Straw in the Wind

Table of Contents

Recent Titles by Janet Woods from Severn House

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

AMARANTH MOON

BROKEN JOURNEY

CINNAMON SKY

THE COAL GATHERER

EDGE OF REGRET

HEARTS OF GOLD

MORE THAN A PROMISE

SALTING THE WOUND

THE STONECUTTER'S DAUGHTER

STRAW IN THE WIND

WITHOUT REPROACH

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

First world edition published 2010

in Great Britain and in the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

Copyright © 2010 by Janet Woods.

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Woods, Janet, 1939–

Straw in the Wind.

1. Ship captains – Family relationships – Fiction.

2. Abandoned children – Fiction. 3. Private investigators – Fiction. 4. Family secrets – Fiction. 5. England – Social

conditions – 19th century – Fiction. 6. Love stories.

I. Title

823.9'2-dc22

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-332-7 (epub)

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6893-0 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-235-2 (trade paper)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

Dedicated to Kath Parkin,
a reader in Raywood, Victoria.
With many thanks.

D
awn was creeping over the horizon. The woman's tortured groans had ceased, her dying breath expelled in a long, defeated whimper. Her body had been washed and her long, dark hair brushed and spread about her on the pillow. Now dressed in a long nightgown, her hands were pressed together in prayer.

Caroline Honeyman looked like an angel instead of an unfaithful wife.

The infant had her face turned towards the man. She was pale and limp, blue around the lips and wrapped loosely in a shawl. If she could have seen through those darkling, newborn eyes, she would understand why he didn't want her.

‘I'm sorry,' the midwife said. ‘The birth was too much for them.'

‘You can go. I want to spend some time alone with my wife.'

The man crossed to the infant when the woman left the room. He gazed at her, his eyes maddened by grief and the impotent fury he felt. There was no mistaking the resemblance. She was Thornton's daughter! He lashed out, thumping the side of the cradle with his fist.

As if she'd suddenly decided to put up a fight for survival, the infant's chest expanded and she hauled in a breath of air. Her face screwed up, as though she'd smelled something unpleasant, and she gave a loud, demanding cry.

No! This couldn't be. He wouldn't allow it, not while he had the power to stop it! Taking a cushion from the chair he gazed down at the infant and whispered, ‘I'll see you in hell first, you Thornton bastard,' and a tear rolled down his face as he slowly lowered it.

S
ara Finn walked along a short carriageway that curved slightly upwards towards Leighton Manor. The evening sun came from behind, pushing her shadow tall along the ground. It was twice her length, which was five feet and four inches from head to heel.

Eighteen years old, and although Sara had suffered hardship in her short life, she was still young enough to enjoy the beauty nature had to offer and the optimism to hope that her lot would improve in time. Today she was taking her first step into the future, and what a blessing the day was.

The air was golden and warm, drenched with the drifting scent of roses carried on a faint breeze. When Sara rounded the bend her eyes widened because the overgrown grass in front of the house was a mass of dancing poppies, harebells and mayweed. To her right was a spreading oak, and to her left a cobbled yard with a small stable block. Behind the house a gentle downward incline of meadow was divided by a stream at the bottom, then it rose gently upwards towards a copse leaning against the skyline.

She stopped, and placing the bag she carried on the ground she shortened her gaze to Leighton Manor. It was a modestly sized manor built of stone, one easily managed by five servants – at least, that's how Mrs Pawley had described it. Sara absorbed the sight; the house was larger than she'd expected, about the size of the rectory she'd just left. It glowed a soft pinkish yellow in the late afternoon light. The windows were large, and designed to frame the views so they could be admired. The glass sent back gleams of orange. Three steps led up to frosted-glass panelled doors, which stood open for anyone to walk inside.

‘My first position,' she said with some satisfaction, because she couldn't count her childhood on the farm in Gloucestershire as a position even though she'd worked there from dawn to dusk from the age of eight through to twelve. Nor could she count the time in the workhouse, where she'd packed pins and picked oakum until her fingertips were blistered and raw and callused. And neither could she count the three . . . no – it was almost four years since she turned fourteen. She'd spent them as a maid to Reverend Pawley, his eight children from his first marriage and their stepmother, Elizabeth, who'd once been the children's governess.

The reverend had never paid Sara a penny piece for her labours when he'd given her notice to leave, saying he'd taken her from the workhouse for her own good, that he'd fed, housed, clothed and educated her along with his own children. She should be grateful for that, and be happy that his wife had given her a reference after what had taken place.

‘The cheek of him to accuse me of enticing his eldest son,' she muttered. ‘I didn't invite Albert to corner me in the kitchen and try to kiss me, or to put his grubby hands where he wasn't welcome to. Hah!' she tossed indignantly into the air.

There was an ache in her feet and calves after her long walk.

‘You'll be picked up at the station,' Elizabeth Pawley had promised her. But nobody had been there, though she'd waited over two hours.

‘While the cat's away the mice will play,' the stationmaster had said mysteriously. ‘Likely that the stable lad arranged to meet his sweetheart and has forgotten the time. Leighton Manor is about two miles away.'

‘You mean I've got to drag this trunk for two miles, when I can hardly lift it?' Sara groaned. As well as her clothing the small trunk had several books inside, given to her as a parting gift by Elizabeth Pawley.

‘I'll miss you,' Elizabeth had said. ‘Keep up your reading and writing, Sara. You have a quick mind and a retentive memory that will hold you in good stead.'

‘Leave the trunk if you like. I'll keep it safe in my office until the lad turns up,' the stationmaster had offered.

Sara hoped that her trunk would be safe as she closed her eyes for a few seconds. She had so very few possessions, but she was grown up, at last, and had paid employment thanks to Elizabeth Pawley, who'd had a friend who knew somebody who'd known somebody else who needed a housemaid. She intended to save every penny she earned, so she could buy her own house . . . oh, not as fine as this one perhaps, but a home of her own just the same.

She'd have a husband too, one who was pleasant as well as handsome and who wouldn't beat her . . . a tutor perhaps, because she liked learning new things and he could teach her when the dark winter cold pressed like a wolf against the door. In the summer they'd tend to their garden together. They'd have children too, so she'd have a family she could call her own. But that was only one of her dreams for the future – sometimes they changed.

The thought of being part of a family brought happiness surging up inside her. When she opened her eyes again she picked up her bag, hugged it against her chest and danced round in circles until she was out of breath, dizzy and laughing.

She'd better not use the front door, she thought, even though it was standing wide open in invitation. She hurried towards the stables and then went past them and around the corner to a door at the back. She knocked.

There was no answer. The door opened when she tried the handle and she stepped inside. She was in a kitchen; Sara's nose wrinkled at the state of it. There was a woman asleep in a chair with a tabby cat in her lap; her shoes were on the floor and her dirty bare feet were propped up on another chair. Her snores sounded like wood being sawn.

Sara supposed it was Mrs Cornwell, the housekeeper . . . though it could possibly be the cook. She'd been led to believe there was one. A bottle of port and a half-empty glass sat on the table in front of the woman.

When the cat jumped down and wove about her ankles Sara stroked its ear so it began to purr throatily. The figure in the chair snorted, then subsided into slumber again. Sara took her by the shoulder and gently shook her. ‘Mrs Cornwell?'

A cough brought Sara's gaze to the inner door, where a neat, blue-eyed woman of about forty stood. ‘I'm Mrs Cornwell. You must be my replacement.' She came forward, her gaze sweeping over her face. ‘You're younger than Elizabeth Pawley's letter led me to believe, but it's a small house, so I dare say you'll manage if you stick to a routine.'

‘I thought I was hired to be a housemaid, not the housekeeper.'

‘You must have got mixed up then, because Mrs Pawley definitely said you'd been their housekeeper and had three years' experience. I can show you the reference letter if you wish.'

Sara had no intention of losing this position. Running a house wasn't all that difficult, and a maid's wage was much smaller than that of a housekeeper. ‘Yes, I did. And there were eight children in the household, as well.'

‘Well there are no children here, though Frederick Milson and his sister, Jane Milson, visit on occasion. They are kin to the late Mrs Leighton. You have to be careful when they're here, because they complain if things aren't to their liking.'

Sara took note of that. ‘Why are you leaving the position, Mrs Cornwell?'

‘I'm going to be wed. Mr Perkins is a widower, an estate manager up in Wiltshire, and he has three children who need a mother.' She gave a bit of a sigh as though it wasn't exactly a joyous event she was looking forward to. ‘Perkins is a good, hard-working man.'

‘I hope you'll be happy.'