It went very well,’ Flo said. ‘It looks as though your cakes are popular. Moira will be jealous.’

‘They’re all her recipes,’ Alys said hastily. ‘I just added one or two touches of my own.’

She couldn’t help a little glow of satisfaction, though. More than one person had commented on how much they had enjoyed their cake and Alys was particularly pleased to see that all the brownies and millionaire’s shortbread had gone. The downside of such a good day was that she needed to go home and bake again, or get up very early in the morning, as Moira had predicted. She’d also learnt a lesson about portion control. She needed to make sure the biscuits were evenly sized and the slices of cake cut with almost mathematical precision: it was clear that her customers were eagle-eyed and they were quick to point out if someone else had a bigger slice. Alys couldn’t imagine any squabbles breaking out at the till as everyone had been so warm and friendly today, but it was better to be on the safe side.

After they had cleared up and washed up, Flo helped Alys to carry the cake tins back to her Aunt Moira’s then hurried home, promising to be round at eight the next morning to repeat the routine.

‘How did it go?’ Moira had clearly been waiting anxiously for her return. Alys, who was unused to spending such a length of time on her feet, would have loved to sit down and chat but the thought of more baking to be done, as well as a meal to prepare for them both, made her hesitate.

‘We were really busy,’ she said. ‘Everyone wanted to know how you were, and to pass on their best wishes.’

Moira was impatient to know more. ‘Who came in? Which cakes sold best? How did you find it?’

‘We’ve barely anything left,’ Alys said, and she couldn’t help a big grin spreading across her face. ‘So, really, I should set to and get baking. And also make something for us to eat.’

‘We’ve enough food for about a week,’ Moira laughed. ‘A couple of friends dropped by with a casserole and a pie, so there’s no need to worry about tonight’s dinner. Have a cup of tea and tell me all about your afternoon.’

Alys could see that Moira wasn’t going to be fobbed off so, with the casserole reheating in the oven, she made tea and gave Moira a detailed account of who had been in, who had eaten what and everything that had been said.

‘Well done,’ Moira said, sitting back in her chair. ‘You’ll be even busier tomorrow, you know. If you’re open in the morning you’ll catch the walkers as they go by. I’d better ask Flo if she can sort out some ingredients for sandwiches. And I’m afraid you’re right. You’ll need to bake as soon as we have eaten.’

That night, Alys fell into bed feeling absolutely exhausted. Three more cakes were waiting to be filled and decorated in the morning, with brownies and millionaire’s shortbread divided into portions and cooling on the rack. With flapjacks still to be made in the morning she fell into a deep sleep, waking in the middle of an anxiety dream about a giant tin of syrup that she was trying to open with an old-fashioned can opener as it didn’t appear to have a lid. A sweet buttery aroma was filling her nostrils and down in the kitchen she found Moira propped by the stove, stirring oats into the butter, syrup and sugar mixture that she had already prepared. Alys scolded her but was secretly grateful – there was still a lot to be done before Flo arrived.

Friday was as busy as the previous day but followed a slightly different routine. The early walkers were the first through the door, picking up supplies for their hikes, then locals came in for coffee, with tourists appearing in the afternoon for tea and cake, followed by walkers paying a final visit on their return trip in the late afternoon.

The day had passed in much of a blur for Alys although one worrying fact had stuck in her mind. ‘I’ll never get the hang of that coffee machine,’ she’d complained to Flo as she’d carried a tray of dirty cups and plates through to the tiny kitchen. ‘Both my attempts were undrinkable.’

‘You will,’ Flo soothed. ‘We’ll have a practise one day when it’s a bit quieter. With the Easter holidays here why don’t you concentrate on the cake side of things and maybe the teas, and leave the rest to me? You’re doing brilliantly. And I can go home and put my feet up – you have to put in all those hours baking at the end of the day.’

Alys would never admit it to anyone, but she hadn’t realised just how tiring this was going to be. Baking for friends was one thing. Keeping a café supplied whilst working there as well, was something else altogether. The thought of going home to bake, instead of flopping in front of the TV, was deeply unappealing. But she’d promised Moira that it wouldn’t be a problem and, besides, she loved seeing the customers enjoying what she’d made. Plus, Moira had been doing this for ages and she was much older than Alys.

Alys told herself that she would get used to it, and so it proved. After taking the Sunday off her energy levels revived; she found serving in the café less tiring as she became more used to it and she even found time to add a few more cakes to the range, just in time for Easter. By now Alys was getting to know the local customers pretty well, and to understand the walkers a little better. She always smiled to herself as she served them.

‘Shall we have this?’ They would lust over the lavishly iced coffee-and-walnut loaf, or the Victoria sponge, thickly layered with jam and buttercream. Sanity always prevailed, though, and if they were stopping off before heading out on a hike they bought sandwiches. If they bought something sweet it was ‘to top up the energy levels later,’ and they settled on sensible flapjacks, millionaire’s shortbread or brownies, all folded into brown paper bags and tucked into rucksacks to be enjoyed by the side of a rushing stream, or up on a peaty moorland path. If they were heading home after their walk, they would linger over a pot of tea and a well-earned slice of banana cake or raspberry cheesecake, stretching and easing tired leg muscles as they chatted about their day.

After just over a week, Alys had settled into her new role and anticipated opening up the café each morning with the same sense of enjoyment that she’d once felt about going to her design job. She loved lifting the cakes out of their boxes, positioning them on the special stands on the counter with the biscuits in baskets beside them. The appreciative ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of the customers as they walked in and took in the display and the lovely aroma of freshly baked cake never failed to bring a smile to her face. But by the time Moira felt able to come back to work part-time the weekend after Easter, Alys was starting to formulate some more plans.

Chapter Nine

Although Alys had fallen in love with the café the moment she saw it, once Moira had been back at work for a couple of weeks she plucked up courage to ask her whether she would mind if she made one or two changes of her own. Her inspiration had come on a visit to Nortonstall to collect some baking supplies. To her relief, she’d discovered that she didn’t need to take the near-vertical route to the town via the main road. Instead, there was a path that wound its way through the woods, descending level by level on a track that was soft underfoot: here the light filtered green through the trees, and there were glimpses every now and then of the river rushing darkly, and the steep woods rising on the other side of the valley. After the peace and solitude of the path, it was a shock to find herself on the main road, busy with traffic, just outside the town. It was in the window of a Nortonstall charity shop that she’d spotted a lovely vintage cup and saucer, and bought it at once as a present for Moira. Alys could picture it displayed on the grey-painted shelves in the alcove behind the till, beneath the old dark-wood station clock that ticked so peacefully into the room. The cup and saucer had a delicate blue-and-white design of dragonflies, foliage and flowers that looked like orchids. Moira loved it and so did the customers.

So, on her visits to Nortonstall on her rare afternoons off, Alys started to look out for single cups and saucers and mismatched plates. She soon exhausted the stock in the charity shop, but she found a tiny antique shop tucked away up a steep alley off the main street. The doorbell jangled as she absorbed a waft of the smell of old books mixed with the scent of roses, and picked her way through the overflowing shelves, anticipation mounting. After her first visit, when she bore her trophies home, Moira told her that this was the very shop where she had bought the angel’s wings. So, the next time that she paid the shop a visit, Alys mentioned this to the owner, and explained why she was on the lookout for vintage china. Before long Claire, the shop’s owner, had taken to hunting out suitably lovely bits of china and setting them on one side for Alys. Gradually, vintage milk jugs and sugar bowls had been added to Alys’s treasure trove, and she found herself invited for tea with Claire in the tangled garden, draped with wisteria, that swept down from the back of the shop towards the river. Alys took to bringing along a slice or two of cake from the café, ones that she thought Claire might appreciate. She learnt that she could rely on Claire for candid comments on new recipes that she had introduced, appreciative or otherwise. The courgette cake got a thumbs-up for being surprisingly moist, but the beetroot cake had an odd texture and Claire declared a preference for not mixing vegetables with cake too frequently. She would make a pot of Earl Grey and bring out slices of lemon in a dish along with the bone-china plates, cups and saucers that had belonged to her grandmother. They were much-coveted by Alys but she wouldn’t dream of mentioning it to Claire. With the sign on the shop turned to ‘Closed’ they’d sip tea while they soaked up the sun and took in the view down the valley. Alys would try to imagine life back in London, but it was hard. It might as well have been a million miles away, rather than a couple of hundred.

Back in the Northwaite café, the china collection grew until the shelves could hold no more. Moira used the beautiful vintage jugs to decorate the scrubbed tables that the warmer weather had encouraged her to set up in the courtyard. Meadow flowers, such as cow parsley, poppies, cornflowers or whatever happened to be in season, were combined with aquilegia or old-fashioned scented roses from Moira’s garden, all spilling over the sides of the jugs in profusion. The villagers exclaimed with delight whenever a new item of china appeared and soon took to bringing in offerings of their own. ‘We’ve had this old thing sitting in the back of the cupboard for years,’ they’d say, holding out a beautiful sandwich plate with shaped and gilded edges, decorated with flower borders of yellow-and-white daisies threaded through with forget-me-nots. Or ‘This was Mum’s Sunday-best cup. She kept it to drink her tea from after church. We know she would have liked you to have it for the café,’ as they handed over a bone-china cup and saucer, so delicate you could almost see your fingers through it.

A slice or two of Moira’s best chocolate chiffon cake, or a couple of freshly baked scones and tiny pots of homemade jam and clotted cream, neatly parcelled into a brown box, would be waiting when it was time for the donor to leave the café.

Alys persuaded Moira that it was time to release some of the china from the overflowing displays, and use it to serve the customers. At first, Moira was reluctant to make the café reliant on delicate china that had to be washed by hand. But her customers’ delighted reactions to the pieces soon persuaded her otherwise and within a day or two her regulars had already earmarked their favourite cups. Matching cups and saucers to the people she was serving soon became a favourite pastime for Alys. Moira still kept a supply of the practical white china on hand though, so that they could offer their customers a choice. She’d realised that the dainty cups with their delicate handles made some of them nervous and clumsy, fearful of breakages.

Alys was disappointed when the café’s china collection had reached capacity and Moira had to beg her to stop buying. ‘There’ll be no room for our customers at this rate,’ she said, laughing. But Alys simply couldn’t bear to pass by when she saw a particularly nice piece of vintage china or porcelain for sale and the collection of cups, saucers, plates and bowls continued to grow. Her delight in vintage styling had tapped in to something she hadn’t even suspected about herself, and she was hungry for a further challenge. Her disappointment at being urged to stop collecting was relieved a little when, following up on a customer’s tip off, she took the train from Nortonstall to Saltaire, and paid a visit to the vintage clothing and fabric stall in Salts Mill. There she snapped up starched white cloths, lovingly preserved and intricately decorated with crocheted panels, lace and embroidery. They were too fine to be laundered for daily use in the café, but Alys had a plan – she was going to offer to supply vintage china and complete table dressings to the weddings for which Moira created towers of cupcakes, or tiered iced sponge cakes, garlanded with sugar-paste roses and iced tendrils and vines. Before long, crates of linen and china were packed and held at the ready in the store room, ready to dress the tables at the many summer weddings for which Moira had already taken orders that year. Alys felt her creative spirit unfurl and spread its wings, rather like the angel’s wings that she was hoping to persuade Moira to introduce to the company logo and the cake boxes. It seemed as though each day her brain was buzzing with a new idea to try out and Moira, now back at work full-time, had to suggest quite forcibly that she should take a day off that didn’t involve anything at all to do with the café or with baking, in an effort to get her to switch off and relax. So, as spring turned into summer, Alys went less frequently in search of vintage treasures and began to explore the countryside all around Northwaite, as she had started to do on her very first evening in the village.

Chapter Ten

‘Bogbean and myrtle. Pulmonaria,’ recited Alys to herself as she meandered down the path to the bathing pool. It was her favourite path, the one with the stone she called the fairy slide, where the granite had been worn so smooth by the passage of feet that it was scooped in the centre, with raised sides. It undulated down the hillside, reminding her of the long slide at a theme park somewhere in Cornwall that she’d been to many years before, as a child.

She knew that she was mixing up common and Latin names for plants, but the sound of the words pleased her, making their own kind of rhythm to accompany her as she went along the path. Her aunt had been teaching her, surprised by her lack of knowledge of anything other than the most basic garden flowers. Alys made a point of taking photos of flowers on her phone when she was out and about, then taking them back to Moira so they could check them out against the hand-drawn illustrations in Moira’s battered copy of The Concise British Flora in Colour.

The pool was in sight below, glinting invitingly through the trees on this late-spring morning. The water would be freezing, fresh off the moors. She shivered in anticipation. It should be just the right depth at the moment. Any deeper, and she would start imagining moorland monsters lurking down there, their presence protected by the locals who told not a soul about them. Alys smiled to herself. First fairies and now monsters. Her imagination was definitely running away with her. There was something about this area, this valley, though. It felt as though it held so much history, so many secrets.

She shivered again, and shrugged her shoulders in an attempt to break free of the spell it had cast over her. It was a beautiful day, the sort that May offers to seduce you into thinking that summer has truly arrived. The sun was high, the sky all but cloudless and a bright clear blue that stretched upwards into infinity.

Alys crossed the bridge over the stream and stretched out on her back on the grassy bank a little way from the pool. She’d discovered it two or three weeks ago, on one of her walks along the river bank. It was located a little further than she had travelled during her previous explorations, but she soon realised that it could also be reached via the path down the hillside, although this route was less appealing for the journey home when it seemed unaccountably steeper. The pool was a perfect natural formation: a basin formed by rocks, before the water funnelled away and tumbled over stones downstream to Nortonstall, a couple of miles away. The pool always seemed to be calm and still, the water dark and peaceful, and it had suggested itself as the ideal spot for a swim to Alys one day when she realised that the only thing she missed about her trips to the gym back in London was the chance to go swimming. Hauling around sacks of flour, baking, carrying trays of dirty crockery and sweeping the café floor gave her enough of a workout, she reasoned. Swimming would offer some of that nice, gentle relaxation that Moira was recommending.

She gazed up at the sky, watching swifts dart across her vision on high, then swooping low, scooping up insects and shrieking to each other with their high-pitched calls. She was looking forward to the shock of plunging into the pool’s icy water, but she wanted to lie there a while first, warming herself in the sun. Bees buzzed busily around the gorse bushes that were scattered around the edge of the grass and on the hillside, which stretched up behind her. Moira had told her about gorse’s coconut scent, and she hadn’t believed her at first. But now she could smell it quite clearly, wafting over her as she lay there, relaxing into the ground and soaking up wellbeing in every fibre of her body.

Chapter Eleven

As Alys busied herself in the kitchen that evening, chopping onions and garlic, frying, stirring, adding chorizo, tomatoes, Arborio rice and fresh herbs, and absorbing the fragrance filling the room, her mind was drawn back to her afternoon at the bathing pool. It had been an effort to swim in the end, once she’d woken, fuzzy-headed, from her nap in the warm sun. She’d opened her eyes, but couldn’t quite take in where she was at first. There was the smell of greenery, of bracken and ferns. Her mouth was dry, and to her horror she realised it was open. She sat up. Had she been snoring? Drooling? Thank goodness there was no one around to see! Her swimming costume felt hot and sticky against her skin, so she unbuttoned her dress and shrugged it off, unlacing her sneakers before she picked her way over the slippery stones at the edge of the pool. Her plain black costume was in striking contrast to her usual attire, chosen because she’d always preferred to be as inconspicuous as possible in the swimming pool at her gym.

Once in the water, she hadn’t been able to help a grin spreading right across her face despite the chill that was starting to numb her whole body. It was a spectacular spot for a swim – about as unlike the gym pool as it was possible to be. She looked up towards the wooded hill on one side of the valley, gorse banks on the other, climbing up to plateaus of fields at the top.

When she turned back, she’d noticed a figure crossing the packhorse bridge. She paid it no attention, imagining whoever it was to be a hiker, making their way over the stream to pick up the Pennine Way. So, she’d been less than pleased when they’d turned off the bridge and headed over towards the pool. With the sun in her eyes, she’d been able to make out little more than the figure of a man, with a dog lead in his hands, but no dog to be seen.

‘Hi there,’ he said. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve seen a dog go past, have you?’

Alys, treading water, felt a little vulnerable. She hoped that whoever it was would move on quickly. She didn’t relish getting out of the water in front of him, but she was also feeling distinctly chilly. She shook her head but, before she could respond further, the man went on.

‘Oh well, no matter. It won’t be the first time she’s got home before me.’ He paused. ‘I’ve been hearing that you’ve done wonders for Moira’s business. And you seem to be enjoying the countryside. I’ve noticed you out and about on your walks.’

Alys, still treading water, had manoeuvred herself so that the sun was no longer in her eyes. That, and the turn of the conversation, brought the realisation that the dog walker with the missing dog was Rob. She briefly considered the fact that he’d noticed her out and about. What did that mean, she wondered?

A response was clearly called for. ‘D-d-do you ever swim here?’ she asked through chattering teeth.

‘Are you mad?’ Rob laughed. ‘Locals don’t come in here, except maybe in August, when the water’s low enough to paddle. I don’t think I’ve swum here since I was a lad –’ he bent to dip a hand in the water and shuddered melodramatically. ‘Now I know why!’

Alys laughed, despite herself. ‘Call yourself a northerner?’ she said. ‘I’d have thought you’d be in here every day, breaking the ice in winter to get in.’

‘Well, I’ll leave you in peace,’ said Rob, turning back towards the bridge. ‘I’d think about getting out before you catch pneumonia, though.’ And with that he was gone, whistling and calling for his dog. Alys had watched him on his way, before turning round and taking a few quick strokes from one side of the pool to the other. Then, floating on her back, she gazed up into the depths of the blue sky. She’d found herself smiling at the turn that the day had taken.

A smile that was echoed now, then quickly erased as she realised that she’d stopped stirring and was in danger of burning the risotto.

Alys was quiet as she and Moira ate. She poured a glass of red wine for her aunt, but just water for herself.

‘Nothing for you this evening?’ Moira raised an eyebrow. If her niece was anything to go by, young people had become very abstemious. In her day, you never passed up the opportunity of a glass of wine. Alys had seemed to drink less and less each day since she’d arrived. She was looking better by the day, though, so perhaps there was something to be said for abstinence, Moira thought ruefully. Alys had a light tan, her hair was a little blonder, with threads of red and gold in the mix, and today she positively seemed to glow. She said she’d been for a swim in the bathing pool. Moira couldn’t begin to imagine doing such a thing herself. All that water off the Pennines – too bracing by half! Alys was definitely more relaxed in herself, too. No more nervous twisting of rings and bracelets. Although tonight she was a little quiet, a little on edge, perhaps? Moira wondered if something was up – perhaps with that boyfriend back home that Kate had mentioned? Alys herself hadn’t mentioned him once in the weeks that she’d been there. But before Moira could think of a way to pose the question without appearing to be nosey, Alys stood up and started to clear the table.

‘If you’ll be all right, I think I’ll just pop out for a bit of a walk. I’ll do the washing up when I get back. It’s such a lovely evening, but I don’t think it’s going to last. The forecast said rain for tomorrow. I’d like to make the most of it while I can.’

Alys left via the garden, drinking in the scent of the early roses tumbling on trailing stems along the garden wall. Swifts swooped and called above her, coming closer to the houses as the evening wore on. Jackdaws chack-chacked from the church tower. With no clear idea of where she was heading, Alys let herself into the graveyard through the wooden gate and followed the path as it curved around to the back of the church. It was very peaceful, with just the calling of the jackdaws and the occasional hoo-hooing of a woodpigeon to disturb the stillness. Some of the older gravestones had fallen, and the words carved on the headstones around the edges of the graveyard, where it was more exposed to the elements, were illegible.

She settled herself on a seat beneath a yew tree at the heart of the graveyard. Her eye was drawn to a headstone draped in trailing ivy, close to her seat. The setting sun picked out an arched design, carved on top of the stone, which looked strangely familiar. Curious, she got up to take a closer look. The stone was quite weathered, and coin-like shapes of yellow and grey-green lichens spotted its surface. Suckers of ivy had left silvery scars on the stone, an indication that someone had cleared it away in the past. Alys could just make out the name and the date:

1875–1895

Alice Bancroft

Alys felt a chill run through her. She’d died so young! Only twenty years old – fifteen years younger than Alys herself was now. And she had the same first name – well, almost. She shivered. She looked again at the surname – Bancroft – it wasn’t familiar to her. But the design on the stone was. She traced it with her finger. Fat seed pods intertwined with trailing tendrils and vines, rather like something that she’d seen on a William Morris print. Surely it was the same as the distinctive carving that she had noticed on the gatepost and around the door of the last house at the top of the village? But why was the stone so intricately carved, and yet there was no message of remembrance? It seemed odd, especially for someone so young. On impulse, she pulled out her phone and took a photo in the fading light, then headed back to the house, resolving to see if she could find out more.

Chapter Twelve

The thought of the gravestone that she had spotted had bothered Alys for a day or so. She examined the photo on her phone, enlarging it as if it might offer up some clues. Was it just that it was always a shock to come across the grave of someone young? That sense of a life lost before it had even been lived?

As the days passed in a blur of early morning baking and serving in the café, followed by the rigorous cleaning demanded by Moira at the end of each day, Alys thought about it less and less.

‘It’s no good having tables and chairs that stick to you. And crumbs hiding underneath the cushions. It’s best to clean up every night, no matter how tired you feel, then you’re all set when you come in the next morning,’ she’d admonished Alys, who had, at the end of a particularly tiring day, suggested that they could just as easily do all of this in the morning.

It was not until a quiet Thursday, when tourists and locals alike were kept indoors by an afternoon where the rain streamed constantly from a leaden sky, that Alys picked up her phone and flicked idly through her photos in search of blue skies and sunshine.

‘Can I look?’ Moira peered over her shoulder. Never a fan of the mobile, she was nonetheless captivated by the myriad moments caught by Alys, from the sunny skies snapped from Claire’s garden in Nortonstall, to the Pennine crags and wooded valleys around Northwaite.

Alys scrolled through the photos until Moira suddenly called a halt.

‘What was that?’

Alys scrolled back. ‘Oh, just a gravestone that I spotted in the churchyard here. There was something about it that drew me to it – the carving, I think. I’d seen the same carving somewhere else in the village. And her age. She was so young when she died.’

Moira was quiet for a moment. ‘It’s odd that you should have fixed on this. She was actually a relative of yours.’

‘Of mine?’ Alys’s eyes widened. ‘Here? In Northwaite?’

‘Well, yes. The family’s originally from round here. You knew that?’

Alys frowned. ‘I thought we were from Leeds?’

‘We go back a long way around here,’ Moira said. ‘As far back as I’ve been able to trace. Your mum and I were brought up in the area as children, until Dad, your granddad, found work in Leeds when we were in our early teens. Our family had lived in Nortonstall until then, but before that our links were all with this village. My grandma Beth lived here in Northwaite, in the very house I live in now. We used to come and visit her from Nortonstall. Her mother, and her grandmother, had both lived here in a house up at the top of the village. My mum said there was some tragedy linked to the family, to do with Beth’s mother – your great-great-grandmother. She’s the one whose grave you saw. She died so young – I never knew her.’

Alys digested this news. How come she hadn’t known that Moira’s house was a family one? And that the family had roots in the village? Although that would explain Moira’s presence here.

‘What did the family do? Were they farmers?’ Alys asked.

‘No, the women mainly worked at the mill, or were weavers at home before the mills were built. Although one of our relatives, Sarah, was a herbalist – quite well-known locally, by all accounts.’

‘What about my great-great-grandma, Alice?’ Alys was peering at the photo of the gravestone on her phone again. ‘Did she work in the mill?’

Moira hesitated. ‘Well, yes,’ she said. ‘But then she had a baby, Elisabeth, and she didn’t carry on after that.’ Moira paused. ‘I’ve got a family tree somewhere that I started. Look, let’s shut up shop and get off home. It doesn’t look as though there’s any chance of the rain stopping. I’ll dig out that family tree tonight – it might help you to make sense of all those names.’

As they set about clearing up, Alys was thoughtful. Moira had mentioned a tragedy, but had seemed rather reticent. What had happened to Alice, and when? Was there a family mystery? She felt a sense of excitement: it all sounded rather intriguing. On top of that, she had now discovered that her roots were in this actual area, something that she had never suspected before. She was looking forward to finding out more.

Chapter Thirteen

Alys had been so impatient to see the family tree that when Moira finally placed it in front of her that evening, she felt a stab of disappointment. It had been roughly drawn up on a sheet of paper torn from a foolscap notebook. The names at the bottom of the page, Alys and her siblings George and Edward, and those of Moira and Kate, plus her father David were, of course, all familiar to her, along with Eileen: Kate and Moira’s mum. The generations above that included Elisabeth, Eileen’s mother, then Alice, Elisabeth’s mother, names new to Alys until this afternoon. She skimmed over dates and siblings. Elisabeth had none, but Alice was the eldest of five, born to Sarah and Joe Bancroft. No name was given for the father of Elisabeth, Alys noticed. Beyond that, the piece of paper frustratingly provided no further clues.

‘Do you mind if I hang onto this for a bit?’ Alys asked as they sat down to eat.

‘No, just take care of it. It’s the only copy,’ said Moira. She was feeling unaccountably tired today and looking forward to an early night. She was thankful yet again for Alys’s presence – without her she certainly couldn’t have kept the café running. Alys had gone way beyond the call of duty, not only proving herself to be a good baker, but also having a fine eye for how to enhance the business. It wouldn’t be long before she would be wanting to be on the move, Moira thought, and she was dreading the day, although she realised that it wasn’t fair to try to keep her here. She dragged herself out of her reverie as she became aware that Alys was speaking to her.

‘Are you okay?’ her niece was asking, concerned. ‘You’re looking a bit pale, you’ve barely said a word and you haven’t eaten very much.’

‘I’m fine,’ Moira said, and smiled. ‘Just a bit tired this evening. Think I need a long bath and an early night.’

‘Well, if you’re sure that’s all? I hope you’re not overdoing it.’ Alys rose from the table and started to clear away. She paused, then turned to Moira. ‘I’d like to find out more about the history of the area, the mills and such. Get a feel for what it might have been like to live here a hundred or so years ago, now that I’ve discovered we’re all from this area. Have you got any books about it?’

‘Local history, do you mean?’ Moira settled herself on the sofa. ‘No books I’m afraid, but there’s a little museum here in the village, and another one over in Nortonstall. There’s a lot in both of them about the area. You need to remember that it wouldn’t have been like this then.’ Moira winced and adjusted the cushions behind her back, which still played up if she had been on her feet all day. ‘It would have been an industrial landscape down in the valley, not the beautiful countryside we see now. I expect that the paths that you’ve been walking are much the same as in the past, though,’ she said. ‘The workers would have used them to get to the mill from all directions. Lots of children worked there, too. They were employed in the mills because they were small and had nimble fingers. They had to go under the machines to retrieve things, do jobs that adults were too big for. The hours and conditions were awful in the mid-nineteenth century. You should definitely take a look at the museums – you’ll learn a lot there. I found it all a bit upsetting, to be honest, but it’s worth knowing about, especially while you’re here.’

Alys’s next half-day off brought more dark clouds and bursts of heavy rain. The thought of exploring the countryside, her normal half-day occupation, didn’t appeal. So, she made her way over to Nortonstall and spent a few hours in the museum there. It was housed in an old mill, now mainly given over to workshops and studios, but it gave her an idea of the scale of the place, the forbidding walls and the towering chimney, all set in a cobbled courtyard that must once have rung with the clatter of clogs and the bustle of business. She was sure that the Industrial Revolution must have been on the curriculum at school, but clearly it hadn’t stuck in her memory. Now that she was in the landscape that was home to so much of it, her imagination was fired up. She pored over the old black-and-white photos of the area, staring hard at the people captured in them and wondering whether one of them was Alice. She devoured the information about the canals, the weavers’ cottages, the different kinds of mill in the area, how Northwaite had declined in importance as Nortonstall had grown, its importance fuelled by the arrival of the railways. She’d found the depiction of a typical working day particularly startling, especially the length of the journey that so many workers in the outlying parts undertook each morning and evening on foot, before they even started their ten-hour day. And once they were at work, they were under constant pressure, bullied by the overlookers to meet deadlines and targets. So that wasn’t a new thing, she thought to herself wryly as she lingered over a cup of coffee in the mill café, watching the rain puddling in the courtyard. Life must have been such a struggle in those days. She just hoped that there had been some recompense, something to make life worth living.

Part Two

Chapter One

Alice always tried hard to avoid looking at the clock that hung over the door of the tiny schoolroom at the mill. The room had just one small window, high in the wall at one end, opposite the door. It let in a bit of light in the summer, but the room was gloomy in the winter, so the paraffin lamps were always lit. At least it meant that Alice’s pupils couldn’t gaze idly out of the window. In fact, they were mostly pleased to be there, away from the noise of the mill, the humid heat, the impatient shouts of the overlookers, and the ever-present danger of the machines.

The room had been turned from a storeroom into a classroom when a new law obliged the mill owner, Mr Weatherall, to school the children employed at the mill for half the day. With the village school a long walk from the mill, it made sense to Mr Weatherall to have a schoolroom on site, to make sure that the children were on hand to work all the hours available to them. By the end of the week, the younger ones often fell asleep at their desks, faces cradled on scrawny arms that didn’t look strong enough for the work that they had to perform, dazed with fatigue, for hour after hour.

Alice would gladly share small scraps of her lunch with whichever of her pupils looked the frailest and most hollow-eyed that day, even though Alice rarely had enough food for herself. Her income was all they had to support her family. Yet it hadn’t always been like this. Alice could remember a time when life wasn’t quite such a struggle. A time when her father Joe was around, and Sarah, her mother, had seemed somehow lighter, brighter and more carefree. Alice had an abiding memory from childhood of a gift of a little frog that her father had found by the roadside. Caught unawares, it had been pretending to be a stone, steadfast in its belief that no one could see it, until he had picked it up in his handkerchief and carried it gently home. She hadn’t been sure whether to be pleased or alarmed by the gift, reaching out with a hesitant finger to poke the creature, then squealing when it hopped. Sarah came through from the kitchen to see what the fuss was about.

‘Take the horrid thing out of here,’ she scolded, as Joe tried valiantly to recapture it. ‘Whatever were you thinking of, bringing it into the house?’

When Alice’s father cornered the frog, he seized it by its hind leg and chased Sarah back into the kitchen, threatening to put it down the back of her dress. Alice squealed again and ran after them.

‘Get off with you! What do you think you’re playing at?’ protested Sarah. Joe held the frog behind his back and leaned in to kiss Sarah. Momentarily distracted, he loosened his grip and away hopped the frog, across the kitchen floor, to take refuge behind the mop.

Alice had few other memories of her father apart from this vivid one. She remembered him as small and wiry, with bright blue eyes in a tanned face. She knew that he had worked away from home a lot, and that there seemed to be hardly any time when Sarah wasn’t either pregnant or nursing a small baby. Then, with a family of five to feed, suddenly he wasn’t there any more. Alice was so used to her father’s absences that it wasn’t until the littlest one was starting to walk that she realised that he hadn’t been home since she was born. She tried to ask Sarah about it, but her face became shuttered and she turned away. Alice grew up not only unsure whether her father had died or just left them, but with a sense of the impermanence of happiness.

Alice’s childhood had been scented by the smell of herbs cooking together in a pot over the fire. From an early age, she’d helped her mother plant and tend coriander, garlic, marigolds, rue, spearmint and tansy in the garden, providing the basic ingredients for the decoctions, pills and potions she prepared so carefully for all those who sought her help. Some of the other herbal ingredients – skullcap, bogbean and bog myrtle – were better collected from the wild, needing the damp conditions down amongst the woods in the valley, where they thrived in the secret places known to Alice’s mother Sarah and the generations before her.

When she was a child, it was normal to Alice that the evenings, whether in the cold depths of winter or the dusky twilight of summer, would bring visitor after visitor to the kitchen door as the workers made their way home from the mill. It was Alice’s job when she was small to light the candle that stood in a jar beside the door, to act as a marker for those in search of a remedy for a persistent cough, or for ‘spinning jenny sickness’, the lung affliction caused by the fine fabric fluff filling the mill air that left them gasping for breath. They came in search of something to ease nervous complaints or for rheumatic joints made painful by long hours held captive at the mercy of the machines.

Sarah patiently spooned potions and creams into the glass jars and pots that her customers brought with them to save a few farthings, offering soothing words to help comfort the distress that was apparent to her on a daily basis. Her skill and sympathy brought visitors to her from beyond the immediate village and she never turned anyone away, day or night. She was driven by something apart from her wish to help others: she had a need to make enough money to be able to keep her family out of the mill where she herself had suffered so much for a time a few years previously. Now the local doctor, made angry by Sarah’s success in treating the villagers and therefore taking away what he saw as income rightly belonging to him, had threatened her with investigation by the local magistrate. This uncertainty over her status had driven even loyal customers away, her regular clients now making the trek to Nortonstall for their remedies instead, or trying to trust the local doctor, who favoured mercury and bleeding as cures for most illnesses. Sarah, laid low by illness and exhaustion, was unable to make enough to feed the family. So, it was with a heavy heart that Alice had approached the mill in search of work. An educated pauper, and a girl at that, stood very little chance of any other gainful employment in the immediate area.

On her worst days, when it poured with rain all day and the journey to work left her sodden, mud-spattered and wretched before she even began, Alice would wonder about the living hell that they had all found themselves in, and what the people of these hills and valleys had done to deserve it. On other days, in spring or autumn, when the sun shone and the birds sang as she walked the path to work, life seemed almost tolerable. Hot summer days brought a hell of their own, the temperature inside the weaving shed unbearable, the doors flung open only to allow more sultry heat inside.

Alice knew, however, that she was one of the few fortunate ones at the mill. Her mother had sent her at a young age to be taught how to read and write by a retired schoolteacher who lived in the village. Elsie Lister had once taught the children of the local landowners at the grammar school. She had seemed an enormous age to the young Alice, but she was probably no more than fifty, worn down by illness, and then by poverty after she became too ill to work. Sarah, Alice’s mother, had struck a bargain with Elsie: lessons for Alice in return for herbal remedies, and the deal had stuck over the years it took for Alice to learn the alphabet, perfect her letters, understand punctuation, spelling and all the other things that had enabled her over time to become her mother’s scribe and record-keeper. She kept details of Sarah’s remedies, transactions and recipes in a hand that matured from a round, childish script to a confident, flowing copperplate. Even when Alice’s writing education was complete, she had continued to visit Elsie, reading to her as her eyesight failed, helping with errands and small chores now that she had no other family. She had missed her when she died, for Alice’s education had taken her to a place that none of her family could comprehend, and left her isolated there. All she had left to remember Elsie by was a little brooch, an enamelling of a sprig of lavender. Having never seen anything so fine, it had fascinated Alice as a child and Elsie, who must have been aware that the end was close, had gifted it to Alice just before she died. She’d pressed it into her hand, closing Alice’s fingers around it, and brushing away her protest.

‘What use is it to me, bed-bound all the day and night? Am I supposed to wear it on my nightgown? It needs to be worn – you must take it and be sure to wear it every day, to remind you of what you have learnt and who you are now.’

Alice felt lucky that her period of full-time employment in the mill had been limited and she had been given the chance to teach for part of the day. She loved the time that she spent in the classroom and dreaded having to usher her pupils out, sending them all, herself included, into what she often thought of as the jaws of hell. Alice knew that the mill exploited her. She received very little extra in her pay packet for all her hours of teaching, far less than they would have had to pay a trained teacher to come in from outside. But she so relished the time that she didn’t have to spend on the mill floor that she didn’t challenge the situation. Which is why she tried hard not to look at the schoolroom clock – not because time was dragging, but because it went by too fast.

Chapter Two

Alice suffered mixed emotions when Ramsay, the mill manager, told her that someone had been appointed to teach arithmetic to her pupils. This topic was the least favourite part of her morning and she’d often guiltily allowed reading and writing to expand into the allotted arithmetic hour, simply because she enjoyed teaching these subjects much more. Although she could teach basic sums, she felt unqualified to go much beyond that. She didn’t appreciate that her work with Sarah on remedy calculations and costings were as valuable as the hours spent in Elsie’s company had been in advancing her reading and writing. But, as Alice realised with a heavy heart, having someone else come in to teach arithmetic would mean that she would have an extra hour or so each day on the mill floor.

For all his brusqueness, Alice had found Ramsay a fair and thoughtful manager, enquiring after her mother’s health and occasionally sending a small gift home for her.

‘The wife’s been jam-making again. Can’t abide the stuff mysen. But mebbe the goosegogs will do your ma some good,’ he said, thrusting a small pot of delicate-pink gooseberry conserve into Alice’s hands as she left for home. Or, ‘The hen’s been doin’ a second shift wi’out us asking it. The wife can’t keep up,’ handing over half a dozen eggs packed into a straw-filled box with an equal quantity of freshly baked scones on top.

Alice blushed as she stammered her thanks. The gifts were not only kind, but thoughtful. Sarah’s illness had left her so low in energy that she could no longer go beyond fulfilling the basic household duties. The fruit and vegetables went unpicked, so the pies, jams and chutneys that had seen the family through previous hard times no longer filled the larder shelves. Alice did her best to fill the gaps when she got home from work, or on her precious day off, taking over all the chores on that day so that Sarah could simply rest. Try as she might, though, she didn’t seem to find time to fit in all the extra work. Four-year-old Beattie was too young to help and while Annie and Thomas, who were eight and ten, did what they could, cooking was beyond them. Alice had her sights set on training up her younger sister Ella but, at the age of twelve, she showed no signs of being anything other than the most basic cook or housekeeper. She’d rush through her chores and, before anyone noticed, she’d slipped away through the back door, down the garden path and was off through the back gate, roaming the fields and woods, her thoughts always away somewhere else and no eye on the time at all, except when hunger drove her home, tired and dishevelled at the end of the day. No amount of scolding had any effect. Alice, envying her sister this freedom and having never enjoyed it herself, berated her all the more.

Alice wasn’t sure what caused these acts of kindness by old Ramsay and his wife. She tried to hazard a guess at his age – could he be the same age as Sarah? Or older? Maybe they had known each other when they were growing up? She’d mused on it for a while, but there seemed to be no inclination on either side to follow up the gifts. Eventually she’d asked Sarah, half-wondering whether Ramsay was perhaps an old sweetheart of hers. Sarah had laughed, then stopped short, her breath caught.

‘No, they’re from beyond Nortonstall. I never saw them until a few years back when they came to see me with their daughter. She’d been treated by the doctor out their way, but by the time I saw her there was nothing I could do except give her lobelia syrup and suggest ways they could make her comfortable. Molly was such a pretty girl, but as frail as thistledown by the time she came to me. She’d have been around your age if she’d lived. You’d have transcribed her remedy. Do you not remember?’

Alice didn’t, but that was no surprise. She just listed what her mother told her to, and didn’t feel as involved with each and every patient as Sarah did. She remained puzzled, but knew that her mother’s care and patience in listening to her patients often gave them as much comfort as the remedy prescribed. The doctors, on the other hand, tended to adopt an overbearing approach to their patients, brooking no argument or questions, and expecting them to do exactly as they said. Sarah’s approach was a gentle concern for all issues surrounding the patient’s health, with a series of questions designed to probe but not distress, in order to produce a clearer picture of the treatment required. Two patients might seek help for the same complaint, but they rarely left with the same remedy. Sarah’s success was the result of seeing beyond the illness to the person and their individual needs, and prescribing accordingly.

Chapter Three

Barely a week after Ramsay had told Alice that a new teacher was to be appointed, she found herself being introduced to him.

‘This is Richard Weatherall. He’ll be teaching arithmetic. You’re to show him yon classroom,’ and with that Ramsay turned on his heel and was gone, in search of orders to issue on more familiar territory, relating to equipment, cloth orders, and work force.

Alice had expected to find a retired teacher from Nortonstall waiting in the office, happy to have an hour’s paid work a day. Instead, the person silhouetted against the window had the bearing of a much younger man. Indeed, as he stepped forward, Alice saw that he wasn’t much older than she was. He was slim and pale, with light-brown hair that flopped forward, refusing to hold its shape in the severe style expected of it. His clothes instantly marked him out as a gentleman. Alice’s practised eye noted the cut and cloth of his jacket and waistcoat, the fine linen of his shirt. As her eyes travelled the length of him she was surprised to see that his trousers were mud-splattered, his shoes a pair of walking brogues. Richard followed her gaze and laughed.

‘Ah, excuse my appearance,’ he said lightly. ‘I walked Lucy over the moor first thing, then made my way here at once when Father summoned me. There was no time to change, I’m afraid.’

Lucy? Father? Alice was puzzled, and no doubt her face showed it, for Richard smiled and clicked his fingers. Hearing a scrabble and a muffled bark, Alice swung around towards the fireplace where a grey lurcher had been dozing peacefully by the hearth. She bounded up to Richard and butted his leg with her nose until he bent down and fondled her ears. Then she turned her attention to Alice, gazing up at her with beseeching eyes. Alice couldn’t help but smile, and stooped to repeat Richard’s actions.

‘There, best friends already,’ said Richard. ‘Lucy doesn’t take to everyone, you know. It’s quite an honour.’ He moved on swiftly, seeing Alice blush. ‘Do you think it would be all right to bring her into the schoolroom? She goes everywhere with me, you see.’

Alice found her voice at last. ‘I’m not sure.’ She was doubtful. ‘She’s rather large. I think some of the smaller ones might be afeared.’ As the words came out, Alice wondered at herself for slipping into the local dialect. Was it an instinctive reaction to the ‘lord-and-master’ situation? She fingered the brooch that pinned her shawl together, a gesture she used to calm herself. Without a doubt, ‘Father’ must be James Weatherall, the mill owner, and Richard must be his eldest son, recently returned from Cambridge and not proving to be the enthusiastic businessman that his father had hoped for, or so it was rumoured. Rather, he loved to walk the hills, play the piano with his mother and sisters, and write poetry. At least so said Louisa, their neighbour in Northwaite, who was a maid at the big house.

For his part, Richard saw a pale, slim girl with a mass of reddish-brown curls that her work cap failed to contain, dressed in the usual working uniform of the mill girls: a rough long wool skirt and a shirt of a nondescript colour, faded from numerous washes, topped with a knitted shawl pinned tightly at the front. The brooch that held the shawl wasn’t the usual cheap and shiny affair, though, but a rather fine enamelled sprig of lavender. Her eyes, first glimpsed when she raised them directly to him whilst fondling Lucy’s ears, were the most extraordinary green. Or were they blue? He was fascinated. They seemed to subtly change colour as he looked. Then she blushed again, and he realised that he was staring, as well as babbling some nonsense about the dog.

‘I should get back to my class,’ said Alice. ‘You’d better come and meet them. I set them some reading to get on with.’ They would probably have lost interest by now, she reflected, stumbling over difficult words, one or two of them taking the chance for a nap, Charlie Wilmott no doubt teasing Edith Parker and then sulking when she cut him off with a clever remark that earned her the laughter of her classmates at his expense.

Richard signalled to Lucy to return to her fireside spot, then followed Alice down the narrow corridor, away from the peace of Ramsay’s office, past the noisy hubbub of the mill floor, revealed in a flash as a door opened, then hidden again just as quickly as the door snapped shut. Richard suppressed a shudder. The brooding presence of the mill in the valley filled his every day. No matter how far he walked over the moors and through the woods, the chimneys of the valley mills seemed to be always in his sight, even from his bedroom window. Each evening, Father would inform the dinner table of some mill problem or success, of the fluctuating price of cloth, of the need to update the machinery, glancing at Richard to see if he was listening, involved, interested. Richard knew that he was a disappointment. In effect, the mill had paid for his education and was keeping the family in comfort, and his father looked to him to carry on the tradition. But the education that was meant to have prepared him to step into his father’s shoes had simply driven him as far as possible in the opposite direction.

‘Esther would be far better suited to running the business,’ thought Richard ruefully. Trained in the art of home management by her mother, his sister Esther was immensely capable, practical and forward thinking. Richard possessed none of these qualities – his thoughts as he roamed the countryside with Lucy were of a more philosophical nature, and he was far more likely to return home and write poetry than to draw up a plan for the future expansion of the mill. Getting him to teach in the schoolroom was his father’s last despairing attempt at getting Richard involved. Mr Weatherall was only too aware that Richard shied away from contact with the workers and locals, nervous of their roughness and down-to-earth demeanour after the rarefied atmosphere of Cambridge. Perhaps meeting the children would help him to understand the mill life a little better?

The chatter from the schoolroom, clearly audible outside, stilled the moment that Alice turned the doorknob. She pushed the door open and stood aside to let Richard enter. Stepping forward, he faced rows of inquisitive faces, feeling his heart sink as he did so. He felt no more connection with the schoolroom than he did with the rest of the mill, but Alice was already introducing him.

‘Children, I want you to meet Mr Weatherall. He will be your teacher for arithmetic, starting tomorrow. He will sit with us for the rest of the morning, so he can get to know you a little.’ Alice took the teacher’s chair from behind the desk and set it at the front of the room, indicating that Richard should sit down. She then stood behind the desk and Richard found himself watching her, rather than the children, as she instructed them on a handwriting exercise, then moved around the room, pointing out lazy loops and sloping verticals, crouching down to a child’s level to show how a different way of holding the chalk and the slate would make a difference to the final result. By the end of the hour, Richard had an inkling of the skill involved in teaching a class, and of the love and respect that the children had for Alice. He feared that he would be of very little use in the classroom – he had never taught and had no experience in dealing with children – but his father expected it of him and so it must be.

Chapter Four

Alice had been wary of Richard at first, worried that he had been sent by his father to spy on her, to make sure that she was fulfilling her duties in the classroom and teaching the children to a proper standard. She was painfully conscious of her deficiencies when she compared herself to Master Richard, and his fancy education, the likes of which she could barely comprehend. It hadn’t taken her long, however, to discover that, fancy education or not, he was totally at sea in the classroom and, it would seem, in life in general.

‘Could you help me hand out the slates?’ Alice said. Within two days, she had had enough of Richard helplessly watching her, or following her around the schoolroom, hanging on her every word. She no longer worried that he had been sent to report back: rather, she feared she was minding him until James Weatherall had decided what to do for the best with regard to his future in the mill. Alice’s time with the children was limited and precious, and she resented having to waste any of it on Master Richard. She was going to have to come up with a plan.

‘Today, Master Richard will work on arithmetic with half the class, while I work on handwriting with the rest of you.’

The children started to mutter their discontent. They wanted nothing to do with either arithmetic or Master Richard.

‘Then, halfway through the morning, we will change over,’ Alice announced firmly. ‘I want you all to listen very carefully to Master Richard. We are very lucky to have him here to help.’

She’d felt shy at first, suggesting that he might devise a lesson, thinking herself presumptuous and hoping he wouldn’t take her request amiss. It didn’t take her long to discover that he had as little experience of teaching as she had of life at Cambridge. The noise from his group swiftly reached such levels that she had to break off, leaving her group to practise the loops of their ‘g’s’ and ‘f’s’ and intercede before it got too far out of hand.

‘I wonder if you might start with something a little more basic?’ she suggested, once she realised that Richard had set himself the challenge of explaining long division to his group. Richard looked blank.

‘Perhaps if you went back to simple addition or subtraction you could build on that to show how multiplication and division work?’

Richard looked embarrassed and hopeful at the same time. Alice could see he was wondering whether she would step in and take over.

Her cheeks flushed pink, partly at the frankness of his gaze, and partly with annoyance at the difficult position she had been put in. Should she speak to Ramsay? Explain to him that Richard was not well-suited to this role? That he was, in fact, a hindrance to her?

She took a deep breath. ‘I think if you tried to make this relevant to their everyday lives it would help.’

Richard still looked uncomprehending so she pressed on. ‘I mean, if Charlie earns five shillings a week, and gives his mother three shillings towards the running of the house, and has to pay a shilling in fines and stoppages at the mill’ – here all the children laughed, seeing that Alice knew Charlie only too well – ‘how much money has he got left? And if he wants to save sixpence, but wants to buy a penn’orth of sweets from Mrs Wrigglesworth’s shop’ – more laughter – ‘how much does he have left then?’

Alice laid the sums out on her slate as she spoke and held it up for the children to see. Richard’s confusion seemed to have grown and she felt her impatience rising. With a sharp look, she quelled the giggles and unrest that had broken out in the writing group and thought rapidly.

‘We’ll change the lesson a bit. I’d like this group’ – she indicated the arithmetic group – ‘to introduce themselves to Master Richard and tell him about the numbers in their life. So, how old they are, the numbers of brothers and sisters that they have, and the number of people in their family that work in the mill. Then we will put all the numbers together and over the next few weeks we will talk about average numbers, and how to work them out.’

Alice looked at Richard. She hoped he would seize the lifeline she was offering him. At least it would allow him to learn a little about his pupils’ lives, and perhaps to see how he could make arithmetic relevant and useful to them.

‘And tomorrow, I will ask Mr Ramsay if we can borrow the abacus from his office to help with our sums.’ She hoped the novelty would add an extra incentive to get on with things.

As she turned back to her own group, Alice was relieved to see Richard gather his group to him and to hear him start to question them. Even if they got nowhere with the project she’d set them, at least he would start to gain a bit of an insight into their lives.

So how had she moved from irritation to these complicated emotions? When had she stopped feeling annoyed by his uncertainty in the classroom, and started to see it for what it was: shyness and lack of experience? When had she started to respond to his vulnerability, finding herself protecting him from the children? Sharp and canny in spotting weak spots, they soon got over their awe of Master Richard and were quick to tease and fluster him. With no experience of quelling wildness, he was at a loss, until Alice stepped in and exerted discipline. She had no need to raise her voice or threaten – the children instantly understood that she meant what she said. And in any case, they had no desire to displease her.

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