Abbeyford Remembered

Bello is a digital-only imprint of Pan Macmillan,
established to breathe life into previously published, classic books.

At Bello we believe in the timeless power of the
imagination, of good story, narrative and entertainment and we want to use
digital technology to ensure that many more readers can enjoy these books
into the future.

We publish in ebook and print-on-demand formats to bring
these wonderful books to new audiences.

www.panmacmillan.co.uk/bello

• Margaret Dickinson
  
• Author's Note
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chpater Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  

Born in Gainsborough, Lincolnshire, Margaret Dickinson moved to the coast at the age of seven and so began her love for the sea and the Lincolnshire landscape.

Her ambition to be a writer began early and she had her first novel published at the age of twenty-five. This was followed by twenty-seven further titles including
Plough the Furrow
,
Sow the Seed
and
Reap the Harvest
, which make up her Lincolnshire Fleethaven trilogy.

Many of her novels are set in the heart of her home county, but in
Tangled Threads
and
Twisted Strands
the stories include not only Lincolnshire but also the framework knitting and lace industries of Nottingham.

Her 2012 and 2013 novels,
Jenny's War
and
The Clippie Girls
, were both top twenty bestsellers and her 2014 novel,
Fairfield Hall
, went to number nine on the
Sunday Times
bestseller list.

My writing career falls into two ‘eras'. I had my first novel published at the age of twenty-five, and between 1968 and 1984 I had a total of nine novels published by Robert Hale Ltd. These were a mixture of light, historical romance, an action-suspense and one thriller, originally published under a pseudonym. Because of family commitments I then had a seven-year gap, but began writing again in the early nineties. Then occurred that little piece of luck that we all need at some time in our lives: I found a wonderful agent, Darley Anderson, and on his advice began to write saga fiction; stories with a strong woman as the main character and with a vivid and realistic background as the setting. Darley found me a happy home with Pan Macmillan, for whom I have now written twenty-one novels since 1994. Older, and with a maturity those seven ‘ fallow' years brought me, I recognize that I am now writing with greater depth and daring.

But I am by no means ashamed of those early works: they have been my early learning curve – and I am still learning! Originally, the first nine novels were published in hardback and subsequently in Large Print, but have never previously been issued in paperback or, of course, in ebook. So, I am thrilled that Macmillan, under their Bello imprint, has decided to reissue all nine titles.

Abbeyford
,
Abbeyford Inheritance
and
Abbeyford Remembered
form a trilogy with a chequered history, which took four years to complete. It began life as a long, rambling 150,000 word novel,
Adelina
. On advice, this was cut drastically to about 60,000 words but it still failed to find a publisher. I started a sequel,
Carrie
, and this seemed to work much better. It was then suggested that this book should be submitted instead of
Adelina
, but to me that would have been wasting the first part of the story. I decided to put the two novels together and to write an earlier piece to start it all off, thereby forming one long novel again, but in three separate parts. This was then sent out to publishers and found acceptance. But – wait for it – the publishers wanted it split into three separate books. So, all three were published in 1981 by Robert Hale Ltd. as
Sarah
,
Adelina
and
Carrie
. At a later date, these were reissued by Severn House Publishers, again in hardback, under new titles and became
The Abbeyford Trilogy
.

Abbeyford, England, 1841

“What's this place called, then?”

Carrie Smithson stood at the top of the hill, looking down upon the village nestling in the valley below. The breeze blew her long black hair into a tangle of curls. Her arms akimbo, she stood with her feet, in their wooden clogs, planted slightly apart. Her thin blouse and coarse-woven skirt were flattened by the breeze against her young, firm body. She was slim, almost to the point of thinness, and yet there was a wiry strength about her and a determination about the set of her chin and in her eyes. It was her eyes which were her most striking feature. They were a most unusual colour – a deep violet.

She glanced towards her father standing beside her. His arms were folded across his broad chest. His eyes, as he gazed down into the valley, seemed far away, hazy with memories. He was small and stocky, yet immensely strong. He was dressed in a shirt with the sleeves rolled up above his elbows, a spotted neckcloth knotted carelessly about his throat. His feet were encased in boots with leather leggings buttoned each side as far as the knee. He wore breeches, worn and faded.

“I said, ‘ What's this place called', Pa?” Carrie prompted.

“Abbeyford.”

“Are we going down?”

“I suppose so,” he murmured.

“Why have we come here?”

“I've someone to see.”

“Who? Someone you know? Have you been here before?”

“Aye. Twenty years ago 'n more, I lived here.”

“Lived here?”

“I was born here.”

“Really?” Eagerly her eyes scanned the valley. “ Where? Which house?” She glanced at him and saw his gaze upon a square house just below them, standing halfway up the western hillside of the valley.

Innocently she asked, “Is that the house you were born in?”

Evan Smithson's laugh was more bitter than humorous. “Nay, child. The likes of us aren't born into Manor Houses. No,” his eyes swivelled and dropped to the cottages nestling in the bottom of the valley. “
We're
born into hovels!”

“What about your parents? Are they still here?”

His eyes were on her, angry and resentful. Inwardly Carrie shrank a little but she gave no outward sign of fear and faced her father squarely.

“How the devil should I know?” he muttered. Carrie was shocked, but her questions ran on.

“Would you ever have come back, if it hadn't been for the railway coming this way?”

Carrie had never known any way of life other than the one they lived now. Her father – as far as she knew – had always been a ganger, the man in charge of the gangs of navvies building the new railways, his family moving after him wherever his work took him. As the railway lines extended slowly forward throughout the countryside, the Smithson family shifted once more, always moving a few miles in front of the line, living there until the line caught up with them and passed them by and then moving on once more. Home was a derelict cottage, a shack or even a farmer's barn. Sometimes their shelter was a mere tent of boughs and a tarpaulin, or a hastily constructed hut of stone and turf. Their possessions were few and loaded with monotonous regularity on to the pony and trap – their one means of removal.

“Aye, I'd have come back, some time, some day. I've unfinished business hereabouts.”

“What?”

“You ask too many questions, girl,” Evan growled and began to walk briskly down the hill towards the village. As she followed him Carrie's eyes still took in the scene before her. She pointed to the house she had imagined might have been her father's home. It was a square, solid house, with stables to one side and farm buildings to the rear.

“What's that place called, then?” Carrie asked, refusing to be cowed by his sharpness.

“Abbeyford Manor.”

“Who lives there?”

“How should I know?” he replied testily, but she had the distinct feeling that he knew very well. That house had drawn his gaze and there had been a glint of bitterness in his eyes as he remembered – memories he had no intention of sharing with his daughter.

“What are those ruins? Right on top of the hill – above the Manor?”

“The abbey ruins. That's how the village gets its name. We're coming to the ford now.”

The stream ran right across the lane down which they were walking towards the village. They crossed over by means of a small footbridge.

Carrie's restless eyes now turned to the eastern slope of the valley, where a half-timbered mansion – far grander than the Manor – stood just below the brow of the hill.

“What about that 'un? Who lives there?” Carrie's ceaseless curiosity continued.

“Abbeyford Grange. Used to be a Lord Royston live there. I 'spect he's dead now.”

They were walking along the winding village street now. They passed the church in the centre of the village with the Vicarage close beside it and crossed the village green. Skirting the duck pond, they approached the line of small, squat cottages huddled around the green.

Carrie's sharp eyes darted about her. How quiet it seemed. How deserted almost. Many of the cottages were dilapidated. Broken windows were stuffed with sackcloth to keep out the cold and yet she could see that people still lived in them. Smoke curled from one or two chimneys and a scrawny black cat sprawled on a stone step, idly washing its face.

Evan stopped in front of one of the cottages facing the green and paused before reaching the door. This dwelling seemed in a better state of repair than the others. Bright flowers grew in the garden and pretty curtains blew at the windows. Carrie glanced back towards the next door cottage. Their window pane was broken, the remaining glass dirty and no curtains hung at the window. The garden was neglected and overgrown.

Evan knocked upon the door and Carrie stood on tiptoe, peering over his shoulder to see who would answer the door. When it opened, an old woman stood there, her eyes watering as she squinted up at them. Her hair was white and she stooped, her shoulders hunched, her thin, claw-like hand clasping her shawl about her.

“Who is it?” she asked in a quavering voice. “I can't see so well.”

“Don't you know your own son, Mother?”

Carrie gasped to hear her father's tone of voice. There was no affection but a kind of belligerence in his words of greeting. The old woman's toothless mouth sagged open and she swayed slightly. Shading her eyes, she peered closely at him. “Evan? Is it – Evan?”

“Who else might it be? You have no other son, have you?”

A peculiar kind of choking sound escaped her thin lips. Again she seemed about to topple over. Carrie darted forward and caught hold of the woman's arm.