Sarah's Story Read online

  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

  May – September 1874

  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 enou
gh? 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.