Best Friends

by Nora Kay

Genres: Sagas; Historical Romance

Synopsis

Fiery Agnes Boyd and quiet, motherless Rachel Donaldson have been best friends since their Dundee schooldays. Both girls are determined to escape from the poverty their families endure. Thwarted in her ambition to become a teacher, Rachel goes to work as a maid - in the Perthshire home of her mother's estranged family. Soon she finds herself irresistibly drawn to the handsome village doctor, Peter McGregor. Who seems to be beyond her reach . . . Agnes too becomes a housemaid, but she is determined to marry for money and status, not for love. So why can't she forget about young Tommy Kingsley?

Release date: April 11, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 352

Sample

All day long fog had hung over Dundee but as darkness fell it had thickened and was like an icy-cold wet blanket. In the eerie light of the gas lamps the cobblestones glistened
black as George Donaldson carefully picked his way to avoid the deep ruts caused by the cart wheels. A tram loomed out of the fog then with a clanking noise disappeared into the haze like a phantom
monster. Fifteen minutes took George Donaldson to his tenement home at 23 Blackford Street in the west end. Here most of the houses consisted of a room and kitchen but as befitted a foreman of the
Tayside Jute Mills, number 23 boasted a kitchen with a bed recess, a good-sized, square-shaped room that his wife, Amelia, referred to as the parlour, a small bedroom, a tiny scullery and an inside
lavatory.

In his late thirties George Donaldson was a tall, well-built man with unruly black curly hair and regular features. Anxious to reach home he took the stairs two at a time to the second landing
and opening the door let himself in. After hanging up his coat and cap on a peg he opened the kitchen door and immediately felt the familiar pity and despair.

She was huddled in a chair beside the blackleaded range where a fire burned and crackled. To him just in from the damp chill of the November night the heat was overpowering but Amelia had drawn
the plaid tighter around her thin shoulders as though the opening of the door had lowered the temperature. She was always cold, had forgotten what it was like to be warm, yet Amelia was only thirty
years of age.

‘George!’ Her blue eyes opened wide in welcome and the smile she gave him was the same smile that had captivated him from that moment when her pert little hat had blown away on a
frisky wind and he’d caught it before it reached a puddle of dirty water.

‘That’s a filthy night out there, typical November,’ he said stooping to plant a kiss on her forehead.

‘Look, Papa, I’m making toast,’ the child said unnecessarily. Nine-year-old Rachel, her black curls tied up in a ribbon and wearing a clean white pinafore, was sitting in front
of the fire flushed with the heat and with a thickly cut slice of bread on the end of the toasting fork.

‘So I see and if you’re not careful it’s a burnt offering I’ll be getting.’

‘Oh!’ Hastily pulling back the fork she looked at it in dismay. ‘It’s gone all black.’

He laughed and rumpled her hair. ‘No, just nearly black; it’s all right, lass. I’ll scrape it but see and make a better job of the other side.’

The child had her mother’s small, neat features but in all else she resembled her handsome father. One day she would be beautiful.

‘How was your day, dear?’

‘Much as usual but I sense a bit of unease in the jute trade and I’m not the only one.’

‘But not serious?’ she said alarmed.

‘Not yet, love, but India could become a real threat and I’m thinking the bosses had better take heed.’

‘Why?’ Amelia had always shown an intelligent interest in the jute trade and George, knowing how it pleased her, kept her up-to-date.

‘Unlimited cheap labour, that’s why. But never mind that just now, what did Mary say?’

‘As I expected. She’ll be happy to come in to see to the house and cook the meals but said there was no charge for being a good neighbour.’

‘Even so it’s too much to expect.’

‘That’s what I told her and I made it clear that I wouldn’t be able to call on her if she didn’t accept payment.’

‘So it’s all settled?’

‘Yes, George, it’s settled. She’ll stay with me until Rachel gets home from school.’ She paused and leaned back. The effort of speech tired her but she added. ‘I
think she enjoys being needed and the wee extra will be a help.’

After arranging the toast on a plate the child carried it over to the table. ‘Papa, everything’s ready,’ Rachel said importantly before moving quickly to the range where the
meal prepared by Mary Rodgers was simmering gently in the big black pots. She had just taken the pot holder from its hook when George was over, a constraining hand grasping her arm and making her
wince with pain.

‘Don’t you ever do that again, do you hear?’ he said sharply, more sharply than he intended but she had given him a fright. The pots were heavy, far too heavy for her skinny
arms and wrists.

Amelia saw Rachel struggling to hold back the tears and with a reproachful look at her husband said soothingly, ‘Papa didn’t mean to shout at you, dear, but he is right; you’re
too little to do that.’

‘Sorry, pet, but you gave me a fright,’ George said hugging her to him and for a few moments she leant into him feeling his strength.

She was so precious to them both and they worried about her but in different ways. George worried because Rachel seemed to have no friends of her own age and the blame for that he placed firmly
at her mother’s door. Amelia had been determined that her daughter was to be brought up properly and that meant talking nicely and being well-mannered, not like the children round about They
had broad Dundee accents, wore ill-fitting hand-me-downs and spoke of their parents as Ma and Da whereas Rachel had been taught to address hers as Mama and Papa. George, remembering his own school
days, could well imagine what Rachel had to put up with. Children could be so cruel and to be labelled as stuck-up was torture to a sensitive child.

Rachel had been bewildered and hurt to be singled out for ridicule and she had even tried to have a playground language but that had been greeted with hoots of laughter and she’d quickly
abandoned it. Instead she’d concentrated on her lessons, getting praise from Miss Melville and earning herself yet another name – teacher’s pet.

Earlier in the day Amelia had managed to take a little beef tea and now sat watching her husband and child tucking into their plates of potato soup followed by Irish stew. Mary was a good plain
cook and she would have been hugely pleased to see each plate wiped clean with the last of the toast.

‘Amelia, lass, tell Mary that was champion,’ George said as he scraped back his chair. Rolling up his sleeves he went over for the black kettle and half emptied the hot water into an
enamel basin. Rachel carried the dishes into the scullery and George washed them. The nightly ritual had gone on for a long time and both were accomplished at their tasks. George finished the job,
emptied the basin, dried his hands and sat down with the newspaper. Rachel carefully dried the dishes and put them away in the dresser before returning to the table to cover it with the dark red
chenille cloth with its edging of bobbles.

Amelia knew that death was near but she wasn’t afraid, only saddened to be leaving George and Rachel, particularly Rachel. Her blue eyes clouded with distress as she wondered what would
happen to her darling child when she was no longer here. George, after a decent interval would remarry. He was still young with a man’s needs and though the woman might be good for George,
would she be good to Rachel? A cold-water chill went through her at the thought of Rachel with a stepmother.

She was trembling, getting herself into a state and she knew that it was bad for her. What if she slipped away tonight before she had a chance – George wouldn’t like what she was
going to ask of him but he was a man of his word and if she got his promise then she could die with an easy mind.

She kept looking at the clock; would nine o’clock, Rachel’s bedtime, never come? It wasn’t quite that but Amelia was so dreadfully tired that even another five minutes seemed
like an eternity.

‘Rachel, dear, bedtime.’

‘It isn’t, Mama, it’s not nine o’clock yet,’ Rachel sounded aggrieved.

‘By the time you drink your milk it will be,’ Amelia said with unaccustomed firmness.

George sensed that there was something. ‘Do as you’re told, Rachel,’ he said in a voice that brooked no argument and Rachel, with the smallest of sighs, closed her book and got
up. The cup of milk was warming on the range and Rachel took as long over drinking it as she dared then said her goodnights.

Closing the kitchen door she went along to her bedroom. The gas mantle was lit and Rachel knew how to turn it up to give her enough light to read but it was forbidden. Other children got
walloped if they misbehaved, she knew that, but no one had ever lifted a hand to her. Instead, if she was found out it would be a raging or the withholding of some treat.

When had she last had a treat? Feeling hard done by, Rachel sat on the bed and wished her mother would hurry up and get well. It had been so long since she had had any fun, not one picnic all
summer, not even one. She sighed, remembering those lovely sunny afternoons and the dainty sandwiches her mama used to make and her papa saying there wasn’t a decent bite in them. Later on
they would play hide-and-seek and once she had come across her mama and papa kissing behind the bushes, and feeling strangely embarrassed, she’d pretended she hadn’t seen them. Slowly
Rachel undressed and put on her warm white nightie. Last night she had been too tired to say her prayers so God might be angry with her – but if she explained. Kneeling beside the bed Rachel
put her hands together and closed her eyes.

‘I’m very sorry about last night, not saying my prayers, I mean, but I was too tired. Bless Mama and Papa and please God make Mama well again as quickly as you can and make me a good
girl. Amen.’

In the kitchen Amelia had moved from the chair to the couch which George had dragged nearer to the heat. He adjusted the cushions and tucked the blanket round her.
‘Comfortable?’

‘Yes, George, thank you, I’m fine.’ It wouldn’t do to let him see just how exhausted she was or else he’d be putting her to bed like a baby.

‘You don’t look fine to me and you’d be a lot more comfortable lying down in bed.’

‘No.’ She patted the place beside her. ‘Dearest, we have to talk.’

He sat down suddenly apprehensive. ‘Something is troubling you, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, George, something is.’ She paused to push a strand of fair hair from her eyes and he took the fine-boned hand and folded it in his. ‘I’m not going to get better,
dear, and we have to stop pretending.’

‘Oh, God, Amelia, don’t, just don’t! I can’t bear it, can’t bear to think—’ George’s voice was low and rough with pain.

‘Sh, darling, don’t upset yourself, I’m not afraid of death – just – just—’ her voice wavered, ‘leaving you both is so difficult.’ Her blue
eyes, too large in the small face, were filled with love and sadness as she saw his distress. Her mind went back as it so often did these days to the hardship that marriage to George had meant, but
then she would remember their lovemaking and a tender smile touched her lips. Their love had been an unleashing of passion that had brought undreamed of ecstasy but there were other times when she
had had to fight the loneliness, times when her body ached with weariness and it was then that she regretted her marriage. But those times were rare and George never knew of them.

She struggled a bit before beginning, wondering where to start, the words she had prepared already forgotten.

‘George, I want you to promise me something.’

‘Anything.’

She moistened her lips. ‘Sitting here day after day I’ve done a lot of thinking and I know now that I want Rachel to be told about her grandparents.’

There was a silence, a tightening of the lips, then with difficulty the words came out. ‘You always said you’d never – do you want me to get in touch, tell
them—?’

‘About me?’ She shook her head. ‘No, it’s too late for that but Rachel has a right to know and neither of us should deny her that.’

‘Then tell her.’

‘No, George, she’s too young to understand.’ Amelia looked at him imploringly. ‘Wait until she’s twelve and old enough to understand.’

‘Very well, I’ll tell the bairn when she’s twelve.’

‘Your promise on it, George.’

She saw the hesitation then the rueful smile. ‘I’m not so sure you’re doing the right thing but you have my word.’

‘Thank you, darling.’ Amelia knew only too well what it cost him to give that promise. ‘It was a very long time ago, dear, people change, we all do.’

George wasn’t so sure. ‘She’s my child too,’ he found himself saying. ‘Don’t you trust me to look after her?’

‘George, that was unworthy of you and this is difficult enough for me. Of course I trust you but you could remarry.’ She put up her hand as he started to speak. ‘You’re
young and you have a right to happiness with someone else but Rachel’s position could be awkward.’ Her voice had grown weaker. ‘One last thing, that box—’

‘Your secret hoard,’ he said trying to infuse some lightness.

She smiled. ‘No secret hoard as you very well know. The key has always been in the vase on the mantelpiece. George, do you remember how angry you were when I took in sewing?’

‘And rightly so, a man likes to see himself as the provider.’

‘You were always that and not a penny of that money did I spend. All of it went into that box for Rachel. Not that my efforts brought in much but it is something for her and the brooch I
got for my eighteenth birthday. It’s valuable, dear,’ she said anxiously, ‘so do make sure that the child takes great care of it.’

‘Look at you, you’re absolutely exhausted!’ Her face was completely grey and she made no demur when he began unbuttoning her blouse then undressing her. The nightgown had been
warming beside the fire and he slipped it over her head, then taking the almost weightless body in his arms laid her on the bed in the recess. She moved herself nearer the wall hoping George
wouldn’t be long in retiring. Her only comfort now was the warmth of his body next to hers.

The year was 1926 and the January night was bitterly cold. The wind was rattling the window frames when George fell into an uneasy sleep. Amelia, lying beside him, gave the
smallest of sighs and quietly left this world.

Through the wall Rachel wakened at her usual time. Why hadn’t her Papa knocked to make sure she was awake? Not that she was in any hurry to leave the warm bed but she was sure it must be
morning. Throwing back the bedclothes she was about to get up when the door opened and Mrs Rodgers came in. That in itself showed that something was wrong. Mrs Rodgers never came before nine
o’clock.

‘Don’t get up, lass, stay there the now.’

‘I can’t, I’ll be late for school,’ Rachel protested.

‘There’ll be no school for you the day.’ Mary Rodgers looked at the bewildered face framed by a mop of springy curls, and wondered how she was going to break it to the poor wee
lamb. But there was no one else. George, that big strapping lad, had gone to pieces and Mary’s feelings were a mixture of pity, anger and something bordering on contempt. A man had no right
to display his grief so openly, he should be able to control it by her way of thinking.

Sitting herself on the narrow bed, her weight a test on the springs, Mary took Rachel’s hands in her own work-roughened ones and looked into the young face. ‘Now, lass, you’ve
got to be brave.’

Rachel’s eyes widened and a terrible fear gripped her. ‘It’s Mama, she’s worse?”

‘She’s gone, Rachel,’ Mary forced the words out, ‘but peacefully and God be thanked for that.’

‘Gone!’ Rachel whispered not understanding then suddenly she did and would have wrenched herself free had Mary not held on to her firmly. ‘Mama! Mama! Mama!’ she screamed
shrilly. Then the tears came, painful gulping sobs that racked the small body. Mary rocked her in her arms until the shuddering stopped and she too wept but silently for that brave lass who had
tried so hard to fit into a life so different from the one she had known.

At the table, her porridge untouched, Rachel stared at her father in acute embarrassment. Seeing him like that with his eyes all red and swollen and tears pouring down his face was awful. Mary
saw the expression on the child’s face and quickly moved over to the dresser. She knew where the drink was kept, never a great deal of it but enough for an emergency or for an unexpected
guest. Taking it on herself she poured a good measure of whisky into a glass, added water from the tap and without a word put it beside George.

Rachel saw it all and that was when the nine-year-old first began to suspect that it had been her gentle mama who had been the strong one.

Wearing her darkest dress for the occasion, Rachel was taken through to the front room to say goodbye to her mother. The parlour, as her mother had always referred to it,
looked different. The big sideboard with its large mirror was the same. The marble clock still sat in the centre of a crocheted cover with a charging horse on either side. The straight-backed
chairs, the spindly-legged table and a footstool were just as always and now she saw that it was the couch that made the difference. It had been moved to the middle of the floor. Fearfully and
reluctantly Rachel approached the couch and looked down on the still, white face. Her papa took her hand and squeezed it in reassurance. What had she expected? Something dreadful, something
terrifying and it wasn’t like that at all. Her mama looked pretty and she was wearing her best nightie.

‘She looks pretty,’ Rachel whispered to her father.

‘She’s beautiful,’ George said hoarsely. His hand touched the cold brow. ‘Goodbye, my darling Amelia,’ then gently he pushed Rachel forward. ‘Say goodbye to
your mama, Rachel.’

‘Goodbye, Mama.’

Mary Rodgers was at the door, a deep frown on her plump face. She’d advised George against it. Surely it was better for the child to remember her mother as she had been, but he’d
been adamant and of course it was none of her business.

Neighbours came to pay their respects, to commiserate with George and to cast sympathetic glances at the motherless lass. They were completely natural with George as they had never been with his
wife. She had been a strange one and no mistake but the woman was gone and it didn’t do to speak ill of the dead.

Amelia’s funeral took place in the early afternoon and when the men returned from the cemetery the womenfolk were already sitting in the parlour talking in hushed voices. Mary Rodgers had
taken charge of arrangements and tea was handed round to the women. There was a murmur of ‘Ta, lass’ as Rachel dutifully followed with the sandwiches. George was kept busy pouring
whisky for the men and very soon voices grew louder as the talk became general.

Rachel sat apart eating a sandwich and feeling appalled as someone laughed at a remark. How could anyone laugh when her mama was dead! Even her papa had smiled and she wondered what her mama was
thinking. It was different for those in heaven, they could see and hear everything or so she had been told. She remembered her mama saying that God even knew what we were thinking. Rachel
wasn’t too happy about that, sometimes she thought naughty things but you couldn’t help what you were thinking. Funny that she couldn’t cry now; she’d tried to make the
tears come but they wouldn’t. Now why should that be when she was still sad? When would they go away? Would Papa be angry if she slipped away to the kitchen and read her book? Better not, she
didn’t want Papa to be cross with her.

‘I think we’d better get on our way,’ Mrs McDonald from the close wheezed as she got to her feet. Others followed, but reluctantly, they had just been beginning to enjoy
themselves. Knowing this Mary Rodgers hastened their departure then shooed Rachel to her bed. Rachel needed no encouragement and she was asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.

The day after the funeral at Balgay Cemetery a man, with his head bowed and a child by his side, stood before the loosened ground gazing down at the already wilting flowers. Rachel wore a navy
pleated skirt and white school blouse and over it a navy nap coat. On her head was a velour hat held on by elastic under the chin. The two were hand-in-hand and after a few minutes they turned away
to squelch through the sodden ground. George would have preferred to walk home, he was in no hurry to return to an empty house, but it was a fair step, too far for Rachel so they joined the others
waiting at the tram stop.

‘Papa, we can ride on the top?’

‘Aye, if you want.’

The piercing scream shattered the silence bringing George instantly awake. The dying embers of the fire gave a little light but even so he swore as he stubbed his big toe on
the leg of the chair. Thankfully he’d left of the gas on at a peek and as soon as he went in he turned it up. Rachel was sitting bolt upright, her blue eyes huge and terrified in a white
face.

‘You’ve been dreaming, that’s all,’ George said soothingly as he went to her.

‘It wasn’t – it wasn’t a dream. Papa, it wasn’t,’ she said wildly. Her arms went round his neck so tight that he had to force her to loosen her grip.

‘Look about you, Rachel. Go on, have a good look. There’s absolutely nothing to be afraid of.’

‘Not here,’ she whispered. ‘It’s Mama, I saw her waken up and she can’t get out.’

George felt an icy chill go through his body and lifting the child on to his knee he cuddled her to him then spoke slowly and distinctly.

‘Rachel, your mama is dead. You know that and you know she isn’t going to waken up. Like I said you’ve just been having a bad dream.’

But Rachel wasn’t satisfied, the horror had been very real and it had been in Balgay Cemetery where her mama was under the ground. What if she wasn’t dead at all, just sleeping? Papa
could be wrong, grown-ups did make mistakes.

‘Mrs Rodgers said Mama was sleeping and when she wakened up she’d be in heaven but what if she wakened up before she got to heaven?’ Rachel said fearfully.

George cursed Mary Rodgers. Rachel had always been one for questions, not giving up until she was satisfied. And now what in God’s name was he going to say? Amelia had been religious, a
believer, she would have known what to say but religion had never played a big part in his life. Just so long as a man led a decent life that was all that could be expected and if there was such a
place as heaven he felt that he had a reasonable chance of getting there. Now he sought for the unfamiliar words.

‘Death isn’t like sleeping, people just use that expression. What happens is the body dies and soul rises to heaven.’ There, he’d done quite well, George congratulated
himself.

‘Will Mama be with the angels?’

‘Sure to be and she’ll be happy, but mind she wouldn’t like you carrying on like this.’

‘I’m sorry,’ her lips quivered. ‘I wish, I wish, I wish she’d come back.’

‘So do I, pet, but we’ve got to be brave,’ George said bleakly. In truth he wondered how they would manage. ‘Snuggle down and you’ll soon be asleep.’

‘I’m still frightened,’ she clung to his sleeve. ‘Please, please, Papa,’ she implored, ‘let me sleep with you, just this once.’

George shook his head then relented. It was probably the only way to get any sleep and there was precious little of the night left. ‘And it will be just this once,’ he warned.

Slipping off his knee, Rachel hurried through to the kitchen before he changed his mind. Clambering into the bed she quickly got below the bedclothes and moved over to the place where until a
short time ago Amelia had slept.

There were no more nightmares and though Rachel begged to be allowed to sleep in the big bed George was deaf to her pleas and she returned to her own bedroom.

During those early difficult days Mary Rodgers was a tower of strength and came in daily to prepare meals and tidy up the house. Once long ago she had felt sorry for George’s young bride.
The lassie had never cooked a meal in her life, that was clear enough, and she knew next to nothing about keeping a house. But she’d been very willing to learn and a lasting friendship had
developed. Now it was Amelia’s daughter she took in hand. Gradually, not pushing her too much, she showed the motherless lass how to prepare and cook a plain appetising meal. Later would come
the harder work, the black-leading of the range, the scrubbing and the washing and ironing that were all a part of a woman’s lot.

The pain of loss was an excruciating agony for George and he felt no shame at showing his grief. Why shouldn’t he weep for the wife he had adored? He wasn’t a coward, he could stand
physical suffering as well as the next man but this was different, this was so much worse.

He had been surprised by Rachel’s behaviour. After the early bouts of weeping there had been no more tears and she had become quiet and composed. He had remarked on it to Mary Rodgers.

‘The poor lass hasn’t faced up to it yet.’

‘You mean she hasn’t fully taken it in?’ George said worriedly.

‘She understands well enough that her mother is dead but it’s the finality of it that hasn’t registered.’

‘What can we do?’

‘Nothing, she’ll cope in her own way.’ She paused. ‘Pity she wasn’t back at school. I know she has a nasty cough—’

‘I only did what Dr Maxwell advised and he thought she needed another week at home.’

‘You couldn’t do anything else.’ She sniffed. ‘Supposed to know best but being with other bairns would have helped.’

‘She’ll be back on Monday and that should keep her mind off things,’ George answered, but he was none too happy. Rachel was in no hurry to return. She had no friends.

In those early days Rachel had clung to the hope that God, who could make anything happen if He wanted to, would let her mama come back. It could be the way it was in a dream when you wakened
up. But with God showing no sign of changing His mind hope faded and she became listless just picking at her food. The very thought of returning to school was making her physically sick.

In the playground a group of girls surrounded Rachel who wore a black band round her sleeve to show that she was in mourning, but there was none of the taunting and jeering
that had once made her life a misery. Instead, in their clumsy way they were trying to offer sympathy but unable to find the words. Agnes Boyd, auburn-haired and freckled, and who had once jeered
the most, offered Rachel a sticky toffee.

Rachel had been about to refuse, to say no, thank you, but something in the girl’s face stopped her. There was almost a pleading for forgiveness and Rachel, wise beyond her years,
recognised it.

‘Ta,’ she said only just holding back the ‘thank you’ which so readily came to her lips.

That night Rachel waited in a fever of impatience for her papa to get home from work. She couldn’t wait to tell him.

‘Half a minute, lass, let me get my coat off.’

Rachel returned to the kitchen, keeping her eye on the bubbling pots.

‘I’m ready to listen, so what is it all about?’ he said as he stuck a fork in the potatoes to test them. ‘A wee bit hard yet, we’ll give them another minute or
two.’ She was dancing from one foot to the other.

‘I know it’s because of Mama but everybody is nice to me and Agnes Boyd gave me a toffee and she’s always been the nastiest.’

Poor lass, George thought, so touchingly grateful for that show of friendship and it was the best thing that could have happened. It would help her get over Amelia’s death.

‘And Agnes Boyd said I could be her chum. I’ve never had a chum.’

‘Well, that’s just grand. Over to the table with you and get this while it’s hot.’

Rachel sat down obediently and picked up her knife and fork but couldn’t help her lips curving into a smile.

‘God!’ George thought, ‘it had to be that Boyd family, and shuddered to think what Amelia would have said. A hovel, that was the only way to describe the Boyd home. Big, fat,
lazy and uncouth, Eddie Boyd was unable to hold down a job for more than a few weeks and most of what he got went on drink. Poor Jenny, he thought with a pang of genuine sympathy, she’d been
a right bonny lass with her thick auburn hair and her laughing eyes and there had been a time when he’d fancied her himself but then he’d found Amelia and after that no other lass
existed for him. Worn out with too many pregnancies Jenny had seemed to give up the struggle. Folk said the house was never cleaned and the bairns were allowed to run wild, but the more charitable
admitted that the older ones were fiercely protective of the wee ones and heaven help anyone who laid a finger on them.

‘Miss Melville said Agnes had—’ Rachel searched for the word and came out with it triumphantly – ‘ability but said she’s too lazy to do any work.’

‘Her mother was a clever lass.’

Rachel looked astounded. ‘You know Agnes’s mother?’

‘She was in my class at school but it’s years since I spoke to her.’

‘Papa—’

This was something he could change, George thought, and it would make life easier for the lass. ‘Rachel, how about calling me Da? It’s no disrespect to your mother but I’ve
never felt comfortable with this papa and mama business.’

Rachel nodded happily. ‘Yes, all right – Da,?