A Little Badness

by Josephine Cox

Genres: General Fiction; Family Life; Historical Fiction; Sagas; Historical Romance

Synopsis

No.1 bestselling writer Josephine Cox is 'hailed quite rightly as a gifted writer in the tradition of Catherine Cookson' (Manchester Evening News). A Little Badness is a compelling story of love and family, perfect for fans of Lyn Andrews and Rosie Goodwin.


Rita Blackthorn's heart was barren and hard. In all of her life she had never truly loved. But she had hated. Beneath the loving gaze of her daughter's soft green eyes, her heart swelled with dark and dangerous emotions.

Young Cathy Blackthorn has never experienced any loving response from her mother; it is her beloved aunt Margaret, with a heart as big and warm as the summer sky, who has been more of a mother than her own could ever be. And when Cathy's father Frank Blackthorn brings home a London street urchin and announces this will be the son he and Rita have never had, Cathy despairs of ever winning her parents' love. Cathy is a generous soul, though, and tries to give the young lad a chance to prove himself but, unlike her best friend, David Leyton, something about him makes her more than uneasy . . .

Release date: January 19, 2012

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 432

Sample

Curled up like a kitten, Cathy was a slim homely creature, with a nature as warm as her mother’s was cold. She was barely sixteen years old. Since the day she was old enough to realise her mother hated her, she had yearned for one kind word, one affectionate glance. ‘I love you, Mother,’ she murmured. ‘Don’t turn me away.’ The softly spoken words were uttered from the heart.

Rita made no move. She gave no answer. But Cathy’s simple plea burned like fire in her brain. The emotions that swept her then should have been those of joy and belonging. Instead, her loathing clenched like a fist in her breast.

The girl’s voice trembled as she dared to ask, ‘Have I made you angry, Mother?’

Cold and aloof, the woman gave no answer.

Again the child entreated, ‘Why don’t you love me?’ Beside her mother’s chair, Cathy ached to touch those long slim fingers, to curl her fingers about them and to press them against her face. In the whole of her life, she had never experienced any loving response from her mother. Now, it had taken all of her courage to get out of her chair and bring herself this close. Her timid gaze swept the woman’s face. As always, it was cold, forbidding. Her mother was so near, so tantalisingly near, yet Cathy dared not reach out.

Rita Blackthorn appeared not to have heard. Her handsome face was set like stone. Painfully aware that Cathy had come to kneel at her feet, she was almost overwhelmed by the desire to kill.

For a moment it seemed as though she might reply. But then she began rocking the chair in a frenzy, her long busy fingers moving skilfully over the embroidery in her lap. It was not a labour of love. The needle wove in and out with vicious rhythmic movements. For a while, the only sounds that could be heard were the muffled sigh of the rockers against the carpet, and the loud ticking of the mantelpiece clock.

Keeping her fingers clear of the rockers, Cathy studied her mother’s beautiful face. Even now, she could not see the ugliness beneath.

Certainly, at forty years of age Rita Blackthorn was a vibrant, handsome woman. Having borne only one child, she had a firm, attractive figure and, with her flowing dark hair, magnificent green eyes and arrogant nature, she could have had any man she wanted. But she wanted none, not even her long-suffering husband, who cherished the ground she walked on. One quiet look, one soft word from her, and he was lost.

‘Leave me now.’ The movement of the chair was brought to an abrupt halt. Reaching down, she dropped her needle and silks into the sewing box. Savagely slamming shut the lid, she hissed, ‘Get washed and away to your bed.’

On her feet now, Cathy resented being treated like a child. ‘But I promised Margaret I would wait up for her.’

‘You had no right to make such promises!’ Getting up from the chair Rita said in a low trembling voice, ‘Or do I have to fetch the stick?’ She glanced at the door where, propped up in the corner, was a long willow stick. As a child, Cathy had been beaten with the stick many times.

‘I’m not a child any longer.’ The green eyes hardened.

‘Don’t defy me, girl! You may be sixteen years old, but you’re not too old to be beaten.’ With a grim expression on her face, Rita made a dash for the stick, but on hearing Cathy’s footsteps and then the door closing softly behind her, paused, smiling with satisfaction. When she turned again, Cathy had gone. Softly laughing, she collected the sewing box, put the stocking inside and, with growing irritation, returned the box to the dresser.

Afterwards, she sat on the window-seat, her knees to her chin, and her head resting on them. ‘Hurry up, Margaret,’ she pleaded aloud. But Margaret was nowhere in sight.

For what seemed an age she gazed forlornly out of the window, her heart missing a beat when she heard her mother climbing the stairs. For one awful minute, the footsteps paused outside her room.

‘Don’t let her come in,’ Cathy whispered, her green eyes turned to the heavens. ‘Please don’t let her come in!’ She waited for the footsteps to carry her mother away. The silence was ominous.

Suddenly the door handle began to turn. Quickly now, the girl ran across the room on tiptoe and crawled into her bed. Turning on one side, she closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep.

Rita Blackthorn swept in. For a while she remained at the door, her hard gaze on the bed. She half-turned, satisfied that Cathy was sleeping. But then she changed her mind and, on stiff reluctant steps, came to the bed. Here, she leaned forward, staring at the long fine fingers that clutched the pillow, that pretty slim neck with its pink young skin, then the lovely face with its high cheekbones and perfect shape. ‘You’re too attractive for your own good,’ she murmured bitterly. She wanted to tear herself away, but could not. Her envious gaze lingered, travelling the long corn-coloured hair and the thick dark lashes that fringed the closed eyelids. She imagined those striking green eyes beneath, eyes that were almost the mirror image of her own, and it was more than she could bear. ‘You asked me if you had been bad,’ she whispered. ‘You were always bad. The badness is in your smile . . . it’s in your laughter and your goodness. Since the day you took root in me, you’ve been bad.’ Her features hardened. ‘I wanted a son, and I got you!’ Shivering with loathing, she rasped, ‘I’ll never forgive you for that.’

Incensed, she turned away. Her parting words cut the girl deep. ‘As for “loving” you? Never! Not as long as I live.’

When the door was closed and she was alone again, Cathy was filled with sadness that permeated through and through. Confused and hurting, she returned to the window-seat.

Through a blur of tears she searched the countryside for another woman, one who was more of a mother than her own could ever be, a woman with a heart as big and warm as the summer sky, a dear and gentle soul who had loved her brother’s child these past years, and was destined to be with her through all the years to come.

Burying her face in her hands, the girl pleaded, ‘Please, Margaret . . . please come home.’ The tears rolled down her face. Soon there were sobs which racked her body. Only the thought that Margaret would soon be home offered any consolation.

In that moment a sound made her look up. The squirrel had scurried up the tree outside her window and was almost near enough for her to touch. Cathy’s face shone with delight. ‘Oh, you lovely thing. I knew you’d be back.’ Touching the windowpane she giggled when the squirrel sat staring at her, its mouth and nostrils working, almost as though it was trying to tell her something.

Softly now, Cathy slid open the window. ‘Come for your tea, have you?’ she asked. Taking a nut from a corner of the window-ledge, she held it loosely between finger and thumb. ‘It’s not very nice, but it’s the best I can do.’ Scolding the inquisitive creature, she explained, ‘It’s your own fault, because you haven’t been to see me for a long time, and now they’re all dried up.’

Creeping forward on the branch, the squirrel plucked at her hand until the nut was firmly grasped between his claws. He turned it over and over, his quick brown eyes examining every detail. At first he seemed not to want it. But then, with a little encouragement from the girl, he put it between his sharp teeth, split open the shell, and began nibbling at the contents.

‘There!’ she cried softly. ‘It’s still good.’ Enchanted, her face shone with delight which deepened when she caught sight of a small familiar figure coming over the far hill. From the blue dress to the short fair hair glinting in the sunshine, there was no mistaking who it was. Margaret was on her way back.

Shading her eyes with the flat of her hand, she squinted up at the sky. ‘What a pity Cathy wasn’t allowed to come with me,’ she murmured, her brown eyes shadowed as she walked quickly on. There was still a way to go, and she knew the girl would be waiting for her. ‘A woman like that should never have had a child in the first place!’ she declared under her breath.

‘They do say as how talking to yourself is the first sign of madness.’ The man’s voice was warm and kind, but it startled her.

‘Good heavens!’ Margaret reeled back as he came out of the woods and stood before her. ‘Mr Leyton!’ Relief flooded her face. ‘You gave me a fright.’

‘Sorry about that,’ he apologised, then, holding up a large empty crate, he explained, ‘I’m on me way back from the market, and this is all I have to show for me troubles.’ Before she could express her curiosity about the crate, he pointed to the lane where his wagon and horse were waiting. ‘That downpour last week opened up the potholes, and the lane’s a shocking mess, I can tell you.’

Margaret smiled. ‘You don’t have to tell me,’ she assured him. ‘Why do you think I prefer to cross by way of the fields?’ As always when she came into contact with Owen Leyton, she was struck by his handsome looks. He was not much taller than herself, but his figure was proud and upright, his muscles hard, and his shoulders broadened by labouring on the land. Owen Leyton caught the eye in a way she could never explain, and his manner was always most charming. With the sun streaming down on him, his brown hair gleamed, and his dark eyes twinkled as he spoke.

‘You’ve still a way to go,’ he pointed out. ‘Why don’t I give you a lift on the wagon?’

Margaret eyed the rickety wagon with suspicion. ‘Are you likely to hit any more potholes?’ she asked wryly.

He laughed out loud. ‘I’m offended,’ he teased. ‘You’re talking to a man who was born on a wagon. What! I drove one almost as soon as I could walk. Me . . . hit a pothole? Whatever gave you that idea?’

‘Shame on me,’ Margaret responded with a grin. ‘For ever thinking such a thing.’

‘You’ll travel with me then?’

Margaret nodded. ‘Why not? My legs are aching, and I’ve the longest mile to go yet.’ She began walking alongside him towards the lane. ‘I’ve had a good day . . . spent an hour or two browsing in the Blackburn shops, then stopped off at Nan Foster’s cottage on the way back.’ Her gaze softened as she glanced to the big house in the distance. ‘All the same, I’ll not be sorry to get back. I expect Cathy’s been watching for me all afternoon.’

He nodded as though agreeing with her. ‘Aye. She’s a lovely lass. An’ if you don’t mind me saying, Miss, I don’t reckon I’ve ever known a mother and child to be so unalike. Oh, I know the girl has the stamp of her mother . . . and that’s not a curse because the mother is a good-looking woman.’ On seeing Margaret’s curious glance, he quickly added, ‘But their natures are as far apart as heaven from hell.’ He kicked at the ground. ‘I expect you know how your sister-in-law has a mind to put up the rents on all the tenant farms?’

Margaret should not have been shocked but she was. Trying hard not to show her anger, she merely answered, ‘Is that so?’

‘Aye.’ His face was turned to hers and his eyes burned with a fury that almost matched her own. ‘I’ll not deny the prospect of finding more rent has caused me a deal of grief, especially as we’ve had a hard winter and the crops were recently beaten down by the rains.’ Sensing he had said enough, he lowered his gaze.

It was on the tip of her tongue to reassure him that her sister-in-law had no legal right to make such threats. But she knew how devoted to Rita her misguided brother was, and how, if it pleased her, he would let her meddle in affairs that were none of her concern. So Margaret merely answered, ‘My brother has said nothing of rent rises to me.’ She gave a short laugh that lightened his dark expression. ‘But then, like all women I don’t have a head for business. Much better to leave such matters to the men.’

He eyed her with renewed interest, saying in a pleasant voice, ‘Don’t pretend you haven’t a good head on your shoulders, Miss . . . we all know different.’

‘Oh?’ She was flattered.

‘I’m talking about the way you step in whenever you think your brother is being too harsh. Like last year when it seemed he might levy a milk tax on us. If he’d gone ahead with that idea, I’d have been driven under for sure.’ He nodded his head as though agreeing with some inner prompting. ‘I’ve never really said thank you for putting a stop to it, but I’m thanking you now, Miss. There’s no mistake about it, you saved my livelihood.’

‘And if I said I know nothing about it?’ She was astonished. How in God’s name had he learned of her brother’s plan? It was all exactly as he described and, for the first time since she and her twin brother had inherited the land and cottages, she had felt it morally right to oppose him on a business decision. But, as far as she knew, it had been discussed in private, and had not gone beyond the walls of the big house.

As though reading her mind, he answered cleverly, ‘Walls have ears, Miss.’

‘You mean the tale was carried out by someone from the house? Are you telling me it was Ruby?’

‘Happen . . . and happen not.’

Her smile was friendly, forgiving. She found him wonderfully easy to talk to. ‘Meaning?’

‘If it was the housekeeper, you wouldn’t tell your sister-in-law, would you?’

‘What do you think?’

Grinning, he visibly relaxed. ‘Well now, Miss. Taking into account the fact that Ruby Adams has no family but yours, and has served you well these many years, and knowing you have a gentle heart, I don’t reckon you would punish her.’

‘Ruby is in a position of trust, and she did wrong.’ When she saw his expression fall, she quickly assured him, ‘I intend to have words with her. But, no, I won’t punish her, and neither will I speak to my brother about it.’

‘Thank you for that, Miss.’ His face hardened. ‘If word of Ruby’s little indiscretion ever got to your sister-in-law’s ears, she’d take great pleasure in making an example of her.’ In his mind’s eye he could see his landlord’s spoilt wife, handsome, arrogant . . . and immensely desirable. Thrusting such dangerous images from his thoughts, he exclaimed, ‘By! She’s a hard one! I had a bull like that once . . . magnificent to look at, but get on his wrong side and he’d rip your heart out.’ Suddenly he was trembling, whether from fury or desire he wasn’t altogether certain. All he knew was that Rita Blackthorn had the power to shake his emotions like nothing he had ever experienced. And he hated himself for it.

Secretly amused by his comparison of Rita to a mad bull, Margaret let the matter lie. ‘What’s the crate for?’ she asked brightly.

Momentarily surprised by her question and realising she wanted to change the subject, he answered gratefully, ‘It’s empty now, but it weren’t an hour back.’ Giving no more information than that, he strode along, swinging the heavy wooden crate as though it was no weight at all. ‘Where in God’s name has he got to?’

‘Who?’ she asked.

Pausing in his stride and turning his attention to the spinney, he didn’t hear her question. ‘It’s no use him searching now,’ he groaned. ‘If I know anything at all, they’ll be long gone.’

Margaret was intrigued. Standing some way behind, she watched him put down the crate. He then cupped his big hands round his mouth and emitted an ear-splitting whistle. It took her by surprise. Fascinated, she came to his side. Looking with him towards the spinney, she wondered what might suddenly emerge.

When only silence followed, he enacted the same procedure again. This time the whistle was so loud that Margaret was forced to press her hands over her ears, at the same time thinking she might have got home quicker if she hadn’t accepted a ride in his wagon.

Suddenly the spinney came alive when two large birds burst from its cover. ‘Well, I’m buggered! He found ’em after all.’ Falling to his knees, he pulled her with him. ‘Keep down, Miss,’ he whispered. ‘If they catch sight of us they’ll be gone like the wind.’

The birds were in a panic. Flying a short distance then falling to the ground again, they flailed the air with their wings and nervously fluttered about.

‘Is that what was in your crate?’ Margaret recalled him saying he’d been to Blackburn Market.

‘That’s right,’ he confirmed. ‘Until we rumbled over the potholes and the blessed thing broke open.’

‘Shouldn’t you get after them?’

He shook his head. ‘No. They’re spooked enough. Best to stay put. I’ve taught him well. He knows what he’s doing.’ That said, he strained his eyes towards the spinney. ‘There!’ he whispered. ‘D’you see?’

Margaret followed his gaze. Creeping from the spinney on all fours was a young man. Inch by inch he came up on the birds who were pecking at the ground one minute, and in the next squaring up to tear each other’s eyes out. ‘Careful now. Or it’ll be your eyes they’ll pluck out,’ Owen whispered. Margaret remained silent, but watchful.

Suddenly there was a flurry of feathers as the birds went for each other, and in that same minute were grabbed by the young man. Wrenching them apart, he dropped each one into a separate sack before loosely tying the necks and setting towards the onlookers across the field. When he saw Owen, he grinned from ear to ear. ‘I’d have bagged them in the spinney if your whistle hadn’t scared ’em off.’

His father beamed with pride. ‘I might have known he’d track the blighters down,’ he laughed. ‘Just as well too. They’re valuable birds . . . champion cockerels, that’s what they are. And I don’t mind telling you, they cost me a pretty penny.’

Together, Margaret and Owen followed the young man’s progress across the field. At eighteen years of age, David was the elder of Owen’s two children. The only son, he was the apple of his father’s eye; the kind of son a man could boast of. Tall, well-built and incredibly handsome, he was also hard-working and possessed of a warm likeable nature. With his wild dark hair and smiling dark eyes, he had the makings of a heart-breaker.

‘He’s a fine young man,’ Margaret declared as David strode towards them in that easy confident manner he had. ‘And a good friend to Cathy.’

Owen snorted through his nose. ‘Aye! And how long d’you reckon it’ll be before she puts a stop to it?’ Jerking his thumb towards the big house, he went on in a harsh voice, ‘From what I know, your sister-in-law would rather wipe her boots on my son than have the girl speak to him.’ He rolled his eyes to heaven. ‘By! If she knew how her daughter was teaching David to read and write, there’d be hell to pay!’

‘Then we’d best not let her find out,’ Margaret said softly. ‘What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.’

‘She’ll not hear of it from me, that’s for sure.’ He rubbed his chin with the flat of his hand. ‘All the same, I reckon it’ll end in trouble.’ As he dwelt on the possible consequences of the growing friendship between the two youngsters, a deep frown creased his forehead and he opened his mouth to say something else.

Margaret put up her hand and intervened. ‘Do you want me to stop calling?’

‘’Course not.’ The very idea would be like a slap in the face, for Margaret had brought great comfort to his poorly wife. ‘What! Maria would never forgive me.’

‘Do you want me to stop bringing the girl then?’ Margaret was testing him, though she guessed he was made of sterner stuff than to let Rita Blackthorn dictate the pattern of his life.

‘Then David would never forgive me.’

‘I could always say it was my idea?’

‘Then I’d never forgive myself!’ Perceiving her little game, he shrugged his shoulders. ‘Shame on you, Miss. You know well enough how I want our David to have the learning I never had. Cathy Blackthorn is the best thing that ever happened to him, and as for yourself, Miss, you must know how me and the missus appreciate your help.’

‘That’s very kind. But we’re not talking about me in particular. What we’re discussing is whether or not you still want things to carry on as they have these past few months? In other words, Owen Leyton . . . are you happy for me to go on visiting your wife? And is Cathy still welcome at your house?’ She eyed him with serious brown eyes, the smallest suspicion of a smile appearing at the comers of her mouth. ‘I must say, I never thought you were the kind of man to let a woman frighten you. That’s all she is, you know . . . just a woman.’

He was embarrassed then. ‘She doesn’t frighten me, Miss.’ His hackles were up now, and his jawbone working in a fever. ‘It’s for him, isn’t it? For David. And to hell with Rita Blackthorn!’ His gaze went to the young man who was almost on them, and at once his eyes softened. ‘Who am I to say he can’t have his chance, eh? He’s a good lad, and one day he’ll make a better man than his father.’

There was regret in his voice, and something so painful that Margaret was obliged to comment. ‘How can you say that?’ she asked kindly. ‘No son could wish for a better father.’

When he looked into her eyes, she was disturbed by his fleeting expression of guilt. ‘You think so?’ he murmured, dropping his gaze. ‘Mebbe! But I wouldn’t be much of a father if I robbed him of his chance to read and write now, would I, eh? David was always a loner, never one for mixing, especially with members of the opposite sex.’ He chuckled knowingly. ‘But that lovely girl of yours has opened up a whole new world for him. She’s not only befriended him, she’s taught him a love for words . . . given him the talent to write and read . . . something his father never could do.’ He grimaced. ‘It’s the biggest shame of my life, not being able to read and write. All these years, I’ve felt only half a man. I don’t want that for David. Until the girl came along, he still hadn’t mastered the pen and page. Oh, it’s not that he hasn’t the brains because he has. He just didn’t have the heart.’ He chuckled. ‘He hated every minute at school.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be out in the fields instead of being squashed into a row of desks, with only the four walls to look at.’ Margaret worried that Owen might see this as a flaw in his son’s character. ‘David is a bright intelligent young man, with a great love for God’s wonderful creation.’ She swept out her arms. ‘And this is where he belongs, where he feels at home. It isn’t surprising that he didn’t enjoy his schooling.’

Soon they were all loaded on to the wagon; Margaret seated up front with Owen who had put on his cap and pulled the brim down over his forehead; David in the back, with the crate securely tied to the wagon rim. ‘I’ll have you home in no time, Miss,’ Owen declared as he gently tapped the whip against the horse’s rump.

‘I’m later now than if I’d walked,’ she said, desperately hanging on as the cart lurched forward. With her free hand she dipped into her basket and drew out a scarf which she wrapped round her neck. Suddenly there was a light wind blowing and the sun was hiding behind a cloud.

‘Looks like rain,’ Owen remarked. Staring up at the sky, he drove the wagon on. The potholes were thick and fast, and with every turn of the wheels the wagon found them out.

‘Miss Blackthorn?’ David’s voice cut through the air.

Not daring to glance round, Margaret replied, her voice vibrating as she was thrown from side to side, ‘Yes? What is it, David?’

‘Will Cathy be coming to the farm tomorrow?’

This time it was Owen who spoke. ‘Talk sense, lad! It’s Sunday tomorrow. Miss Blackthorn never visits on a Sunday.’

There followed an awkward silence. But then Margaret’s warm voice answered, ‘If the weather is as glorious tomorrow as it’s been today, I have a mind to take Cathy on a long walk over the fields. I dare say we could make a detour to the farm.’ She turned round then. Happiness shone in his face like a beacon. ‘What’s so special about tomorrow?’ she asked.

His smile fell away. It was something secret between him and Cathy and, as much as he liked Miss Blackthorn, he had promised Cathy that no one would know about it until it was all finished. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said quietly. ‘It can wait till Monday.’

Margaret sensed his disappointment. ‘I’m sure Cathy would be delighted to pay a visit tomorrow,’ she said wisely. ‘But, as I say, it’s a Sunday so there’ll be no reading or writing.’ When she looked at him again, he was crouched before the crate, tenderly stroking the birds, a little smile on his face.

The short journey to Blackthorn House took only fifteen minutes during which the conversation embraced the Boer War, the assassination of the German Ambassador in Peking, and the opening of London Underground’s central line.

‘As you know, I was bitterly disappointed not to have joined the fighting force,’ Owen lied.

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Margaret reassured him. She had heard the tale time and again, and knew it inside out.

‘I should have been more careful. Two days before leaving, and I had to shoot myself in the knee with a shotgun!’

‘It’s no good blaming yourself, Dad.’ David had remained quiet until now, just listening and enjoying the ride. But now he felt he had to defend his father. ‘You have to be thankful you didn’t lose your leg.’

Margaret sensed Owen’s disgust at himself. ‘Sometimes bad things happen and we just have to make the best of them,’ she said softly. Her thoughts wandered. She thought of Cathy, and of how Rita had never deserved such a lovely child. She recalled how the girl had always craved her mother’s affection but been constantly rejected, and she burned with shame at the way her own brother accepted the situation. In his eyes Rita could do no wrong. Some day, Margaret knew, he would regret the way she had twisted him round her little finger. But for now Frank Blackthorn could not see what was right before his eyes, and there wasn’t a thing anyone could do about it.

‘You’re very easy to talk to,’ Owen’s voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘You’re a good woman with a sense of right and wrong.’ Under his breath he added warily, ‘The wife has always said you’re a misfit in the big house.’

Margaret was made to wonder about this, and for some reason she was not too happy about it.

Fearing he had overstepped the mark, Owen quickly urged, ‘Take no notice of me, Miss Blackthorn. Sometimes I let my tongue run away with my brains.’ He blamed her too. Some people were so easygoing and kind that they made it too easy to be familiar.

Margaret smiled at him. He smiled back. But still he felt uneasy.

Conversation was at an end. Instead, he began softly whistling. Margaret thought about her aching feet and the few purchases she had made at the market. Behind them the young man lay on his back, stared up at the gathering clouds and dreamed of Cathy. So much separated them. So many things decreed that they could never be together as lovers. Yet he was determined: one day in the future, they would be lovers. One day in a far-off summer, when he was a man and Cathy was a woman, they would be man and wife. It seemed an impossible dream. Right now, the way things were, it was impossible, he knew that. But one day it must happen, or all of his life would count for nothing.

Gathering up the hem of her dress with one hand, Margaret reached out with the other to take hold of Owen’s outstretched fingers. ‘Don’t forget your basket, Miss,’ he reminded her as she stepped to the ground. Sweeping the basket from the wagon, he handed it to her, afterwards tipping the neb of his cap and remarking that the clouds had darkened, and, ‘It won’t be long before the downpour.’

Almost before the words were out of his mouth, Rita’s angry voice demanded, ‘How dare you bring that filthy contraption to the front of the house?’ Before he could answer, she rounded on her sister-in-law. ‘As for you! I don’t know what you’re thinking of. I’m ashamed, that’s what I am . . . ashamed!’

Brushing a cloud of dust from her dress, Margaret smiled sweetly. ‘But there’s nothing for you to be ashamed of, Rita, dear,’ she remarked with feigned surprise. ‘It wasn’t you who rode home on the cart.’

Fuming, Rita turned to Owen Leyton. ‘My husband will hear of this,’ she warned. ‘And when he does, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if you and yours weren’t thrown out on the streets where you belong!’

Owen stared at her for a moment, before saying in a soft persuasive voice, ‘If I’ve offended you in any way, Ma’am, I’m sorry.’ He thought her a splendid figure of a woman. Such was the effect she had on him, he gazed on her from top to toe, mentally ravaging her almost without realising it. He was acutely conscious of the shapely pair of ankles that showed from beneath the hem of her straight-skirted cream dress; the tiny waist and the long dark hair that was caught up on her crown with an expensive mother-of-pearl comb. He was aware of the soft creamy skin that showed at her neck, the exquisite ears and the hard set of her small square chin. He looked into those blazing green eyes and could hardly control his passion. He wanted her. He had wanted her from the first minute he’d seen her.

For a lon