The Stony Path
| The Stony Path | |
| Rita Bradshaw | |
| Hachette UK (2010) | |
| Tags: | Sagas, Fiction |
SYNOPSIS
Growing up on a small, struggling farm on the outskirts of Sunderland in the early 1900s, Polly Farrow has a tough life, but she has gifts money can't buy; a joyful disposition and a loving heart. And her heart belongs to her beloved cousin, Michael. Polly knows that one day they'll be man and wife. But a terrible secret is to change everything: Michael is her half-brother, the fruit of an incestuous relationship between her father and his own sister; Michael's mother. The lovers are rent apart and Polly is left to bear the responsibility of the farm alone; for her father kills himself, unable to live with his shame. Life is now a battle for survival, and Polly wonders if she will ever find happiness. But the answer to her prayers is closer than she thinks...
The Stony Path
RITA BRADSHAW
headline
Copyright © 2000 Rita Bradshaw
The right of Rita Bradshaw to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copiright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2010
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
eISBN : 978 0 7553 7586 8
This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations
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Table of Contents
Rita Bradshaw was born in Northamptonshire, where she still lives today with her husband, their children and two dogs.
When she was approaching forty, Rita decided to fulfil two long-cherished ambitions – to write a novel and to learn to drive. She says, ‘The former was pure joy and the latter pure misery,’ but the novel was accepted for publication and she passed her driving test. She went on to write many successful novels under a pseudonym before beginning to write for Headline under her own name.
As a committed Christian and fervent animal-lover, Rita has a full and busy life, but she relishes her writing – a job that is all pleasure – and loves to read, walk her dogs, eat out and visit the cinema in any precious spare moments.
Rita Bradshaw’s delightful earlier sagas, ALONE BENEATH THE HEAVEN, REACH FOR TOMORROW and RAGAMUFFIN ANGEL, are also available from Headline.
To my lovely family; we’ve trod our own share of stony paths, but always shoulder to shoulder and loving each other. You’re all more precious than words can say, and I count myself the most fortunate wife and mother in the world.
What plan of life is this,
the stony path so oft times tread?
An endless path when youth is sweet
and nature’s hand is beckoning.
A path of yearning and vain lament,
of heart demise and sorrow.
And yet my love walks the stony path
and I will see him ... in my dreams.
Anon
Prologue
1889
The July evening was mellow after the fierce heat of the day, and dying shafts of sunlight spangled the dusty floor of the old barn, slanting softly through the half-open door.
Outside the barn there was the occasional low mooing of cattle settling down for the night, and the odd squawk from indignant hens as the resident cock marshalled his harem into their crees.
Inside the wooden structure the only sound came from the sweet-smelling hayloft set far above the floor and reached by a ladder propped against the platform. The low murmur of voices was punctured by a gurgling laugh, followed by a girl’s voice saying, ‘I always feel so happy when we’re together like this, Henry. In fact I think it’s the only time I
am
truly happy. Do you know what I mean?’
‘Of course I do. You know I feel the same, lass.’
‘Then how can you even think of marryin’ Hilda? She set her cap at you from way back, you know it, same as you know you only love me. You
can’t
marry her, Henry.’
‘Don’t start that again.’ Henry Farrow was of slender build, his finely boned body and delicate, almost pretty face giving the impression of someone much younger than his twenty years. In direct contrast, the girl lying beside him in the fragrant hay was hefty, her broad frame and voluptuous curves reminiscent of a full-blown Rembrandt beauty.
She propped herself on one elbow now, stroking the side of Henry’s face as she said softly, her voice still holding an echo of laughter, ‘I will start it, I have every right to. I love you; I won’t give you up to that milksop who doesn’t know her backside from her elbow. She will never make you happy.’
Henry stared up into the deep sea-green eyes looking down at him, and his voice reflected the turmoil within as he murmured, ‘Happy doesn’t come into it, lass. You know that. We’ve got to finish this, kill it stone dead, and if it means me being wed then so be it.’
‘But you love me.’ Eva tossed her mane of thick brown hair back from her shoulders as she continued looking down into his face. It was beautiful, it was so beautiful. She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t thought how beautiful Henry was, or loved him. He was everything she would ever want in a man, in a husband.
Aye, he loved her. Henry felt his body harden as she stroked his face again, her fingers light and teasing. He had avoided being alone with Eva these last months since he’d asked for Hilda Craggs, knowing his weakness if she touched him, but still she had managed to waylay him several times and the result had always been the same. He burned for her, that was the trouble. She only had to look at him in a certain way, slanting those green eyes of hers, and his body responded. That was why he had thought marriage would dampen down the fire. And tomorrow was his wedding day, and likely even now his mam and da were on their way home from visiting Stone Farm, Hilda’s home, where the jollifications for the morrow were to take place.
‘Tell me you love me, Henry.’ Her hand had moved to his unbuttoned shirt, and as her warm fingers began to wander over the slight dusting of body hair on his narrow chest, he felt his breath catch in his throat. ‘Say it. I tell you often enough.’
She was right, she did. Right from a bairn it had been Eva, just a year older than him, who had played with him and mopped up his tears and taken care of him when his mam had been too busy with being a farmer’s wife. He had been just fourteen when she had brought him up to this very spot and shown him how her love had ripened and diverted, and then, like now, he had been unable to resist the allure of her rounded curves and the utter abandonment with which she had given herself to him. The feeling she had for him was unconditional, and though she might consume him on occasion, wear him out with her constant need of him, he knew he felt the same. They were a pair. How often had she said that? But she was right.
Something of his thoughts must have shown in his face because now Eva lay fully beside him again, pressing her lips to his ear and throat in little burning kisses before she whispered, ‘You can’t marry anyone, Henry, you can’t. I’ve got somethin’ to tell you—’
And then her voice was cut off as he turned to her, covering her lips with his own as the desire she had been invoking rose hot and strong, and soon they were oblivious to anything but their need of each other ...
It was their names being screamed that tore them apart as if by a giant hand; Henry to curl almost double as he attempted to hide the state of his dishevelment from the horrified gaze of the woman perched on the ladder against the platform, and Eva to kneel up in the hay, her hair tumbling about her shoulders as she fumbled with her gaping blouse.
‘You ... you ...’ That Alice Farrow couldn’t believe what she was seeing was evident from her stunned face. One hand was pressed against the starched white collar of her blue serge dress – her Sunday frock; she couldn’t have them at Stone Farm thinking the Farrows were paupers, even if they only employed two men and a lad to Weatherburn’s seven or eight men and inside help – whilst the other maintained a precarious hold on the ladder.
‘Mam.’ Henry gulped and spluttered as he straightened his clothing. ‘I can explain, Mam. Listen to me for a minute.’
‘
Listen
to you?’ His mother’s voice cracked and she wet her thin lips with her tongue before she said again, ‘Listen to you, you say? Do you know what you were about? But of course you do, aye, an’ that’s the truth! An’ with your own sister! Listen to him, he says! It’s Sodom an’ Gomorrah on me own doorstep!’
The force of the last invective almost caused the ladder to fall as Alice’s body twisted in her anguish and was only saved by Henry’s dive at it. He held it fast as he said, ‘Mam, please, I’m askin’ you to listen a minute.’
‘I’ve no need to listen.’ Alice scrambled into the hayloft, there to confront her daughter, who was now standing and endeavouring to smooth her tangled hair. ‘I blame you for this, girl. Aye, I do. You’re dirty through an’ through an’ you’ve bin that way since the day you was born.’
‘You’d like to think that, Mam, wouldn’t you?’ Eva had regained something of her composure now the initial shock of being discovered had faded a little, and as she faced her mother the angry colour was hot in her cheeks. ‘Right from a wee babby you’ve never had any time for me, have you, an’ you’ve let me know it. The only person who’s ever loved me is Henry.’
‘That’s not love.’
