Sarah’s Story
Lynne Francis

Published by Avon, an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers

The News Building

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in ebook format by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Copyright © Lynne Francis 2018

Cover design © Alison Groom 2018

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 ebook 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 © August 2018 ISBN: 9780008244293

Version: 2018-06-07

To the Writing Matters group for all their encouragement and support.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part One: May – September 1874

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Part Two: September 1874 – February 1875

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Part Three: February – April 1875

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Part Four: April – September 1875

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Part Five: September 1875 – October 1877

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Part Six: November 1877 – September 1881

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Part Seven: September 1881 – August 1882

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Part Eight: August 1882 – May 1890

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

The Mill Valley Girls Series

About the Publisher

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Sarah had watched the bird of prey awhile, shading her eyes against the midday sun. It was hunting from the edge of Tinker’s Wood, scattering small birds from the hedgerows where they had taken refuge from the heat. The hedge-hawk had had no success so far, and she wondered at the energy it was expending, but it was patient. It returned to the shelter of the woodland canopy each time, waiting for the scattered birds to settle, then launched another attack. She didn’t want it to succeed, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away, either.

Just when she thought it must have given up and flown away without her noticing, it startled her by skimming up over the hedge, so close to where she was sitting that she could have sworn she saw the intent in its yellow eye as it swept past. There was a muffled squawk, a flurry of fine feathers and calls of alarm – and it was all over. The hawk sped off, taking its prey to a plucking post deep in the woods.

With a sigh and a shudder, Sarah jumped down from the wall where she had perched herself and shook out her skirts, craning her head back over her shoulder to check for any mossy stains. She tied her bonnet back in place over her curly brown hair which, in honour of the unusual warmth of the weather so early in May, was loosely caught up on top of her head rather than hanging halfway down her back, then she turned back to the track. She’d wasted enough time and the plants in her basket were beginning to wilt. Her grandmother would not be pleased. With the sun in her eyes, Sarah didn’t notice the man until she was almost upon him. She cried out in shock and almost stumbled as she tried to avoid him.

His arm shot out and he held her in a firm grip. ‘Watch out for yoursen here, miss. ’Tis a rough track you tread and your ankles look a sight too dainty for it.’

Sarah, her heart beating fast at the close and unexpected encounter, felt her colour rise. It was wrong of the man to make a remark about her ankles, which in any case he couldn’t have seen, encased as they were in sturdy, though patched, boots.

She made to shake him off but he’d already let go of her arm and stepped back to a respectful distance. He held both hands up, placatingly.

‘I only thought to save you from a fall, miss. No offence.’

Now that she was no longer blinded by the sun she could see what manner of man he was. And she rather liked what she saw. He was barely taller than she was – unusual in itself as she was petite – wiry with dark curly hair and a deeply tanned face. His eyes shone bright blue and they seemed filled with an amused expression, while a smile played around his lips. She had no idea how she could read so much into a countenance, but she had the distinct impression that he was laughing at her.

‘I’ll thank you to stand aside and let me on my way,’ she said, with as much dignity as she could muster.

He regarded her gravely, then bowed. ‘The track is yours.’ He stood back to let her pass and she had gone but ten paces before he called after her, ‘But I’d be honoured if you’d let me keep you company along the way. I fear ’tis not safe for a young girl like you to be abroad along this path. ’Tis used by all manner of ruffians and vagabonds, heading to and from the water.’

His words echoed those of her grandmother, who had warned her never to use this route, tempting though it was as a short cut, for the very same reason. She faltered in her stride. How could she know whether or not he was the very same vagabond whom he was proposing to guard her against? She turned and regarded him.

‘And where are you from, if I might make so bold as to ask? Are you from these parts, or a stranger here?’

The man chuckled. ‘My name is Joe Bancroft. Today I am just passing through but I’ve spent enough time here in Nortonstall to know that the canal dwellers do have a fondness for this track here, using it to get them most directly into town, and they be, for the most part, company ’twould be the wisest for you not to keep.’

By this time, he had fallen into step beside her and, reassured by his manner, she had allowed him to keep pace with her until the track widened out. Here, a path struck out over the fields, climbing up towards Nortonstall, and she felt quite safe to take it alone. It was an open track and her progress along it would be visible for miles, not hidden as they were right now between two high hedges laden with May blossom.

He’d talked about all manner of things as they’d walked, about the hedges and the birds and the creatures hiding within, and she’d reached the end of their journey together knowing no more about him than she had at the start, nor he of her.

‘I thank you for your company but I must leave you now and make haste. My grandmother will be vexed.’

‘We must hope not,’ Joe said. ‘I, too, thank you for your company. I daresay I’ll not be able to pass this way again without remembering you.’ He smiled, a rich and joyous smile.

Sarah, rather taken with the thought, smiled back.

‘Might I know your name?’ Joe asked.

‘Sarah,’ she replied, all at once reluctant to part but turning to climb the stile nonetheless. ‘Sarah Gibson.’

‘Well, Sarah Gibson, I hope our paths may cross again, if not here then in t’near neighbourhood.’ And with that Joe tipped his hat to her and strode off.

Sarah, almost cross that he hadn’t offered to hand her up, mounted the stile, jumped down on the other side and retrieved the basket that she had pushed beneath, before striking out up the hill. She looked back once and could just make out the top of his hat as it passed between the hedgerows. A melodious yet jaunty whistling drifted up to her, causing her to smile again. Joe Bancroft appeared to be a man of the greatest good humour, something that his very presence seemed to spread and share. She rather hoped that she would see him again, and soon.

After that first encounter, Sarah had arrived home to Hill Farm Cottage breathless and flushed, easily accounted for to her grandmother, Ada, by her fear that she was very late and might have caused her to worry. She described at great length how she had wandered further afield than usual and discovered lungwort and comfrey, waxing lyrical about the great quantities there and promising to return for more at the first opportunity.

She made no mention of her route home by Tinker’s Way, nor of her encounter with Joe Bancroft. That was something to be kept to herself, a memory to savour in private moments when no one else was around. Having examined the chance meeting from every angle, Sarah concluded that it was something she must repeat, despite having no way of knowing how this could be achieved. As it was on Tinker’s Way that she had first seen Joe, she decided that it was to Tinker’s Way she must return, risking the wrath of her grandmother if her disobedience were to be discovered.

Chapter 2

Sarah had lived in Hill Farm Cottage, along with her grandmother Ada, for as long as she could remember. Sarah’s mother, Mary, had lived there too for a while. Mary had married a weaver from Northwaite, William Gibson, who – having made himself unpopular for one reason and another at the local mill – had been forced to look further afield for work, in Manchester. He left behind his wife Mary, along with Sarah and her two younger sisters Jane and Ellen. He sent home what he said he could spare from his wages each week but, even so, without additional financial help from Ada the family wouldn’t have survived.

Ada’s role as a herbalist gave her some status in the village, and a little wealth; enough to afford the rent on the cottage. It was a little way out of Northwaite but was big enough to house them all and to provide a garden for Ada to grow the herbs she needed. The distance from the village meant that Ada paid a lower rent, but it was a disadvantage for the less able of her patients, who struggled to make the journey. So, from an early age, Sarah had been employed to deliver remedies to them as necessary.

Ada cut a stern figure despite her diminutive size, dressing all in black in honour of her long-dead husband, Harry Randall. When Sarah was small, the approaching rustle of Ada’s bombazine dress had filled her with dread for she always feared that she was about to be caught out in some behaviour considered worthy of punishment. In later years, Sarah got to wondering whether Ada’s joy had died along with Harry, for she smiled little and scolded a good deal.

It was partly this that made her eager to offer to run errands for her grandmother, so that she could leave the cottage and its frequently strained atmosphere. She learnt very quickly that if she was swift in the execution of the errand she could dawdle her way home, stopping on the bridge over the brook to look for minnows or sticklebacks darting about in the shallows or, in spring, to watch fluffy young ducklings quack anxiously after their mother as she shepherded them on an outing. And if she loitered in the doorway of Patchett’s, the baker’s, she would often be rewarded with a treat.

‘Been out delivering for your gran again? You’re a good girl. You must be hungry – here’s a morsel for you.’ Mrs Patchett, the baker’s wife, would wipe her floury arms on her apron and beam, handing over a roll that she said was misshapen, or a sweet tart where the pastry had caught and burnt a little round the edges. The one thing the treats had in common was that they were all somewhat larger than a morsel and Sarah would eat them quickly on the last stretch of her journey home, taking care to wipe her mouth on her sleeve and to lick her fingers to remove the evidence.

As Sarah grew a little older, Ada sent her on errands beyond the immediate village and she quickly came to know her way around the countryside and to delight in exploring it. By this time Mary had left her mother’s house, taking the two little girls with her to join her husband in Manchester. Sarah, aged ten, was left behind to act as her grandmother’s companion.

Sarah wasn’t entirely sorry at this turn of events. Her grandmother and mother clashed constantly and Sarah’s loyalties were torn. Although she found her grandmother formidable, she was at least consistent. You knew where you stood, and you knew to expect punishment if you did wrong. Sarah’s mother was harder to fathom. At times she was emotional, gathering her three children to her and telling them how much she loved them all. At other times she was cold and cruel, denying them food for childish misdemeanours. Or worse: Sarah had found her sister Ellen shut in the cellar one day when she chanced to go down there to find jars for the ointments her grandmother was making. Ellen, her eyes saucer-like with terror, could barely explain what she had done to deserve this and Sarah was unable to discover how long she had been down there. Ellen spent the rest of the day clinging to Sarah’s skirt while she worked.

Mary returned quite late that day, unusually flushed and looking happier than Sarah had seen her in a while. That evening, harsh words passed between Ada and her daughter and within the week Mary was gone, taking Jane and Ellen with her. Sarah discovered that the household was a calmer place without her mother, although she missed Jane and Ellen terribly. Now she had no companions to spend her days with, and her distance from the village meant that she made no close friends there. She thought she ought to miss her mother, too, but since her grandmother had been such a strong presence throughout her formative years all went on much as before, although perhaps a little more quietly. If Sarah was missing affection in her life she didn’t notice, it having been in short supply before.

Ada wrote to her daughter in Manchester once a month and received news in return. She shared this with Sarah, who, noticing her grandmother’s pauses as she read aloud, suspected that much was being kept from her. Jane and Ellen were now lodged by day with a neighbour as Mary had gone to work in the mill alongside her husband. A frown creased Ada’s brow as she read this out to Sarah, who was old enough herself to worry that her younger sisters wouldn’t be properly cared for.

‘What need do they have of yet more money?’ Ada muttered. Sarah kept quiet, aware that she was speaking more to herself than to her granddaughter. ‘Is what I send not enough? It must be the drink. The devil’s work.’

With the rest of the family gone, and without her mother’s presence to create and inflame tensions, Sarah and her grandmother quickly settled into a mutual understanding. Ada grumbled and complained but Sarah came to see that it meant little.

Sarah dutifully accompanied her grandmother, staunch in her Methodism, to the chapel in Northwaite every Sunday but, if truth be told, she was barely a believer herself. She learnt the art of appearing to worship, whilst all the time she was far away in daydreams in which she wandered the surrounding countryside, spending time with the sisters she missed so much. She feared they would be so well grown as to be unrecognisable the next time they met.

Her grandmother would try to draw her into conversation about the sermon on the way home, but Sarah was always ready to distract her or to divert her thoughts. Usually she would ask a question about some remedy that they were making but once she had thought to enquire more about Ada’s, and the family’s, faith.

‘Did my mother go to chapel with you when she was young?’ she asked. She was well aware of Ada’s high standing in the chapel community yet Mary had attended chapel rarely, simply refusing to be ready on time, and she had prevented Jane and Ellen from attending too. Sarah, as the eldest daughter, had accepted her own role as her grandmother’s companion and gone along without questioning it. Now she wondered whether the strained atmosphere in the house had been caused by arguments about religion, or whether it was something else entirely.

‘Your mother came to chapel until she was about sixteen, when she met your father,’ Ada said. ‘William Gibson didn’t hold with the Methodist beliefs, in particular where drink was concerned, and within three months he had your mother rejecting them as well.’

Ada’s dislike of Sarah’s father was clear, Sarah thought. Could this explain why he was such a shadowy presence in her own life? He had been working in Manchester as long as Sarah could remember; certainly since Jane was born and probably before that. They had been a household of women for what seemed like the whole of Sarah’s life.

Something else that her grandmother had said had lodged in her mind, too: her mother and father had met when Mary was sixteen. That was younger than Sarah was now. The thought had worried away at her – living in an out-of-the-way cottage with just her grandmother for company, how was she ever going to meet a young man, let alone marry and have a family of her own?

Chapter 3

The day after her encounter with Joe, Sarah suggested to her grandmother that it would be wise to go back and gather as much of the remaining lungwort as possible before someone else discovered its whereabouts. Ada was suspicious of Sarah’s eagerness to go herb gathering, when before she had considered it an unwelcome imposition, but she was always grateful for supplies of the plants that she didn’t grow herself. So it was that within the week, Sarah set off again for Tinker’s Wood. She’d dressed carefully, choosing her second-best blouse and skirt in the knowledge that wearing her best clothes for such an errand would have alerted her grandmother to the fact that something was afoot. Even so, she’d been careful to slip out of the house before Ada had the chance to scrutinise her too closely.

As she made her way down the garden she paused at the rose bed to sniff deeply. She thought about taking a rosebud or two to tuck in her hair, then rejected the idea, instead scooping up a handful of newly fallen petals, keeping them in her pocket until she was out of view of the house. Then she scrunched up the petals and scrubbed them against her cheeks, hoping that their deep crimson colour would bring out the roses there. At the very least, she felt, her skin would take on some of the glorious scent.

Sarah tried hard to pretend that she was undertaking a normal outing but she was nervous and giddy, shrinking back into the hedge at the sound of horses’ hooves on the lane and appearing so flustered that the carter was moved to observe to his mate, ‘Isn’t that young Sarah Gibson? She’s a bold lass, always ready with a greeting. Whatever can have afflicted her today?’

Sarah simply wanted the first part of her errand to be over, and to remain unobserved throughout, convinced that her guilty longing for a meeting with Joe Bancroft must be written all over her face. She couldn’t have explained why it was that she wished to see him so much, nor what instinct made her wish to keep it a secret. All she knew was that she had thought of little else but Joe’s smile since she had seen him last, and the way that it lit up his eyes. And, without fail, the memory of the way those eyes lingered on her brought a blush to her cheeks.

Now, in a hurry to complete the legitimate part of her errand, Sarah gathered the lungwort along the edge of Tinker’s Wood with great haste, barely noticing as her hand plunged in amongst the nettles to grasp the flowering stems of the herb. It was here that Joe Bancroft came upon her unexpectedly, seated at the edge of the wood, ruefully sucking fingers made swollen and itchy by the surfeit of stings.

‘Oh, it’s you!’ Sarah, caught unawares, blurted it out. She had hoped and expected to see him a little later in her outing, along Tinker’s Way, where she would have been more composed and in control of herself.

Joe – who had been poaching in the woods – had taken care to tuck the rabbit that was destined for the pot into one of the capacious pockets of his jacket, and it was hidden from Sarah’s sight. He gestured to the ground beside her.

‘May I?’ he asked.

‘Why yes,’ said Sarah, arranging herself as prettily as she could and hoping that the dappled shade under the trees was showing her to her best advantage.

Joe loosened the red neckerchief from around his neck and used it mop his forehead.

‘’Twill be a right hot ’un today, I reckon,’ he said. ‘Yon herbs will be after wilting.’ He nodded in the direction of Sarah’s basket.

She hastily pushed the basket further into the shade with her foot and just managed to stop herself from saying, ‘Yes, I must get them home to my grandmother,’ which was the first thing that had sprung to mind. For she had rehearsed a second meeting with Joe over and over in her head, and in her imagination the conversation flowed freely. She now found herself tongue-tied, with not a single sensible thing to say to this man.

Joe leant towards her and she shrank back a little. ‘What hast thou done to thy hand?’ he asked and, reaching out, he took Sarah’s small hand in his. She was aware of the calloused roughness of his skin as he gently opened out her fingers, turning her hand back and forth as he examined the raised and reddened areas. Then he lifted the sore fingers to his lips and blew on them with extreme gentleness. Sarah, who had been half expecting him to kiss them, was startled. The sensation was both soothing and cooling, and something else entirely. Joe kept his eyes fixed on hers as he repeated the action. This time he finished by kissing the tips of her fingers.

Later, Sarah could barely imagine what had come over her. Her lips had parted involuntarily but she did not speak. She felt as though her insides had turned to liquid – a liquid that was charged with fire.

‘Well, Sarah Gibson,’ Joe said, ‘what are you doing out here, a young girl like you, roaming alone again? Anything could happen to you.’ He said it teasingly, but as he spoke he let go of her hand, setting his free hand on her neck and gently drawing her face towards his. Her eyes were locked with his as he kissed her, at first gently and then deeply. She did not know what to make of the feelings that this created within her; the fire had turned to ice, then fire again. When he let her go she wanted both to have him kiss her all over again, and to run away.

Joe sat back and studied her. ‘Well, well, Sarah Gibson. You’re a one and no mistake.’ He took her hand again and sucked her fingers almost absent-mindedly, looking perturbed all the while.

Sarah, who was now feeling that their encounter had not gone at all as she had intended, snatched her hand away and scrambled to her feet, uttering the words she had repressed earlier.

‘I must get back to my grandmother.’ She indicated the basket of lungwort. ‘She’ll be needing this.’

Joe got to his feet too. ‘Let me walk along of you.’

‘No, no,’ Sarah said. ‘I must hurry.’ She picked up her basket and ran down the hill, feeling unaccountably close to tears. As she turned to mount the stile from the field to the footpath she saw Joe standing just where she had left him. His bright waistcoat made a vivid splash of colour in the shade of the trees and he raised his hand in farewell. He called out and Sarah wasn’t sure whether she had heard it correctly, but she thought he’d said, ‘Goodbye, Sarah Gibson. Until tomorrow.’

The meeting had not played out according to plan at all, Sarah thought as she made her way home. In her often-imagined version, he had begged to accompany her on her walk and been solicitous and reverential towards her. Her cheeks burnt with indignation. How dare Joe Bancroft act in such a forward manner towards her? And what did he mean by ‘Until tomorrow’? She had no intention of seeing him ever again.

An hour later, with the lungwort delivered to Ada – who had given her granddaughter a sharp look on registering both the clothes she was wearing and her flushed demeanour – Sarah was consumed with longing to see Joe again. The memory of his kiss had returned to her and she shifted restlessly as she tried to settle to the sewing tasks that had piled up in the workbasket. She longed to head out into the sunshine again and roam across the fields where she could explore her thoughts. Inside the house she felt stifled, but she knew she must stay there and act as normally as possible. Her grandmother must not suspect that anything out of the ordinary had happened.

Chapter 4

‘There’s a man at the gate, Sarah. We’re not expecting visitors, are we?’

Ada’s tone was querulous. She’d had a bad night, in pain from the rheumatism that plagued her hands and feet at different times of the year, and she wasn’t in the mood for the niceties that a social visit would demand. Sarah peered out of the window over her grandmother’s shoulder and had to suppress a gasp.

Standing at the gate, cap set at a jaunty angle, a bright-red neckerchief tucked in the neck of his canvas shirt and wearing a different waistcoat, but no jacket in recognition of the warmth of the day, was Joe Bancroft.

‘I’ll go and ask him what he wants,’ Sarah said. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll send him on his way.’

Without waiting for her grandmother’s response, she opened the door and marched down the path. Joe swept his cap from his head with a flourish and bowed at her approach.

‘Good day, Sarah Gibson. I was just passing by and thought to ask whether you or your grandmother had need of help? Aught to be fixed around the house or garden?’ The expression on Joe’s face was one of guileless friendliness.

‘How did you find me here, Joseph Bancroft?’ Sarah was quite fired up. ‘It’s most forward of you to call on me at home in this way.’ She was almost spluttering with indignation at his behaviour.

Sarah had quite forgotten how she had sought out Joe the previous day, as well as how she had been longing to see him again ever since. Now, concerned that he had tracked her down in her own home, she felt quite wrong-footed. Joe, who seemed mildly amused rather than put out by her greeting, was looking over her shoulder.

‘Those roses there –’ he pointed at Sarah’s favourite crimson blooms ‘– would they be the ones scenting your cheeks yesterday?’

Sarah’s blush was as crimson as the rose petals. She was caught out in her vanity and embarrassed by it. But Joe’s face had changed in an instant. He spoke low and urgently.

‘Sarah Gibson, I must see you again. I’ve not been able to get thee from my mind the whole night through. Meet me tomorrow at the edge of Tinker’s Wood.’

Sarah shook her head, half turning as she heard her grandmother open the door.

Joe spoke again. ‘I must go away awhile tomorrow night. But first I must see you.’

‘Sarah, come away back inside.’ Ada’s tone was sharp and Sarah turned at once to go in.

‘Tomorrow. At midday. I will wait,’ Joe said.

Sarah turned back in time to catch Joe doffing his cap to both her and Ada, before he assumed his air of jaunty insouciance once more and went on his way, whistling.

‘What did he want?’ Ada demanded as soon as Sarah stepped over the threshold. ‘He looked nothing better than a tinker. I hope we’ll not be robbed in our beds tonight.’

Sarah’s mood switched quickly once more and she felt rage welling up inside her at her grandmother’s words. How could she refer to Joe in this way, as a tinker and a potential thief? She did her best to remain calm, however, determined not to reveal that she had any prior acquaintance with Joe.

‘Oh, he just wondered whether we had any jobs around the house or garden that required a man’s hand. He was most polite in his manner. I don’t think we have anything to fear from him.’

Sarah busied herself with folding laundry, hoping that she had allayed her grandmother’s worries, all the while prey to violently mixed emotions. Despite her cross words to Joe, she knew without a doubt that she would try to meet him at Tinker’s Wood the next day. When he had said that he’d been unable to get her from his mind the whole night through, a thrill had run through her. No one had ever said such a thing to her before. It was a secret, and she must keep it to herself, yet it gave her a delicious feeling of power.

She wished her sisters still lived there with her – she would have shared Joe’s words with them and asked them for their help. The laughing and giggling this would have provoked would no doubt have irritated Ada but, as it was, she had no one to turn to – and no one to help her effect her plans. At midday the next day her grandmother would expect Sarah to be at home, preparing their meal, not heading off over the fields to a secret assignation.

Although Sarah tried very hard to apply herself to the tasks set by her grandmother for the remainder of that day, her concentration was woefully lacking. While transferring the herbal distillations to smaller containers she overfilled the bottles, allowing the liquid to pour over the sides unchecked and so earning a scolding from Ada. She let the potatoes boil dry while preparing the midday meal, being too busy staring unseeing out of the window to notice anything amiss until a smell of burning snapped her out of her reverie. Sent out to gather may blossom from the hawthorn hedge bordering the garden she wandered off and came back empty-handed after an hour, having been distracted by watching a weasel hunting baby rabbits in the field beyond.

Ada was quite exasperated by the time bedtime arrived. ‘Well, child, I don’t know where your head has been today. I hope tomorrow brings a better state of affairs. After you have helped me to Nancy’s house in the morning, I suggest you use your free time usefully to consider your behaviour today. When you fetch me back later you can tell me what you have learnt.’

Sarah stared in astonishment at her grandmother, then collected herself. Having spent most of the day trying to work out how she could find an excuse for yet another herb-gathering trip to Tinker’s Wood, she was both amazed and alarmed at being given the solution to her problem by the very person she had expected to be an obstacle to her plan.

Sarah always found it difficult to sleep on summer evenings, when it was still light outside while the household was abed. That night was no exception and she tossed and turned, hot with anxiety and anticipation, until she could have sworn that she’d slept not a wink and here it was, already light again but this time with the freshness of dawn.

In the morning she helped her grandmother into her visiting clothes, doing up the tiny and fiddly buttons without complaint, and took extra care over breakfast. She even brought in a rose from the garden to set on the breakfast table. Sarah had washed up the breakfast dishes and finished her chores long before her grandmother considered herself ready to leave, but she did her best not to show any signs of impatience.

The sun was high in the sky before they set off to walk to Nancy’s cottage in Northwaite and Sarah calculated she would need to hurry if she was to reach Tinker’s Wood within a half-hour of Joe’s appointed meeting time. Despite feeling faint with apprehension, she did her best to be attentive to her grandmother as they made their way to Nancy’s house.

‘Now, child, I will be expecting you not a moment past four in the afternoon,’ Ada said. ‘You know that I can’t abide the way Nancy goes on, but with the sorrow she’s had, well …’ Ada sighed. Her bag held a variety of remedies requested by Nancy, whose husband’s death had been followed not long after by the deaths of her daughter Jean’s youngest children. Jean’s subsequent nervous collapse had left Nancy to care for the family until her daughter regained enough strength to return to the farmwork that had supported them, albeit in the most meagre of ways, since her husband had walked out on them.

Ada had expressed a belief that the loss of the two youngest had been a blessing in disguise. ‘Two less mouths to feed,’ she’d said, and looked surprised when Sarah had shushed her with an expression of horror.

Now Sarah kissed her grandmother on the cheek and wished her a pleasant afternoon, waving a greeting to Nancy as she stood at the door, before she took herself off at what she hoped was a seemly pace. Once out of view of Nancy’s house she broke into a run, stopping only once to retrieve her bonnet, which she’d failed to fasten well enough, so it had shaken itself free of her curls.

She slowed her pace when she reached the field that led up to Tinker’s Wood, the trees on its northern edge perched on the crest of the hill. If Joe should be watching, she didn’t want to appear over-eager, nor did she want to arrive too promptly, which would also have suggested too obvious a desire to please him.

As she reached the brow of the hill, she scanned the edge of the wood for a flash of colour, a sign that Joe was waiting there. But no one was to be seen. Sarah slowed her pace yet more. Was she early? A glance at the sun showed her timing to be correct, so it had to be that he was late.

She sought out the spot where they had sat before and settled down, plucking disconsolately at the grass around her. She felt half-inclined to go home, since he couldn’t be bothered to keep an arrangement he’d made, but all the nervous anticipation that she had endured over the last day kept her there. Scanning the field and the path that skirted it, she looked for signs of movement, but there were none. The countryside drowsed in the heat and she began to feel sleepy herself after her restless night. She wondered whether it would spoil her clothes if she lay back in the grass for a nap.

The hands placed over her eyes took her totally by surprise but the sensation of the rough skin on the fingers told her who it was, even as she gasped out loud. Joe had crept up behind her with the practised silence of a poacher.

‘And what might you be doing here on such a fine day, Sarah Gibson?’ Joe asked.

‘You know well enough, Joseph Bancroft,’ Sarah retorted. ‘And where, may I ask, have you been?’

Joe held up his hands in supplication. ‘Ah, I had things to attend to that took longer than I thought. But here I am now.’

Sarah noticed his failure to offer an apology but, aware of the time already lost from the little they had available to spend in each other’s company, she refrained from remarking on it.

‘Look,’ Joe said, ‘I brought us summat to share.’ He pulled some bread, cheese and a couple of bottles of ale from the pockets of his jacket. Sarah regarded the ale doubtfully but was glad of his forethought in bringing food; the sight of it made her realise how hungry she was, having been too nervous to breakfast well.

‘And,’ Joe said, holding out his hand to pull her to her feet, ‘I know a place in t’woods where we can eat, away from the heat and prying eyes.’

Sarah was glad of this too; she had been fearful that one of the villagers might have cause to pass along the track below and spy her there. She shook out her skirt and followed Joe into the wood, wondering at his surefootedness when there seemed to be barely a path.

Chapter 5

Joe led them deep into the wood, to a small clearing hidden a little way from the nearest path. Sarah marvelled that he could find it. The narrowest of tracks suggested that animals were the only ones to pass this way and, when the path opened into a clearing with a wall of rock behind it, Sarah saw there was a small pool at the foot of it. ‘’Tis used by the deer,’ Joe answered when she questioned him, and he busied himself spreading out his jacket for them to sit on, and laying out the food.

The first time he offered her the bottle of ale, Sarah demurred. Her grandmother never touched a drop and expected her to follow suit; she’d tried it once at a village celebration and had not been at all taken by it. After Joe had taken several large swigs, he offered her the bottle again and she felt it might seem churlish to refuse. So she took it from him, wiped the neck and took a couple of sips before offering it back.

Joe laughed at her. ‘Why, tha’s barely let a drop past thy lips. Here –’ and he handed it straight back to her ‘– tha’ needs more’n that when it be so hot.’

Sarah took a bolder swig and tried not to splutter. It did, it is true, have a pleasing effect. It seemed to help ease the anxiety that still knotted her stomach, so she drank deeply once more. Joe laughed again and reached over to take the bottle from her, his fingers brushing hers as he did so.

‘Now you have a taste for it,’ he teased. ‘And I must fight for my share.’ He pulled her towards him playfully and cupped her chin, gazing into her eyes. ‘Will tha’ miss me when I’m gone, Sarah Gibson?’ He used his hand to make her nod her head and they both burst out laughing. In the next instant, his lips were on hers and her hands were in his hair.

‘Ah, Sarah, Sarah,’ he murmured into her neck. He ran his hands up and down her back and she shivered at his touch, lost in the sensation. His hands found their way beneath her skirt to caress her legs, her thighs. She stiffened and tried to pull away from him but he kissed her again and undid the buttons on her blouse one by one, running his fingers over the curve of her breasts and whispering ‘Sarah, oh Sarah,’ over and over until she found she had allowed herself to be laid gently on the grass whilst his hands explored every inch of her beneath her clothes. She took delight in his touch and in the secrecy of the situation. She had never been the focus of anyone’s attention before – certainly not in such a way – and she didn’t want it to stop.

Afterwards, it was as if she had emerged from some kind of enchantment. Joe had his back to her, tucking in his shirt, and she lay and gazed up at the trees overhead, watching the patterns that their leaves made against the sky. There was something about the quality of the light that made her sit up suddenly, fearful of what time it was.

Joe was silent on their way back to the edge of the wood, but when they reached it he turned her to face him. ‘I was your first.’ It was a statement rather than a question but Sarah nodded, at a loss for words. He pulled her to him, in a rough hug that all but knocked the air out of her, then held her away from him at arm’s length.

‘Look after yourself, Sarah Gibson. And look out for me when I get back.’

Then he set off at a great pace down the hill and did not turn round once, leaving Sarah to watch him go, fearful of how late she might be to meet her grandmother. With Joe no longer at her side, she wasn’t sure that what had just happened was such a good idea, after all. She felt in desperate need of some time to herself to think it all over but, once Joe had reached the bottom of the hill, Sarah set off in the same direction. When she arrived back at Nancy’s house, her grandmother and Nancy were in the front garden, talking, and Sarah was suddenly hopeful that she wasn’t too tardy.

‘There you are, girl! I was beginning to wonder what had become of you.’ Ada didn’t sound particularly annoyed, so perhaps it had been a good visit.

‘I’m sorry, Gran.’ Sarah hesitated. ‘I fell asleep at home. I hope I’m not late.’

‘You’d have done better to make time to tidy yourself up before you left,’ Ada said, giving Sarah a critical look.

She blushed, hoping that what had just occurred by the deer pool wasn’t as obvious to others as it felt to her, but her grandmother had turned back to Nancy to discuss some aspect of the garden, leaving Sarah free to indulge in her thoughts until it was time to go home to Hill Farm Cottage.

Chapter 6

The weather turned while Joe was away. The early promise of summer was washed away in week after week of rain. The farmers were in despair as their crops failed to prosper and began to rot in the fields. Cows and sheep huddled together, taking whatever shelter they could. As time passed with no sign of the rain abating, their owners were forced to drive them back to their winter quarters, worrying all the while about whether they could afford to feed them for the rest of the year.

Sarah, although not oblivious to the weather, was unaffected by the misery around her. She was too wrapped up in her own private longing, which created a purgatory all of its own. She had no knowledge of when Joe might return, but also no knowledge of how and when to find him if and when he did. She trudged through the mud on errands for Ada, returning each time with skirts soaked and muddied and boots that had barely dried out before her feet must go into them again for another journey.

After the first week of rain, people ceased to notice it, enduring it instead with a kind of stoical despair. The weather gave Sarah an excuse to be abroad – head down, shawl drawn over her hair and face – without it being remarked upon. She was sustained in her forays outside by vivid memories of her own glimpse of summer, coloured by her two encounters with Joe. She revisited the meetings time and again, until every word and every nuance were etched on her memory. The one thing she couldn’t bring to mind was what he had said about his return. Was it a week? A month? Had he even given any indication? She simply couldn’t remember.

So Sarah made a point of making detours on her journeys to come back via Tinker’s Way, this being the only fixed location in her encounters with Joe. It felt as though it was the one place where she might happen on him again. Yet after only a week she was forced to abandon this. Two fields ran along the edge of Tinker’s Way, both set on hillsides, and the run-off turned the track into an increasingly muddy morass. At first Sarah had stuck to the grassy edges of the track, persevering in her quest, until these, too, became consumed by mud, at which point she had to admit defeat. Tinker’s Way was impassable and she was going to have to settle with the knowledge that, although she didn’t know where to find Joe, he knew where to find her.

In the end, Joe did find Sarah, just when she was least expecting it. She’d taken advantage of a break in the weather to hang out some washing in the garden, keeping her fingers crossed that the wind, which had accompanied the sunshine, wouldn’t simply push in yet more black clouds. She was busy calculating whether it was worth washing more of the pile of dirty linen, which had grown considerably during the rainy spell, when she was seized around the waist from behind and a hand was clamped over her mouth.

‘Sssh!’ a male voice whispered in her ear and Sarah, heart beating fit to burst, found herself spun around and face to face with Joe.

‘Joe! When did you get back?’ Sarah immediately glanced behind her, back towards the house, fearful that her grandmother would spot her. As she had hoped, the billowing sheets hid them both from view.

‘Just last night,’ he said. ‘And Sarah Gibson was the first person I wanted to see.’

Sarah blushed and bit her lip. ‘How did you get into the garden?’

‘Over t’wall.’ Joe indicated the sizeable dry-stone wall that ran along one edge of the garden. ‘I’ve been waiting out here a while for thee.’

His smile lit up his eyes, just as Sarah remembered, and she felt a huge wave of relief and happiness wash over her. He was back, and he’d come straight around to find her.

‘You mustn’t stay here,’ she said, common sense taking over. ‘If my grandmother sees you, there’ll be trouble.’ She glanced anxiously once more over her shoulder.

‘Later then,’ Joe said. ‘This a’ternoon. I’ll wait by Two-Ways Cross.’ He named a crossroads familiar to Sarah, one that she passed regularly on her way into Northwaite. Then he was gone, vaulting over the wall with ease, before she could gather her wits and reply. She could hear him whistling as he headed away back towards Northwaite.

Sarah struggled to fulfil her household duties that morning. She was glad of the washing, which gave her an excuse to be in and out of the house, for her hands were shaking with nervous excitement and Ada would surely have remarked upon it otherwise. As she had half-expected, the clouds blew in again by late morning and Sarah hastily gathered the washing back in. As she shook it out in the kitchen and found a place for it to dry near the range, the rain came down heavily once more.

‘I do hope this doesn’t last,’ Ada said. ‘I’ve promised Mrs Shepherd that she will have her remedy this afternoon and it looks as though you will get drenched yet again.’ She looked out at the rain and let out a long sigh.

‘No matter,’ Sarah said. ‘I’ve become used to it.’ She made an effort not to appear too cheerful or eager at the prospect of venturing out, whilst silently thanking Mrs Shepherd for giving her the excuse she needed to see Joe.

By the time dinner was eaten and the plates cleared away, the rain had eased a little but threatening clouds promised yet more to come.

‘I’ll take shelter if it comes on too hard,’ Sarah said, preparing her grandmother for a possible delayed return. She departed swiftly, heart beating fast at the prospect of seeing Joe. But he was nowhere to be seen at Two-Ways Cross, and although she waited a while, walking up and down to see whether she could observe his approach, she didn’t like to loiter too long. Wondering what might have kept him, and feeling very disconsolate, she made her way to Mrs Shepherd’s house, declining her offers of refreshment with the excuse that she’d like to get back home before the rain came on.

Sarah hurried back through the streets of Northwaite, slowing her steps as she passed The Old Bell. Was it possible that Joe was in there, oblivious to the passage of time? She had no way of finding out; entering would be inconceivable, and loitering with the intention of asking a departing customer whether Joe was there would likely cause a scandal. The door swung open and she peered in, but could make out little of the interior other than figures huddled at the bar, so she put her head down against the rain, which had resumed, borne on a driving wind, and headed back towards home.

At Two-Ways Cross she paused again. After a few moments she could hear whistling, faint at first but drawing ever closer along the road she had just traversed. Her heart leapt. ‘Joe,’ she thought, and sure enough he strode into view shortly after.

‘Well, lass, a’ thought it were you in Northwaite just now.’

She could smell the ale on his breath, but told herself that since he’d been forced to bide his time before meeting her, then of course it was likely he would be in the tavern. She was expecting a kiss but instead he seized her hand and pulled her through a gate leading into the field beside them.

‘We’ll be drownded like rats if we don’t take shelter,’ he said, taking her hand to guide her through the sticky, slippery mud – made even worse by the passage of hooves of cattle – towards the barn, which provided a trysting place less attractive than the deer pool, but no less welcome.

Joe stamped his feet and waved his arms to drive the cattle out into the field to allow them access. The cows had sheltered glumly under a tree at first but then edged back, gathering around the door and bumping into each other as they jostled for space, the breath from their nostrils hanging in the damp air.

As soon as Joe had Sarah safe within the barn, laid on the straw, he fell on her like a man ravenous. She felt a sense of disappointment that he hadn’t wooed her and coaxed her, followed by a feeling of detachment from the situation. Afterwards, he was silent, head turned away from her, and she thought he had fallen asleep. Just when she was beginning to feel that she couldn’t bear the weight of him a moment longer he turned towards her.

‘So, hast thou missed me?’ he said, stroking the side of her face and allowing his fingers to linger as he moved to caress her body. Finally, she felt the stirrings of the feelings that had both sustained her and tormented her over the last few weeks. He trailed his fingers across her belly, then laid his hand flat on it. He looked at her questioningly.

‘With child?’

She shook her head, willing him to go on with his exploration of her.

He bit the flesh on the back of her hand lightly, gazing at her all the while, then grazed her shoulder with his teeth. She shivered and he stopped.

‘Ist thou cold?’

Sarah shook her head again. The weather was chilly for a July day, sodden and damp with rain as it was, but her skin burned. She reached her hands up around his neck and pulled her down to him.

‘If it’s a baby you’re wanting, then you must do something about it,’ she whispered.

He was kissing her more gently now and Sarah was barely aware of the scratch of damp straw against her skin, but a thought she wanted to express kept rising to the surface even though her whole being wished to be simply swept along on a tide of pleasure.

‘You must marry me,’ she murmured.

Joe paused and pulled away to look at her. Had she been too bold? Sarah wondered. Had she made a mistake in voicing this thought out loud, a thought that had taken root and nagged away at her all the time he had been gone?

‘Aye, well, happen I must,’ he said, and fell to kissing her again so that Sarah barely knew whether she had heard him aright.

Chapter 7

Within a week of Joe’s return, summer was back. He’d joked that the skies had been crying over his departure but now all was well, and it was certainly true that each day brought increased sunshine, a rise in the temperatures and a rapid drying up of the mud.

Sarah used the excuse of needing to see how the herbs that she collected from the wild had fared during the rain as a reason to absent herself from the house. This, along with the delivery of remedies around the area, found her able to arrange meetings with Joe nearly every other day. Ada, absorbed in the nurturing of the herb beds at home, and in the creation of the ointments and remedies, didn’t seem to notice the length of Sarah’s absences. But Sarah found herself made greedy. She had so longed for Joe’s return that now she had him back, an hour or so of his company two or three times a week wasn’t enough for her. She wanted to spend more time with him, to do ordinary things with him. Although she didn’t regret one minute of their fevered assignations, she did find herself wondering what it might be like to sit across the table from him at breakfast, or to prepare a meal for him at the end of the day.

As July and then August passed, and the weather held out, she waited for Joe to speak again of their marriage. Come September, as the month wore on and the leaves started to fall, colder, wetter weather swept in. Outdoor meetings would soon be impossible, Sarah reasoned, and she resolved to raise the subject of marriage with Joe once more. Two events forced her hand. As she straightened her skirt and buttoned her blouse one autumnal afternoon, sheltered this time from the blustery winds by the enclosed nature of the deer pool, which had become their regular trysting place, Joe spoke. He had his back to her as he pulled on his jacket and his voice was casual.

‘I’ll be away from next week. There’s work to be had for a while.’

Sarah stilled her fingers. ‘Will we be married before you go?’ she asked.

Joe still had his back to her when he spoke again. ‘Nay, why the hurry? We can talk on it when I’m back.’

Sarah felt her colour rise along with a rush of anger. ‘And when will that be?’ she demanded.

Joe swung round to face her. ‘Why, tha’ knows I canna say for sure.’

By now, Sarah knew that Joe worked on the canal, taking boats with their loads of cotton, wool and coal up to Manchester. She’d been shocked at first; her grandmother always spoke badly of the canal dwellers, deeming them uneducated, low and thieving folk. Sarah would have liked to be able to refute this but Joe had described his life on the canal to her in the time that they were able to spare for talking when they met. He’d joked about the vegetables that they took from the gardens alongside the canal, and of his prowess as a poacher. He’d offered her pheasants and rabbits but Sarah had laughingly refused, asking him just how did he think she could explain them away to her grandmother?

He’d told her how jobs on the canal could run on for weeks and months, when the arrival of a delivery at its destination could be met with a demand for the boat to transport a new cargo back to the other end of the canal. He’d declined work over the summer in order to be free to spend time with Sarah, he’d said, but could no longer afford to miss the wages.

This time, Sarah had a pressing need to be sure of his return date.

‘I’ve a baby on the way,’ she said.

Joe looked at her with an expression she couldn’t fathom. She would have hazarded a guess at a mixture of pleased, alarmed and wary.

When he didn’t speak, she pressed on.

‘I don’t think I can wait five or six weeks for your return, Joe. I will be showing by then.’

He nodded slowly. ‘Afore I go, then. Afore I go, we will marry.’

He stood up and pulled her to her feet and hugged her close to him. They both stood without speaking for some time, wrapped in their own thoughts.

‘Must I tell my grandmother?’ Sarah spoke hesitantly. She could see no way round it, but couldn’t bear to guess at Ada’s reaction.

‘Nay, lass. Not yet. Let me think on it.’

In fact, it was Sarah who went home that day to think about it. And her thoughts persuaded her that it might be foolish to wait for Joe to organise their wedding, with so little time remaining before he was to go away again. With no idea herself, though, of how to go about organising such a thing, she could see no alternative to telling her grandmother of what had befallen her. This was not an easy conclusion to reach and she passed a restless night, with a good deal of it spent watching the shadows change on the wall as the darkness of the night lifted to reveal a grey dawn.

Even with breakfast on the table, Sarah was no clearer in her mind as to how to approach the topic. She only knew that Ada was likely to be angry; indeed, very angry. Would she forbid the wedding? Sarah wasn’t sure, but she would have to endure much scolding before it could be agreed upon. She could see little point in waiting any longer though. So, as soon as Ada had taken her seat and Sarah had poured tea into her cup, she spoke.

‘I’m to be wed.’

Ada laid down her knife and the piece of bread she was about to butter.

‘I don’t believe I can have heard you correctly. I thought you said you were about to be wed.’

‘Indeed I did,’ said Sarah.

‘And am I to know the name of the bridegroom?’ Ada’s calm reaction was not what Sarah had been expecting.

‘Joe Bancroft. From …’ Sarah hesitated, reluctant to mention Joe’s abode, which would reveal his line of work. ‘From Nortonstall.’

‘And where did you meet this Joe Bancroft?’

‘While I was out gathering lungwort and comfrey.’

Ada picked up her bread and buttered it carefully before speaking. ‘You’re too young, Sarah. You may ask this Joe Bancroft to come to the house to meet me, to see whether he might be a suitable match. With your father and mother away it falls to me to decide such things.’

Sarah looked down at her plate, concentrating hard on the faded painted twists of flowers around the edge while she fought back tears. ‘I must be wed. And within the week.’

Ada’s knife slipped from her fingers and clattered down, striking her plate and falling to the floor.

‘Am I to understand …’ She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

‘There’s to be a baby, yes.’ Sarah tried hard to stay in control but her voice shook and tears spilled down her cheeks.

‘Have you no sense? No shame? Like your mother before you. As if I hadn’t already been shamed once in my own community.’ Ada shook her head. ‘You’re throwing your life away. Like as not he’s a ne’er-do-well, or you wouldn’t find yourself in this situation.’ Her voice rose along with her anger. ‘And why married within the week, might I ask?’

‘He’s to go away for work,’ Sarah said, her voice dwindling almost to a whisper. ‘By the time he gets back, the baby will be well on the way.’

‘Aye, and how well that will look before the altar. So, do you think he’s going to stand by you? Or has he made off already?’

‘No!’ Sarah protested. ‘He said he would arrange things. But I thought …’

‘It’s as well you did, my girl.’ Ada’s tone was grim. ‘I think we had better find this Joe Bancroft and make sure he does right by you.’ She pushed her chair back from the table, tea now cold and her breakfast untouched. ‘Where does he live?’

‘I don’t rightly know.’ Sarah faltered. ‘By the canal, I think.’

Ada’s mouth tightened into a thin line. ‘By the canal? Or do you mean on the canal? Is he one of those narrow-boat folk?’ She almost spat out the words.

Sarah could only nod. ‘But he’s a good man,’ she countered. ‘Thoughtful, kind and gentle.’

‘Aye, no doubt,’ Ada said. ‘And how will he provide for you and a baby? Where will you live? Are you to join the boating folk?’

Sarah was startled. She hadn’t considered this. It had never occurred to her that she might live on the canal. She’d spent her whole life in this hilltop village, surrounded by fields and wide-open skies. Narrow-boat life, down in the damp, dank valley, suddenly seemed restrictive and, if truth be told, frightening.

‘I thought I’d live here,’ she said in a small voice.

‘It seems to me that thought has had very little to do with any of this,’ Ada said, tying on her bonnet and shrugging off Sarah’s attempts to help her fasten her shawl in place.

‘I’ll thank you for staying here for the day and keeping house,’ she said. ‘If you’d done more of that and less gallivanting off over hill and dale you might not be in the position you find yourself in.’ And Ada left the house, shutting the door with some force behind her.

Sarah cleared up the breakfast things, glancing constantly out of the window as if she expected her grandmother to reappear at any moment with a shamefaced Joe in tow. What had seemed such a delightful secret over the last two months felt shabby and demeaning now that it was revealed to public scrutiny. And could her grandmother be right? Was it possible that Joe had already left?

Chapter 8

By the time Ada reappeared it was late afternoon and Sarah was in a fever of worry, trying to imagine what might have happened. Three times she herself had put on her bonnet and got as far as the garden gate before retreating inside. She was mindful of Ada’s words and fearful of angering her even more, should she return to find the house unattended.

How would her grandmother locate Joe? she wondered. And when she did, what would she say to him? Her thoughts flitted from one possible scenario to another and, when Ada finally appeared at the gate, Sarah could have sunk to the floor in a mixture of fear, apprehension and relief. Instead, she hurried to set the kettle on the hob. When Ada opened the door and was blown in on a flurry of leaves, whipped up by the stormy weather brewing outside, Sarah was ready, solicitous. She helped Ada remove her bonnet and shawl, meeting no resistance this time, and pulled up a chair close to the warmth of the range.

Her grandmother looked grey-faced with exhaustion and Sarah noticed how her fingers trembled slightly as she raised her teacup to her lips. Sarah busied herself with the tea and setting out slices of her grandmother’s fruitcake, feeling sure that she would be in need of sustenance.

Then she asked her, ‘Did you … did you … find Joe?’

Ada gazed unseeing through the window, where the wind was lifting the autumn leaves from the trees so that they rained down in fluttering flashes of orange, red and yellow.

‘Yes, I did,’ she said, after a lengthy pause. ‘It seems that there are folk around here who know more than I do about what my own granddaughter has been up to.’

Sarah winced at the barbed comment, feeling a flush rise to her cheeks even as her heart sank. She had hoped that she and Joe had been discreet in their meetings, conducting them as far as possible from any prying eyes in the neighbourhood.

‘Your precious Joe, it seems, likes a drink just like your father did.’ Ada had colour back in her cheeks now, but her expression was stern. ‘And, just as in the past with your father, I had to go into The Old Bell to fetch him out to make an account of himself.’

Sarah’s hand flew to her mouth as she stifled a gasp. Had Ada really gone into The Old Bell? Had she faced down the stares and the remarks of the men who drank there in order to find Joe? Sarah was filled with a mixture of admiration for her grandmother’s fearlessness and spirit, and embarrassment for Joe. Surely he would have been humiliated in the eyes of the other men? How would this make him react at the mention of marriage?

Ada registered Sarah’s reaction. ‘Oh, as I said, it’s not the first time I’ve ventured through those doors, you can be sure. Your father’s fondness for drink meant that I’ve fetched him from there more than once to stop him spending the last farthings that your mother needed to feed you all. And I’ve spread the word of the Methodist faith both inside and outside those doors. There’s men in there who’d do better to spend their time by their own firesides, rather than The Old Bell’s.’

Sarah wished for a moment that she could have witnessed Ada, the indomitable widow, as she berated the men in the safe haven that they had created for themselves away from their wives and families. But her feelings were short-lived.

‘A pretty piece of work the pair of you have made,’ Ada said. ‘And what a time it has taken me to set it half to rights.’

She was looking angry now and Sarah, barely understanding what she meant, quietly poured her more tea. The windows rattled as the rain gusted harder and the rain came on, splattering against the panes with such force it was as though handfuls of gravel were being thrown against them. Sarah shivered, despite the warmth of the room.

‘So, I’ve spoken with the minister and it is agreed. As a favour to me there will be a quiet ceremony in the chapel on Wednesday afternoon. I’ll write to your mother to let her know, but you’re not to expect her or your father to give up a day or more’s wages to make the journey here. Nor will you have your sisters as bridesmaids.’

Sarah, who hadn’t even considered the latter as a possibility, was suddenly tormented by the thought. How Jane and Ellen would have loved it: bridesmaids, in their Sunday-best frocks with flowers in their hair.

Ada went on, ‘Joe tells me that he can furnish a best man and we’ll find someone from the chapel to give you away. There’ll be no wedding breakfast though: your new husband has to be away to work that very afternoon.’

Sarah was struggling to comprehend the extent of the planning and arrangements that had taken place in Ada’s few hours of absence.

‘So Joe …’ she faltered, struggling to express herself without revealing the fears that she was starting to feel.

‘Joe will be there,’ Ada said firmly. ‘He has met with the minister and provided an account of himself.’ She paused and frowned. ‘He’s a sight older than I expected. He must have ten years on you. I left him in no doubt as to how I feel about the situation, and about how he has exploited you.’

Sarah was moved to protest, ‘It wasn’t like that …’ but Ada cut her off.

‘I don’t wish to know how it was. I thought your upbringing had prepared you for better than this. But what’s done is done and we must make the best of it. I suggest that you see that your best dress is in a fit state to be worn. And take a look at the fit of it.’ She cast a critical eye over Sarah’s figure. ‘It won’t do to make it too obvious why there is a necessity for such a haste to be wed.’ She stood up. ‘Now, I’m going to take a rest and I’ll thank you for not disturbing me until suppertime.’

She climbed the stairs slowly and Sarah heard her close the bedroom door, then the creak of the floorboards as she moved about overhead before settling on the bed. For the next hour, both women were fully occupied with their own fears, hopes and imaginings for the future, thoughts that took them down very different paths.

Chapter 9

Sarah felt that time was dragging its heels on its way to Wednesday. Joe had shared the news of his departure with her on the Thursday, her grandmother had spoken to him and all the plans were in place by Friday, but there were still four whole days to be got through before her wedding day. Four days in which she had no chance to see Joe, for Ada as good as kept her under lock and key.

‘You’ve brought quite enough disgrace on our good name,’ she said. ‘I’ll not have you flaunting yourself again around the countryside.’

Sarah cast her eyes down, unable to meet Ada’s gaze. In the words that came out of Ada’s mouth the meetings between her and Joe, which had felt so happy, joyous and full of love, had become sordid and shameful. But she ached to see Joe and to be able to discuss plans beyond the wedding day with him. She comforted herself with the thought that they would get themselves a cottage somewhere, either in Nortonstall or Northwaite, and she could keep house for him without having to endure her grandmother’s bad humour.

Sarah got through the days by trying her best to stay on the right side of Ada, to avoid causing further upset, and daydreaming about her future at every possible moment. She accompanied Ada to the chapel on the Sunday, stealing covert glances at the congregation to see whether anyone was paying them undue attention. If they were, surely one glance at Ada, sitting bolt upright in her pew and wearing a forbidding expression, would have discouraged any further observation.

As they departed, the minister shook Sarah’s hand in his usual cordial fashion and made no reference to her forthcoming wedding, presumably to spare her blushes in the face of the congregation. It took every ounce of her will not to look back as they walked down the path away from the chapel but she told herself that the gossipmongers were welcome to have their say; soon she would be Mrs Joe Bancroft and they could still their tongues then.

On Tuesday letters arrived to break the monotony of Sarah’s enforced imprisonment. Ada opened the first one, which had come from Sarah’s mother in Manchester. She skimmed the contents, frowning, then read it out to Sarah.

‘My dearest Sarah,

I do so wish that I could be with you on your wedding day. A day that should be a joyous occasion but that, if I understand your grandmother correctly, has had to be arranged in haste. Sarah, I am sorry that you have followed in my footsteps and I wish I could have been there these last years to offer you guidance –’

Here Ada made a contemptuous snort. ‘I hope you have made a better choice than I did –’ here Ada was moved to snort again ‘– and wish that I could be there to meet your new husband. The fact is that neither the girls nor I are well, barely well enough to make it to the mill each day, so afflicted are we with coughing. So we must postpone our visit until the spring or summer, when we can come and see the baby as well.

All my love, and from your loving sisters Jane and Ellen too.’

Sarah listened intently. Just as her grandmother had predicted, there would be no other family at her wedding. More worrying was to hear that they were ill. But where was her father in all of this?

‘My father?’ she asked tentatively. ‘Will he come to give me away?’

Ada shook her head. ‘There’s no mention of him here. I don’t know why. It will take another letter to ask her, with no time for a reply, so you must resign yourself to the fact that I will be your only family tomorrow.’

Sarah, seeing how tired her grandmother looked, and made anxious after hearing the news of her mother’s and sisters’ illness, was moved to get up and go over to her, to stroke her shoulder.

‘Never mind; they have said they will come in summer to see the baby and meanwhile we will be quite content, just the three of us, tomorrow.’

Ada only absent-mindedly acknowledged Sarah’s attempt at a conciliatory gesture. She had picked up the second letter and was frowning at it.

‘I don’t recognise the writing on this,’ she said, turning it this way and that between her fingers as though hoping for clues.

Sarah, although wishing to suggest she could discover the author by opening it, held her tongue.

‘It’s addressed to you, Sarah. Do you wish me to read it to you?’

Sarah flushed. She had never paid any attention to schooling and found her letters baffling. She’d long ago declared that she didn’t need to know how to read and write, a decision she had come to regret, never more so than now. She nodded slowly. ‘Yes, please.’

Ada spread the letter flat on the table, skimming over it as before, then read:

‘My darling Sarah,

It seems odd to address you this way, by means of a piece of paper rather than face to face, but your dragon of a grandmother has forbidden it.’ Sarah bit her lip, but Ada read on. ‘I wish we could have met in the last few days but I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. There will be so little time to spend together before I must leave, but I know you will be safe with the dragon until my return. Be patient, until tomorrow,

Your loving Joe.’

Sarah was very embarrassed by the flippant references to her grandmother, but also confused by the tone of the letter. It simply didn’t sound like Joe’s voice. Her grandmother was clearly also suspicious. She turned the letter back and forth in her hands, delivering her verdict.

‘I suspect your husband-to-be has employed someone to write this for him.’ She paused. ‘It’s a shame that whoever he chose didn’t persuade him to mind his manners.’

Sarah, once over her initial embarrassment, felt cheered that at least Joe had made the effort to make contact with her. It dispelled her tiny nagging doubt that he wouldn’t show up the following day. What was less pleasing, however, was that he seemed content for her to remain as she was, living with her grandmother. She resolved to try to find a moment to raise this with him tomorrow, after they were wed.

Chapter 10

The day of the wedding dawned full of promise. Sarah was awake early, having passed a fretful night full of nervous anxiety. She thought that she had heard Ada moving about in the night, but decided not to venture from her room herself until dawn had broken. She didn’t want to have to hear anything further on her wedding day itself about how she was a disappointment to Ada, and to the family.

When Sarah went downstairs, rejoicing at the sight of the first blue sky to be seen in several days, she found Ada already seated at the table.

‘Are you all right?’ Sarah was concerned, hurrying to stoke up the range to ease the chill in the kitchen. She feared she hadn’t escaped a lecture, after all, but Ada didn’t seem to be disposed to be critical. She sat quietly and accepted a cup of tea with thanks, after Sarah had hurried upstairs to fetch a bed quilt to wrap around her. It looked as though Ada had been sitting there for some time; her hands and face were thoroughly chilled.

Ada accepted the breakfast that was put in front of her without question and Sarah, feeling if anything more unnerved by her grandmother’s strangely quiet behaviour than by her anger or contempt, noted that she didn’t eat a great deal of it.

‘I had a troubled night,’ Ada said, once breakfast was over. ‘I’m going to try to rest a little before we must go. Be sure to wake me in plenty of time to dress.’ And with that she left the table, trailing the quilt behind her as she slowly mounted the stairs. Sarah was struck by how her grandmother seemed to have suddenly aged: it was as though ten years had been added to her overnight.

She busied herself tidying the kitchen, glad of something to keep her occupied until it was time to leave the house. Her dress for the day was hanging in her room and so, once she was satisfied that there was no more housework to be done, she took off her apron and went upstairs.

She felt that she should be making a special effort with her appearance, something that there had been little call for in the past, so she unpinned her hair, letting it fall halfway down her back. She brushed it well before pinning it back in place. If it had been summertime she would have left it long and dressed it with flowers, but there was nothing much to be had from the garden at this time of year, other than a few berries. So she settled on a tortoiseshell comb, decorated with artificial flowers, as an adornment.

Sarah took her dress off its hanger, spread it out on the bed and scrutinised it. It was plain in style, the fabric lightly sprigged with cream flowers on a brown background. She wished that it could have been a little more elegant for such a special day but, once she had pulled it on and done up the buttons, pinning a brooch at the throat of the high neck, she felt it would do. Appraising herself critically in the freckled glass of the mirror, Sarah wondered whether her appearance was a little sombre for the occasion. She supposed that she would, at least, have colour in her cheeks after their walk to the chapel, for the blue skies and sunshine had brought with them a chilly wind.

Mindful of the time, Sarah went to wake Ada. Her grandmother, who was lying on the bed, already awake, nodded approvingly when she saw how Sarah was dressed.

‘How well you look! No one can criticise your appearance on your wedding day, Sarah. Joe is a lucky man to have you.’ Ada sighed and shook her head but said no more, simply holding out her hand for Sarah to assist her from the high iron bedstead. ‘Help me with my dress then we must be on our way,’ she said.

Within the half-hour Sarah and her grandmother were making their way down the garden path. Sarah had wondered whether, once they reached Northwaite, her grandmother would choose quiet alleyways rather than their usual Sunday route to reach the chapel. But no, she marched along the road through the village, greeting everyone whom they met. The conversation never strayed beyond commenting on the weather, but Sarah could see the villagers’ curiosity as to why she should be abroad on a weekday with her grandmother, both of them dressed in their best clothes. She felt relieved when they had turned off to take the quieter path down to the chapel, then became filled with anxiety as to whether Joe would be there.

She needn’t have worried. As they entered by the main door, the small group waiting at the altar turned around to look. Sarah felt Ada stiffen slightly, then she withdrew her arm from Sarah’s.

‘You should go forward. I will take a seat. Now, don’t rush.’ The last words were uttered as an admonishment to Sarah who, legs made shaky suddenly from the overwhelming nature of what was about to happen, had started forward down the centre aisle, almost at a trot.

‘Oh, Sarah, I almost forgot.’

Sarah turned back towards her grandmother, who had opened her reticule and, to Sarah’s surprise, taken out a tiny posy. There were no flowers, just plants and herbs of different hues of blue and green, some with spiky leaves, some with soft, silver-furred leaves, all tied with a cream satin ribbon. Sarah recognised rosemary, sage, bay and ivy. She buried her nose in the posy, then smiled her thanks at her grandmother. The aromatic scent seemed to steady her sudden agitation and the posy gave her something to do with her nervous hands.

Sarah turned back towards the altar and walked at a more measured pace down the aisle. As she did so, she took in the appearance of her groom-to-be and his best man and realised why her grandmother had reacted as she had when they had entered the chapel. Joe and his best man made a poor show against the smart, restrained appearance of the minister and his chaplain. The latter looked at ease in their Sunday suits; Joe and his friend looked as though their attire had been borrowed from a number of different acquaintances. It was all mismatched, the jackets being of a different tone to the trousers, and Sarah couldn’t help but notice that the sleeves of Joe’s jacket were a good few inches too short for him and that the fabric strained slightly across the back.

He’d made an effort to slick down the wave of his hair, she observed, finding it comical and trying not to laugh. She caught a glimpse of one of his bright waistcoats, partly hidden by his tightly buttoned jacket, and he’d given his love of bright colours full rein in the red neckerchief that he wore at his throat.

Sarah gave Joe her biggest smile, feeling a little lurch of her heart as he reached out his hand to grasp her fingers and pull her towards him. His hands were warm and dry; hers felt clammy and sweaty by comparison. She stole a glance past him at his companion and her smile faltered. No amount of slicking down his hair with water or trying to adopt a smarter dress could disguise the fact that he looked, as her grandmother would have described it, ‘rough’. His nose had the appearance of having borne many a punch in a fight and, when he smiled at Sarah, the gaps in his teeth only backed up that impression.

Sarah raised her posy to her nose, breathed deeply and turned to glance back at Ada, the only guest, who had seated herself halfway down the hall, before letting her gaze roam around the octagonal chapel. Light was streaming in through the windows on each wall, and splashes of colour fell to the floor in front of her from the single stained-glass window behind the altar. Someone had recently polished the pews and the wooden panelling: Sarah could smell the rich scent of beeswax on the air.

Joe squeezed her arm to draw her attention to the minister. Her senses seemed heightened as she waited respectfully for the minister to begin, and so the sudden crash of the main door being flung open, and just as quickly closed again, made her start violently.

Chapter 11

All heads swung round to see who had entered the chapel and for the second time that day Sarah was aware of the reaction of the person beside her. Joe had stiffened and shaded his eyes against the bright sunlight flooding the room in order to take a better look at whoever had entered. She felt him relax as it became apparent that the visitor was a young man who looked flustered and was making apologetic motions with his hands as he slid quickly into a pew near the back of the chapel.

The minister cleared his throat and Sarah, Joe and his best man turned around to face him. Sarah found herself distracted; who was this young man who had just arrived and why was he here, an uninvited guest at her wedding?

Joe had to nudge her to make her responses and so it was in a kind of daze that Sarah found herself married and on the receiving end of congratulations from the best man, whose name she still didn’t know, then ushered out into the sunshine by the minister who clearly had other things he wished to attend to on a Wednesday in the working week.

Sarah was aware of the young man hovering in the background as Joe introduced his best man as Alfred, then took both her hands in his, looked her deep in the eyes and told her that he must leave, that he was already running late with the cargo that he must deliver. Alfred nodded his head in vigorous confirmation of his words.

Sarah had known that this was going to happen but she still couldn’t help feeling a stab of bitter disappointment. The lack of a wedding celebration after the build-up of tension over the last few days felt like a major let-down.

Joe took her head between his hands and kissed her hard on the lips. ‘I’ll be back with you as soon as I return,’ he said. ‘And my thoughts will be with you every moment I am away. Sarah Bancroft – my own wife!’ and he laughed as if he found it hard to believe. Then he kissed her again, nodded in acknowledgement to Ada and strode away, Alfred scurrying to catch up.

Sarah stood and watched him leave, feeling hot tears well up. She willed him to look back but her concentration on his departing back view was broken by an exclamation from Ada.

‘You don’t say! Sarah, did you hear that?’

Reluctantly, Sarah tore her eyes away from Joe and turned towards her grandmother.

‘This young man has come all the way from Manchester at your mother’s behest. She couldn’t be here today, as you know, but she has asked Daniel to return with news of the day.’

Sarah took in the young man’s appearance: he was as smartly dressed as she suspected his pocket would allow and his freckled countenance was friendly and open. His dark brown eyes seemed to view her with some sympathy and on impulse she said, ‘Why, then you must come and celebrate with us and share whatever news you have. As you can see I have been abandoned already on my wedding day and so we must make our own entertainment.’

Daniel began to protest. ‘I came but to witness the event and I must apologise for the lateness of my arrival and the manner of my entry. I’m unfamiliar with the area and found myself by mistake at the church in the village rather than the chapel. Now, I’m afraid, I must set out again on my return journey.’

‘Nonsense!’ Sarah, thwarted in her wish to celebrate her marriage with her new husband, had now seized upon a different plan. ‘You must at least take tea with us before your return. Let it not be said that the Randalls –’ she paused ‘– and the Bancrofts lacked manners and sent a traveller back on his homeward journey without sustenance of any kind.’

Ada looked a little bemused by the turn of events but lent weight to Sarah’s invitation and promised that means would be found to help convey him to Nortonstall later that afternoon so that he might journey onwards by train to Manchester. So Daniel found himself borne along on a wave of Sarah’s nervous excitement, back through Northwaite, where she was this time oblivious to the outright curiosity of any villagers whom they passed. Ada called in on Mrs Sykes to see whether her husband, the carter, would come by and collect Daniel in good time for his journey and then they made their way back to the cottage.

Ada and Sarah made tea and buttered slices of fruit bread, plying Daniel with questions all the while. How was Mary? And Jane? And Ellen? Was there any improvement in their health? How did Daniel know the family? Where did he work? Where was Sarah’s father, William?

Daniel appeared embarrassed and clearly reluctant to impart too much in answer to the queries. Sarah had a suspicion that he was focusing on describing his own work to prevent further probing. He explained that he lived in the same lodgings as Mary and her daughters and worked at the same mill, but his skill with machinery had kept him away from the mill floor and in the office, where he was engaged in working with the owner on some new designs to improve the efficiency of the waterwheel. It was on the pretext of visiting a mill in the area, which was known to have recently made major improvements in its output, that he had managed to make his visit that day.

‘But surely you will be in trouble on your return if you do not have the expected information?’ Sarah said, not a little troubled on Daniel’s behalf. She wondered also why he was so willing to undertake this journey on her mother’s behalf.

‘I was able to make the visit this morning,’ Daniel said. ‘I had fully expected to be turned away but, in fact, they were keen to show me around. It was this, and my mistake in going to the church, that caused me to be later in finding the chapel than I had intended.’

‘And the affliction affecting Mary and the children?’ Ada asked. ‘Is she receiving treatment?’

Daniel looked uncomfortable.

‘It is something that has swept through the mill and troubled the women most particularly. I think their lungs are weakened by constant exposure to the cotton dust. Mrs Gibson was perhaps not in the best of health when she fell ill and she has taken it hard.’

‘And my father?’ Sarah demanded. ‘Where is he? Can he not help?’

Daniel looked even more uncomfortable.

‘Ah, Mr Gibson no longer lives at the lodgings. I think perhaps he has gone to work at a mill on the other side of town and taken lodgings there for convenience.’ Despite his best attempts to dress up the truth, it soon became apparent that Mary had revealed less than she might have done in her most recent letter.

There was a silence while Sarah and Ada digested this news then Ada said crisply, ‘Do you mean he has left the family, Daniel? Is that what has happened?’

Daniel blushed scarlet. ‘I really couldn’t say for certain, Mrs Randall.’

‘Humph!’ Ada looked down at her plate, chasing a few crumbs around with her fingertips, then reached a decision. ‘I must go to Manchester. Sarah, you will be all right here on your own for a few days, won’t you? I think that I must see with my own eyes what is happening.’

The half-hour before the carter was due to arrive passed in a flurry of activity. Sarah tried hard to maintain polite conversation with Daniel whilst running up and down the stairs, helping Ada to pack a few things together and searching in the larder for provisions to send to her mother and sisters.

‘Why was she not more honest in her letter?’ Ada was hunting through her cupboard of remedies. ‘I could have prepared something for her if I’d had a better idea of the situation, and of their struggles. As it is, I will just have to take whatever I think may come in useful.’

Sarah barely had time to tie the remedies securely into a cloth bundle before the carter was at the door.

‘Sarah, take care.’ Ada, distracted, was tying on her bonnet as Sarah handed her another shawl for the journey. ‘I’m sorry to leave you like this but hope to be back before the week is out.’

Sarah, overwhelmed by all that had happened that afternoon, tried very hard to remember her manners. ‘Daniel, it was very nice to meet you and so good of you to have come all this way.’

‘I can assure you, the pleasure was all mine. I wish you every happiness in your marriage, Mrs Bancroft, and hope that I may be lucky enough to be in a position to visit again.’

‘Do come. Perhaps you may have cause for another visit to the mill here.’ Sarah was preoccupied, speaking half over her shoulder as she handed her grandmother’s belongings up to her while she settled herself behind the carter.

Daniel sprang up into the front seat and doffed his cap. ‘Goodbye. Goodbye,’ he called. She sensed that he wished to say more but the carter shook the reins and they were off. Sarah watched the lamp on the cart as it dwindled away into the gathering dusk and was visible no more, then she went into the kitchen and began clearing up through force of habit.

She looked out into the darkness, aware that she needed to light the lamps inside, and thought of both her husband and her grandmother somewhere out there, wending their separate ways to great cities. Now she was left totally alone on her wedding day and it seemed like a cruel blow. She sat down suddenly at the table, rested her head on her arms and burst into tears.

PART TWO

Chapter 12

While Ada was away a spell of damp, cold weather swept in. It brought with it a morning fog that frequently lingered until midday unless there was any autumn sunshine to burn it away. Darkness seemed to arrive each day by five o’clock, and on some days it felt as though it barely got light at all.

The change in the weather also brought a steady stream of visitors, all looking for Ada. Mostly elderly, they were out of breath by the time they had climbed the hill out of the village to reach Hill Farm Cottage. At first, Sarah wondered whether their appearance was due to curiosity at the state of affairs surrounding her marriage, but she quickly realised that in all cases the visit was prompted by a need for a consultation with her grandmother, caused by a flare-up of rheumatism or the onset of a troubling cough.

Sarah invited in each arrival and, when they had regained their breath and offered their congratulations on her newly married state, they had (without exception) turned querulous over Ada’s unexpected absence. Sarah could only reassure them that she was expected back any day now and offer to pass on a message about the nature of their illness to her grandmother as soon as she returned.

It wasn’t long before Sarah was regretting, yet again, her lack of literacy. If she had only paid attention to her letters she could have written down the name of everyone who called, as well as the nature of their business. As it was, she was reduced to memorising the details and forcing herself to recite them out loud each morning on waking.

The arrival of the week’s end found Sarah in a state of anxiety. She had expected her grandmother’s return by now, but there was no sign of her and no word from her. Once again, Sarah had cause to regret her inability to read and write. Otherwise Ada might, perhaps, have sent her a note of explanation. But she knew only too well that her granddaughter would be unable to read it.

Sarah took to imagining what might be happening in Manchester. She convinced herself that Ada must have felt the need to stay on to nurse her daughter and granddaughters back to health. Surely there could be no other explanation? But as a new week began, her conviction was sorely tested. She found it hard to put on a brave face for the trickle of visitors who continued to arrive and her assertion that she expected her grandmother’s return any day now sounded, even to her, as though it had a hollow ring to it.

She tried not to dwell too much on the fact that, although she was married now, it had made no difference at all to the way she lived her life. She was lonely by day, with Ada away, and lonely at night, when her thoughts turned to Joe. How cruel it was that her new husband was forced to be away from her at this time, when she had need of him! Her vision of how contented they would be in their domestic routine remained untested; indeed, her own routine fell to pieces with no structure to her days and too much time to spend in wild imaginings.

By the time Ada did come home, one week and a day after her departure, Sarah was frantic with worry over what might have happened to her family. She had also become consumed with anxiety as to how she would be able to pay the rent or afford food and household necessities should her grandmother fail to reappear.

One look at Ada’s face, however, was enough to make the angry words that had rushed to Sarah’s lips die there. Her grandmother was in no fit state to be on the receiving end of Sarah’s distress at being left without news for so long. Ada’s face was grey with fatigue and her eyes were sunken hollows, suggesting that she had struggled to get enough sleep while she had been away. She had lost weight; as Sarah helped remove her travelling shawl she could feel the sharpness of her grandmother’s collarbones beneath her hands and, on giving her a wordless hug of welcome, she was startled by how frail Ada felt.

‘Come and sit by the range. You look worn out by your journey. The kettle has not long boiled. I’ll make some fresh tea.’

Sarah bustled about, filling her grandmother’s silence with a pointless running commentary on mundane domestic things. She was desperate to ask about her sisters and her mother but Ada’s continued silence didn’t encourage questions. Finally, with tea set down in front of her grandmother, along with a slice of bread and butter on her favourite plate, Sarah felt she could wait no longer.

‘How are they?’ she asked tentatively. ‘You were gone so long I became worried. Were they very sick?’

Ada sighed deeply. Sarah was sure that she must be thirsty after her journey but she hadn’t even reached for her cup.

‘Yes, they were,’ she said.

Sarah waited expectantly.

‘Yes, very sick,’ Ada repeated. ‘Daniel was quite right to come and fetch me, although he was clever enough to make it appear that Mary had asked him to come. In fact, from what I could gather, she had done no such thing.’

Ada paused and finally reached for her cup. Sarah noticed that her hands were trembling so that the cup rattled against its saucer before she raised it to her lips. Her wedding ring, still worn in memory of her husband Harry, was too big now, slipping along her finger and barely kept in place by her knuckle.

Ada rested the cup on her lap, gazing at the range before speaking again.

‘I do not know how they came to be in such a sorry state. Although it’s easy to guess.’ There was a sudden flash of anger. ‘William Gibson had cleared off and left them, sharing one small room, nay, even reduced to sharing one bed in their lodging house. It’s not surprising that they fell ill one after the other. Too sick to work, they had run out of food by the time I arrived and what little bit of coal they had to heat the room must have come from Daniel. If it wasn’t for the kindness of the neighbours, sharing a bit of soup with them of an evening, I don’t know what they would have done.’

Ada sat on, staring at the range as if she saw something there other than an austere black-leaded stove, its fire safely housed within. Sarah shifted in her seat, waiting for her grandmother to speak again. She was conscious of the wind gusting outside and she shivered involuntarily. She hoped no one was struggling up the hill in expectation of finding Ada at home. Her grandmother did not look well enough to be listening to someone else describe their ailments; in fact, she looked as though she might be sickening for something herself.

‘Would you like to go up to bed?’ Sarah asked gently. ‘I can light the fire in your room. You look worn out. Perhaps a rest would see you right.’

‘It will take more than a rest.’ The edge in her grandmother’s voice made Sarah start back in her chair. Ada noticed her reaction.

‘I’m sorry, Sarah,’ she said. ‘I didn’t intend that to sound as it did.’ She shook her head slowly from side to side.

‘So how are they now?’ Sarah asked. ‘Were they well when you left? Were you able to heal their sickness?’

Ada turned an uncomprehending look on Sarah before she shook her head again.

‘I’m so sorry. It feels as though I have been away a lifetime. Of course, why would you know what has been going on?’

She stopped and Sarah waited, frowning. Her grandmother was talking in riddles.

‘Sarah, they’ve gone.’ Ada’s voice caught on a sob.

It was Sarah’s turn to look baffled. Gone where? What did she mean? Had they moved somewhere else to find work?

‘Sarah, they’re dead. They lasted barely two days after I arrived. First Mary, for she must have fallen sick first, then Jane, then Ellen. Daniel and I took it in turns to sit up with them through the night but there was nothing to be done. They were too weak when I got there. If that useless wastrel of a father of yours had only thought to get in touch, perhaps I would have got there earlier and things might have been different. But he was too concerned with protecting himself. He scarpered at the first sign of illness. Went off to his fancy woman on the other side of town, by all accounts.’

Ada’s voice was scornful, then her tone softened. ‘I thought Daniel’s heart would break when Ellen left us. Turned out he was sweet on her even though she’s –’ Ada paused and corrected herself ‘– she was but fifteen years old.’

Sarah had sat in numbed silence throughout. Was she hearing aright? Had she really lost her mother and sisters for ever? She swallowed hard and tried to find her voice, but it came out as a croak.

‘Where … How … Are they …?’ She couldn’t put into words what she wanted to ask.

‘They’re buried,’ Ada said. ‘I was able to save them from a pauper’s grave, at least. They’re in the churchyard at St Faith’s. It turns out that Mary had been known to go there on occasion. It seems she felt more of a welcome there than at the Methodist chapel, on account of her drinking.’ Ada’s mouth had twisted into a grimace.

‘All buried?’ Sarah’s voice was little more than a whisper. She couldn’t believe that she would never see Ellen or Jane again. She could see her sisters as clear as day, just as they were the last time she had seen them as she was waving them off to start their new lives in Manchester. They were surrounded by sunlight and waving and blowing kisses from the back of the cart, promising to come and visit soon, telling her to come and see them as soon as they were settled.

‘Yesterday,’ Ada said. ‘I’m sorry that there was no time to send word.’ She spoke flatly; the last few days had drained her of all emotion.

Sarah got up slowly, went over to her grandmother and wrapped her arms around her.

‘Was it terrible?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Indeed it was.’

Ada clung to her granddaughter, who stayed there, awkwardly bent over her. Neither of them shed a tear but both of them were staring into their own personal abyss of horror, Ada’s consisting of what she had witnessed, Sarah’s of what she imagined.

Chapter 13

That night Ada, exhausted by her journey and the emotion of the last few days, slept well. Sarah, in the bedroom next door, paced the floor and wept. The fire in the bedroom grate cast a welcome glow around the room, which only served to remind Sarah of how her siblings had ended their days. Starved of food and heat, and so stricken by poverty they were huddled together in the same bed in the one room they had to call their own. How had they arrived at such a state?

She felt a surge of hatred towards her father, whose callous behaviour had surely made a bad situation much, much worse. Other than him, Sarah wasn’t sure where next to direct her anger. Towards the mill-owners? She felt sure they had overworked her sisters and her mother until they were exhausted, their health damaged to such an extent that they were unable to fight off the sickness that afflicted them. Towards her mother? Why had she failed to protect her family? Towards her grandmother? Why had she not thought to visit and to check on her daughter and granddaughters?

Finally, Sarah chastised herself. Why had she not gone to see the family in all the time that they had been in Manchester? She’d sent messages in the letters that her grandmother wrote and she’d often thought about Jane and Ellen as she’d gone about her daily business. A walk over the fields on a hot day had reminded her of the time when she and her sisters had set about picking every flower in that particular field that they could find. When they’d arrived home with armfuls of blooms, most of them wilted beyond help, they’d been roundly scolded by Ada. She had explained to them that their actions might prevent the same flowers growing in the field in future years because they’d robbed them of the chance to set seed.

Whenever Sarah passed that way in the summer now she would automatically check, with a sense of anxiety, how many flowers she could see. She would mentally tick them off: yellow rattle, field scabious, hedge parsley, creeping buttercup, ox-eye daisy, meadow saxifrage, tufted vetch.

She could visualise the scene on that day now, as if she was watching it from above with herself within it. Three young girls, dressed in faded pinafores and summer blouses, their hair different shades of brown and pulled back into pigtails and a little unruly, with curls escaping and sticking damply to their foreheads and necks under the heat of the sun. She could hear their squeals and giggles as they darted here and there, in search of new varieties to add to their flower bunches, batting away the bees that followed them, puzzled by the constantly moving sources of pollen.

Ellen, who had something of the artist in her, had contrived a bunch in which the different shapes and colours of the flowers somehow seemed to complement each other, and she’d surrounded the bunch with feathery grasses picked from the edge of the field. Jane and Sarah had simply greedily grabbed everything they could find and the result was a mishmash of colour, quickly spoilt by the tightness of the grip of their small hands.

It was Sarah, as the eldest, who had got into the most trouble for their actions that day. Now, nearly ten years on, she was pierced by a terrible sense of failure. As the eldest, why hadn’t she made it her business to know what was going on in her sisters’ lives? If she’d imagined their life in the city at all she’d thought it must be better than her own, had assumed that they were earning enough money to live reasonably well.

Now she wondered why some sixth sense hadn’t told her what was happening. She’d been disappointed that they had been unable to come to her wedding and now … now, she was faced with the knowledge of what they had been going through in their own lives while she’d been oblivious to it, selfishly focused on herself. When she finally climbed into bed she tossed and turned, racked with guilt. Why was she still alive while they were dead?

Dead – she found it hard to even contemplate the idea, the fact that she would never see them again. She was alone in the world now, or so it felt. Her father was still alive, but what part had he played in her upbringing? None that she could recall. He was as good as a stranger to her. So now she just had her grandmother.

With a sense of shock, Sarah recalled that she was a married woman now. She had a husband, and soon she would have a child. The memory surfaced of how she had felt over the past few days, while her grandmother was away. She remembered the sense of desperation she had experienced, of not knowing how to provide for herself. Drifting into a fitful sleep as the grey fingers of dawn edged around the curtains, she resolved that she could not be reliant on her grandmother or on Joe. She needed to be sure that she could take care of herself.

It seemed that Ada had been prey to much the same thoughts. When Sarah came down to a late breakfast, her eyes gritty from lack of sleep, she found Ada already at the table with a sheet of paper set before her, a list written on it in her neat copperplate hand.

‘How did you sleep?’ Ada gave her a concerned look.

‘Not well.’ Sarah rubbed her eyes hard with the heel of her palm. ‘There was a lot to think about. And many questions I want to ask. But first, you ought to know that we had a lot of visitors while you were away, all in need of your help.’

She cast a glance out of the window, where a clear, cold blue sky promised a much brighter day than of late. ‘I’m sure that some of them will be back now that the weather has improved. But these are the ones who came,’ and she reeled off the list that she had memorised.

‘Goodness!’ Ada seemed quite taken aback. ‘Let me have the names again, but more slowly this time so that I can write them down.’

Once she had finished she looked over the list, and shook her head. ‘It will be a lot of work,’ she said, clearly thinking of all the remedies that would be required. Then she looked at Sarah. ‘This brings me to something that I have been wanting to say to you.’

Sarah had cut herself a slice of bread and was about to butter it but laid down her knife at the seriousness of Ada’s tone.

‘Don’t look so worried. There’s nothing to fear.’ Ada paused. ‘Now, I know you have just got married and so you can expect your husband to provide.’ She hesitated. ‘I don’t wish to speak out of turn but, since your husband’s work will take him away a great deal your income may, perhaps, be … unreliable.’

It was clear to Sarah that her grandmother was picking her words with unusual care.

‘And if, God forbid, an accident should befall him, well … in a few months’ time you will have an extra mouth to feed. And I won’t be here for ever.’

Ada held up her hand as Sarah started to protest. ‘No, I’m not as spry as I used to be and, after what has befallen the family in the last week, well, it has made me think how important it is for you to learn some skills, so that you are able to earn money and look after yourself in the future, should the need arise.’

Sarah interrupted her. ‘I had been thinking much the same thing. While you were away I was so worried. What if you never came back? And it made me cross with myself that I had never learned to read and write. I had no way of making contact with you. I could have made that list for you –’ she gestured at the piece of paper ‘– if only I had learnt my letters. But, apart from learning how to read and write now, what else can I do?’

‘Well, I have a plan.’ Ada drew towards her the piece of paper that had been on the table when Sarah came down for breakfast and outlined the idea that she had formulated during her long hours of vigil over her daughter and granddaughters.

‘I will teach you how to read and write. And I will instruct you in the art of herbalism. I won’t be able to do what I do for ever and someone must take over from me when I am gone. There is much to learn but I am sure that you will be up to the task.’

Ada made the last declaration in the manner of someone who was trying to convince herself.

‘But do you really think I can?’ Sarah was doubtful. She knew that her grandmother was disappointed in the lack of interest that she had shown in her profession; collecting herbs as instructed and decanting remedies into bottles made up the extent of her knowledge to date.

‘I don’t think there’s an alternative, do you?’ Ada said, after a short pause. ‘Not with a baby on the way.’

They were both silent, considering her words. Then Sarah spoke.

‘We must make a start today. Letters each morning, herbal instruction in the afternoon. Does this sound possible?’

‘Indeed it does.’ Ada managed a small smile, the first one since her return from Manchester. ‘Now, let’s eat something. You’ll need a good breakfast inside you before we make a start.’

Chapter 14

So it was that Sarah, for the first time in her life, applied herself to work in a way that she never had before. Each morning, once the basic chores were out of the way, she and Ada sat down at the table and Sarah, with a grim determination, focused on learning how to read and write. She was encouraged and delighted to find that learning her letters proved relatively easy, and that she could write and recite the alphabet with ease by the end of the first week. But when it came to putting letters together into words, and words into sentences, Sarah’s delight turned to despair.

‘I don’t think I will ever be the master of this,’ she said, flinging her slate and chalk down on the table. ‘It makes no sense to me. I can neither see nor hear how the letters are strung together into words.’ Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes. ‘And if I can’t do it that means I will never learn to be a herbalist, either. If I can’t write a label for a remedy, or note down how to make it, or record what has been prescribed for a patient …’ Sarah broke down in sobs of frustration, her head in her hands, overcome by the enormity of what lay ahead.

‘Ssh. Ssh,’ Ada soothed. ‘Don’t let difficulties over one kind of learning be a bar to another. You can learn the ways of herbalism without needing to write down a word. So much of it has been passed on over the years by word of mouth. How do you think I learnt my skills? Although it is the way today to expect that everything must be written down, why, women have known these things for generations and passed them on, mother to daughter.’

Sarah stopped crying and considered. She’d never thought about how Ada might have come by her knowledge.

‘Take your great-grandmother, Catherine Abbot, my mother. She was famous for miles around. Not just for her remedies, mind, but she was the one all the mothers turned to when their time had come. She must have delivered every baby in the area for nigh on twenty years. And she did all of this without knowing how to read or write.’

Ada must have noticed the frown that was furrowing Sarah’s brow. ‘But it’s still a skill you should have,’ she added hastily. ‘Times have changed and folk around here respect the written word even if they don’t understand it. I’m just trying to show you that you needn’t think you can’t learn one without the other. Reading and writing will come with time. You don’t need to try to hurry things.’

Sarah didn’t fully believe her. She was struggling to see how anyone could make sense of the strange combinations of letters; they clearly meant something to some people and this just confirmed her lack of self-belief. She must be stupid and incapable of learning. This was the reason, no doubt, why she had failed to learn her letters before. Sarah was forced to acknowledge to herself that her problem with reading and writing was due to her dislike of getting something wrong. Instead of resolving to learn how to get it right she became stubborn and turned away from it. If she was going to succeed, this was something she would have to learn to overcome.

Herbalism, though, proved to be another matter entirely. Sarah found herself looking forward to the afternoons; partly because it meant that the torture of the morning, the effort of forcing her unwilling brain to comprehend, was at an end. But also because she had discovered a genuine interest in what her grandmother did.

During the first week, the afternoons were spent in creating remedies for all the visitors who had called by while her grandmother was away. Ada seemed to know without needing to enquire further what they would need and, for the first time, Sarah concentrated hard on what her grandmother was doing. She asked questions about why Ada was using a particular herb, why it had to be prepared in such a way – pounded, steeped or used in combination with other herbs.

Ada had learnt her own skills over a very long period of time but Sarah’s thirst for knowledge, combined with the feeling on both their parts that this knowledge needed to be acquired quickly, required a new approach. After a period of trial and error, during which Ada based her teaching around a specific herb, then around an ailment, she settled on working with Sarah’s practical skills. They studied ointments and lotions, infusions and decoctions, powders and poultices, tinctures and tisanes. Sarah discovered that in many cases she somehow knew which parts of the plant would be efficacious, whether it was the flower, the root, the bark, the leaves or the seeds. She could only assume that it was knowledge that she had absorbed over the years spent living with her grandmother.

And, perhaps because the preparation of the herbs was a practical skill, not dissimilar to the domestic chores or food preparation that she was accustomed to doing, Sarah felt quite at ease in her work. She found herself enjoying the concentration required, the measuring and weighing of ingredients, the calm preparation and the scents that the herbs released. Absorbed, she would carry on working late into the afternoon, with lamps lit, and it would be Ada who generally called a halt to the proceedings by suggesting that it might be time for tea, or to make a start on the preparation of food for the evening meal.

As November progressed, so did Sarah’s knowledge. She was eager to absorb whatever she could about the practice of herbalism and found herself irritated that in this winter month she could only work with the herbs her grandmother had dried and prepared during the summer. She longed for the chance to learn how to work with fresh herbs but, in the meantime, there was still much to take in.

Her deftness earned her grandmother’s admiration and, to Sarah’s astonishment, she discovered Ada’s advice to allow her reading and writing to develop in their own good time to be sound. She started to recognise the words written on the labels of the jars that she was using on a daily basis, and to see the virtue of such labels. Even though she was learning to distinguish herbs by their scent, and discovering the importance of putting the bottles and jars back in their rightful place on the shelves as soon as she had used them, the possibility of making an error if she couldn’t read what was written there was only too apparent to her.

Soon, the morning lessons ceased in favour of devoting the whole day to Ada’s teachings on the nature and implementation of her remedies. Within the month, Ada trusted her to prepare the simpler remedies alone, with only basic supervision.

Each evening Sarah would retire to bed, head buzzing with what she had learnt. It would come to her then that Joe had barely entered her thoughts during the day. Indeed, her thoughts turned more often to the loss of her sisters and, if it hadn’t been for the baby growing and making its presence felt inside her, she might have started to wonder whether Joe was a figment of her imagination.

Chapter 15

One late November afternoon, Sarah and Ada were working in companionable silence side by side in the kitchen. They had been making tonics suitable for nervous complaints and Sarah was packing away the unused herbs while Ada wrote up what had been prepared in her ledger. A knocking at the door was so unexpected that Sarah jumped and dropped the herbs, which scattered on the floor.

Ada laid down her pen. ‘Whoever can that be at this hour, in the dark? Go and see, Sarah.’

Sarah’s thoughts immediately flew to Joe and it was with a sense of trepidation that she went to the door. She hadn’t considered his return and how he would fit into their household, an unfamiliar male presence in their little house. She wasn’t sure how she felt about the routine that she and her grandmother had established being disturbed by another. And yet, now she thought of him, she felt a sudden longing for him.

She slid back the bolts and opened the door then stood for a moment, uncomprehending. The muffled figure at the door was too tall and too slight to be Joe, and not someone that she recognised as one of the villagers.

‘Who is it, Sarah? You’re letting in all the cold air.’

The visitor loosened his muffler, revealing his face, and at that moment Sarah recognised him.

‘Daniel!’ she exclaimed. ‘Come in at once. You must be freezing!’

There was a sharpness in the air that heralded snow and, as Sarah seized Daniel’s arm to pull him into the warmth of the kitchen, she was aware that he was shivering in his thin jacket. ‘Here,’ she commanded, drawing up a chair for him, ‘sit by the range and warm yourself.’

‘I must apologise for disturbing you without warning,’ Daniel said. ‘I was called upon to make a visit to the mill in Northwaite again and intended to return straight home by train from Nortonstall. But when I enquired at the station as to the next train, they told me that snow had blocked the track through to Manchester. It was clear that I must stay the night in town and try again in the morning. I thought to pay you a visit in the meantime.’

‘And we are very pleased that you did!’ Ada exclaimed. She had set the ledger aside and risen from the table to clasp Daniel’s hand in hers. ‘Sit yourself down, as Sarah bids you. The walk up from Nortonstall on such a cold afternoon is not one to be undertaken lightly.’

‘I confess I almost lost heart and turned away when I reached here,’ Daniel said. ‘I saw through the window how calm and content you both looked within, so that I hesitated to disturb you.’

‘I’m glad that you did.’ Ada was firm. ‘I would never have forgiven myself if you had turned away, after all the kindness that you have shown to my family.’

Sarah had busied herself sweeping up the spilled herbs and she cleared a space on the table to set out tea things. They passed an agreeable hour, talking of Daniel’s work in Manchester and of Sarah’s efforts to learn her grandmother’s trade. After a while Sarah slipped away to light the fire in the parlour, feeling that they shouldn’t entertain their guest in the kitchen all evening. She was well aware that if the snow came on it would be necessary to accommodate him for the night, and bedding down on the sofa in the parlour would be the only option for him. As she returned to the kitchen, Daniel leapt to his feet as she entered and she reflected with some surprise on his natural good manners.

It was clear that he and Ada had struck up a strong rapport during the time she had spent in Manchester. Sarah, observing them as they chatted, became pensive. Daniel knew so much more of Ellen and Jane’s life during the last few years than she did herself. If things had turned out differently, perhaps he would have been sitting here as her brother-in-law. On cue, as if he had read her thoughts, Daniel reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled envelope.

He hesitated. ‘I carried this with me when I knew I was coming to Northwaite, on the off-chance that I might see one of you, to pass it on.’

‘What is it?’ Ada asked, regarding the proffered envelope with some suspicion.

Daniel coloured up. ‘It’s something that’s not rightfully mine to keep,’ he said, looking embarrassed. ‘I should have given it to you when you came to nurse your family but I didn’t want to part with it after what came to pass. Now I feel that was wrong.’ He paused. ‘I have been given a better position at work, with an increase in salary, and so have been able to move out of those lodgings into more suitable accommodation. I came across the envelope when I was moving my possessions and was reminded of what I had done.’

Ada now held the corner of the envelope between her thumb and forefinger. ‘But what is inside it?’ She seemed reluctant to discover this for herself.

‘It holds the few mementoes that I had of Ellen,’ Daniel said. His cheeks were now quite scarlet, standing out in contrast to his sandy hair. ‘There’s a lock of her hair, a ribbon and … a photograph.’

‘A photograph?’ Ada and Sarah, both startled, spoke together.

‘Yes. We visited a bazaar in Manchester on Ellen’s birthday. I bought her a ticket for a chance to sit for a studio portrait and she won.’ Daniel smiled sadly. ‘I think the photographer had an eye for a pretty girl and he liked the look of Ellen. We had quite an argument about it. But she let me go with her when she sat for her portrait. Here it is.’

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