Fall From Grace

by Kitty Neale

Genres: Sagas; Family Life

Synopsis

London, 1916. It's only when her father dies that Louisa and her mother realise just how much debt their once-wealthy family is in. The only way she can save them is by marrying old, rich and leery Mr Mullen - Louisa can't imagine a fate worse than that. So when charming up-and-coming businessman Dickie Newman offers to marry her after a chance encounter, it seems like the perfect escape. She has no idea how dangerous her new husband is.

1934. Being Dickie's daughter has given Grace a life of luxury that many people can't imagine. She's never thought about where all the money comes from. But there's only so long she can live in blissful ignorance. Once her eyes are opened to her truth, there's no going back. But Dickie has no intention of letting her walk away...

The brand new thrilling saga from Kitty Neale, full of her signature twists and turns. Preorder now!

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Release date: July 30, 2026

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 448

Sample

‘He’s dead. Your father has been killed.’

Louisa Best studied her mother’s face for any sign of emotion, but the woman’s expression remained stony. ‘Dead?’ Louisa parroted. ‘Father has been killed?’ she mumbled, shocked.

‘Yes, Louisa, that is what this form states. Killed in action. And no doubt, the next form I receive in the post will be to notify me of his burial in French soil. Form B104-82 has left me a widow. A fine way for a wife to learn of her husband’s passing.’

Louisa sank onto the sumptuous, green velvet sofa, her mind reeling. Father … dead … She supposed it shouldn’t have come as such a horrific surprise. After all, thousands of men were being killed in this Great War that had raged for the past two years, the first of its kind worldwide. Yet Louisa had never contemplated the notion that her adored and loving father wouldn’t return home. Now, along with countless other families of the fallen, they wouldn’t even receive a body to bury. As her shoulders slumped, and tears pricked her eyes, her mother’s tart tone snapped her from her melancholy thoughts.

‘Louisa! Don’t just sit there with your mouth gaping, it’s quite unbecoming! And dry your eyes, girl. There’s much to do, starting with finding you a respectable husband.’

A knot of grief caught in Louisa’s throat. She swallowed hard as her mother’s words spun around her head. A husband … find a husband. At seventeen years old, Louisa didn’t feel ready to be a wife. Anyway, what man would want to marry her? After all, she hadn’t been blessed with beauty or grace.

From under her lashes, she discreetly gazed at her mother, who was pacing back and forth in front of the tall sash window. As she paced, her long skirts swished around her ankles. Women’s dresses had become shorter of late, exposing the merest glimpse of the calf. But Myrtle Best still wore her skirts almost to the floor.

She turned to face Louisa, who quickly lowered her eyes to look at her hands resting on her lap. She was careful not to fidget; her mother often scolded her for nervously wringing her hands.

Myrtle, her tone cold, eyed Louisa with disdain. ‘Unfortunately, you resemble your father, which means your choice of husband will be limited.’

The harsh words stabbed at Louisa. She wished she had the same deep blue eyes and coal-black, thick hair as her mother. Instead, Louisa’s eyes were a dull grey and didn’t sit straight. For years, she’d been forced to wear an eye patch in a failed attempt to straighten her eyes. Still, her right eye drifted outwards. And her thin, brown hair was impossible to manage, wisps of straggly strands always falling from the pins holding her bun in place. Her mother’s delicate features were in stark contrast to her own – a bulbous nose, like her father’s, and teeth that seemed too large for her mouth. She had her father’s build, too. Thickset, short legs and broad shoulders. Her father had always joked that she would have made a good navvy. Oh, how she missed the dear man.

Feeling a tear slip from her eye, Louisa quickly dashed it away as her mother’s stark voice addressed her again.

‘Louisa, you are to present yourself impeccably on Sunday afternoon. I shall invite Mr Mullen for afternoon tea. It has been a year since Mrs Mullen passed away. The man must be ready for a new wife now. And he always asks after you.’

Louisa’s head shot up, her eyes widening. ‘No, Mother, surely not Mr Mullen!’ she blurted. ‘He’s older than Father!’

Myrtle glared angrily at Louisa. ‘Do not question my judgement! Mr Mullen is a wealthy, well-respected man and a union between our families will give us the financial security we require.’

Shaking her head, tears flowing, Louisa begged, ‘Please, Mother, please don’t force me to marry Mr Mullen!’

‘You seem to think we have other options available to us, but we don’t, Louisa. You’re clearly unhappy with my decision, but the blame lies with your father. His gambling debts have left us ruined! We won’t have a roof over our heads soon. Is that what you want? Would you see us homeless? Begging?’

Louisa sighed heavily. Their beautiful home and everything inside had been leased, and the lease was due to expire in four months. And then what? ‘I could find work,’ Louisa suggested. ‘With so many men away fighting the Germans, many women have taken their jobs.’

Myrtle looked down her nose. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she scoffed scathingly. ‘What work could you possibly do? You’re unskilled, Louisa. You do not have the capacity to earn nearly enough to maintain this house. Forget any frivolous ideas. You will marry Mr Mullen, and that’s an end to it.’

Louisa knew it would be futile to argue with her mother. The woman was quite a force to be reckoned with. On the verge of bawling hysterically, she fled the room, grabbed her hat and cloak, and hurried out through the front door. As the autumn sun was close to setting, and dark clouds gathering, she felt a chill in the damp air. Shivering, she pulled on her cloak, tied it under her chin, and placed her wide-brimmed hat on her head. She looked every bit the respectable young woman, but she knew they were paupers. Why, Father, why? she cried inwardly. Why did you leave us in this awful mess? I can’t marry Mr Mullen … I won’t!

Yet, no matter how much she protested, in reality Louisa knew her destiny lay with the wealthy, rotund, old man – her mother would make sure of that!

Dickie Newman stood on the pavement and looked up at his substantial new house. ‘Yep, this will do me very nicely,’ he grinned, proud of his latest investment.

‘Beg your pardon, sir, where do you want these crates?’

‘Can’t you read?’ Dickie spat to the removal’s lad. ‘Every crate is clearly labelled. Get a bloody move on. I want that van emptied by sunset.’

The removal’s lad tugged his flat cap, dipping his head. ‘Yes, sir, sorry, sir.’

Dickie rolled his eyes. He had no time for incompetence and no patience for stupidity. He looked up and down the affluent Clapham street, thinking that his life had changed beyond recognition from the slums of Battersea where he’d grown up. Now, as he was about to turn thirty, he would have happily patted himself on his broad back, proud of his achievements.

As the removal’s lad passed him, Dickie announced, ‘Hard work. This is what hard work gets you. Take it from me, boy – if you want something, work hard for it. You’ll get nothing in life by sitting on your laurels.’

The removal’s lad half-smiled awkwardly at Dickie. He looked scared, and Dickie liked that. People’s fear of him had earned him his money, and Dickie had earned a great deal of it.

Striding towards the steps that led up to the front door of his grand house, grinning proudly as he admired the posh entrance, he was taken by surprise when he felt someone bump into him.

‘S-sorry,’ a young woman with tearful eyes muttered as she hurried past.

‘Oi, what’s the rush?’ Dickie called after her.

The woman glanced over her shoulder but carried on trotting away.

‘Wait, you’ve dropped this,’ Dickie said, bending down to pick up her handkerchief.

When the woman ignored him and carried on her way, Dickie studied the handkerchief before shoving it into his coat pocket. LB. The initials on the handkerchief. LB. He wondered what the young woman’s name was and what had upset her.

‘We’re, erm, we’re all finished here, sir.’

The removal’s lad stood clutching his flat cap tensely.

‘Right you are. If anything’s broken, I’ll be docking your pay.’

‘Yes, sir, but you’ll find everything to your satisfaction.’

‘It had better be,’ Dickie growled.

Marching up the eight steps, he wandered into his house, admiring the extraordinarily high ceilings and wood-panelled walls. Four rooms downstairs, plus a kitchen and pantry. And four bedrooms upstairs. It was a big house for him to rattle around in alone, but he relished the prestige that owning a house on this street would bring him. And he’d purchased the property for a fraction of what it was worth. Another good investment, he praised himself.

Dickie stood at the window and drew in a long breath. Trees lined the elegant avenue. Each house was adorned with heavy drapes at the windows. Yes indeed, this was an upmarket area, but Dickie wasn’t concerned about feeling out of place. Money talks, he thought, and Dickie had plenty to talk for him!

As he went to turn away from the window, he spotted the young woman who’d bumped into him. She was standing on the corner of the street, looking somewhat lost. It was clear from her attire that she came from wealth and Dickie wondered if she was one of his neighbours. Well, he thought, now was as good a time as any to acquaint himself with the residents of Clapham Old Town.

Stepping outside, he swaggered confidently towards the young woman.

‘I believe this belongs to you,’ he said, proffering the handkerchief she’d dropped.

The woman appeared startled and at a loss for words.

‘You dropped it, when you ran into me earlier,’ Dickie explained.

‘Oh, thank you,’ she answered.

Dickie hid a smile as he noticed her wonky eye. He’d known a boy at school whose eyes had been the same, and he remembered how he’d teased him. One eye has gone for the fish, and the other for the chips, he’d laughed.

‘I’m new to the area. That house over there is mine,’ Dickie explained, pointing. ‘Do you live on this street?’

The woman nodded.

‘Dickie’s me name, Dickie Newman.’

‘Louisa Best,’ the woman replied shyly.

Louisa Best! Dickie couldn’t believe his own ears. He knew her father, Herbert Best. The sly bastard had gone off to war, leaving an unpaid loan behind. Dickie had lent the man a sizeable amount of money, but Herbert Best had avoided him thus far and hadn’t paid back a penny. He’d agreed to the loan in good faith, believing him to be a man of means. And Dickie had hoped that by lending Herbert the money, he would have had the opportunity to get in with Herbert Best’s classy crowd. Granted, Dickie was a reasonably rich man, but he lacked the class he yearned for. He wanted to be accepted by the bankers, politicians and even the aristocracy. Unfortunately, Best had failed to open those doors for Dickie, but at least now, running into the man’s daughter, he had the chance to recoup some of his cash.

‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Best. Excuse me for talking bluntly, but you seem a bit out of sorts. Is everything all right?’

Louisa twiddled the handkerchief through her fingers. She was obviously distraught about something.

‘Everything is fine, Mr Newman, thank you.’

‘If you say so.’ Dickie shrugged. ‘’Ere, I reckon I know your dad,’ Dickie continued. ‘Herbert Best.’

Lowering her head, Louisa said weakly, ‘My father is dead. Killed in action.’

Dickie tried not to snarl with anger. But, he reasoned, it would make no difference to him that Herbert Best was dead. He’d get his money back, one way or another.

Trying to sound sincere, Dickie spoke softly. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Best. Tell me, is your mother at home? I’d like to offer my condolences.’

‘She is, Mr Newman, though I’m not sure that she is receiving visitors.’

‘I reckon she’ll be very pleased to see me once she knows who I am,’ Dickie lied. ‘Come on, let’s get you home. It’s dark now and you know the streetlights are dipped ’cos of this war. You shouldn’t be out alone, should you?’

‘No, I don’t suppose I should. But … but I can’t face going home to my mother.’

‘Why on earth not?’

‘I, erm, I … It doesn’t matter.’

‘Come on, then,’ Dickie urged, offering his arm to Louisa to hold. ‘Which house is yours?’

Dickie’s mind turned as Louisa showed him the way. When she stopped outside the biggest house on the street, he gawped, and the interest on Herbert Best’s unpaid loan instantly tripled.

‘Please, come in,’ Louisa offered. ‘Wait in here,’ she instructed, gesturing her hand towards an open door. ‘I’ll fetch my mother.’

Dickie’s eyes wandered around the large room, which was used as a library. Books rested neatly on in-built shelves that stretched from the floor to the high ceiling, and two comfortable looking armchairs sat each side of the empty hearth. The fire wasn’t lit, but a large, gilded lamp bathed the room in a warm glow. The magnificent house stunk of opulence, which pleased Dickie. There was no doubt in Dickie’s mind that Best’s loan would soon be cleared, and with a tidy profit, too.

The door opened and a slim, elegant woman glided in. ‘Mr Newman,’ she said, her smile not reaching her eyes.

It struck Dickie that the woman was quite a looker, unlike her daughter. Removing his stiff, black hat, and trying to sound earnest, he said, ‘Mrs Best. Please accept my deepest condolences.’

‘I understand from Louisa that you knew my husband. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, Mrs Best, I knew Herbert well.’

‘How?’

‘Well, that’s the thing, see. I gave your late husband a loan,’ Dickie explained. ‘A big loan an’ all, it was.’ Then, leaning forward, his face closer to hers, Dickie sneered, ‘And I want paying back.’

Mrs Best, looking alarmed, stepped back. Her face had already been pale, but now she looked deathly white. ‘That’s out of the question,’ she replied, her voice shaky. ‘What proof do you have that my husband owes you money?’

‘Don’t you worry about proof, Mrs Best. I’ve got proof, a written contract signed by the man. I can show you all the proof you need, but what I wanna know is, when and how am I gonna get me money?’

Her back ramrod straight and her hands clasped in front of her, Mrs Best’s lips were set in a grim line. ‘You won’t be seeing any money from my husband’s estate. Mr Best left us penniless and in a great deal of debt. I’m afraid, Mr Newman, that you are just another in a long list of debtors.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ Dickie barked. ‘I’ll have me money, you’ll see. What about this house, eh? It’s worth more than a few bob.’

‘The house is leased, with only four months remaining.’

‘The furniture,’ Dickie suggested. ‘You’ve got stuff in here that could get good money.’

‘None of it belongs to me. The house came furnished. There’s nothing, Mr Newman, nothing.’

Dickie couldn’t abide to lose money, and he hated feeling ripped-off. Rage ripped through his bulky body as he swept his hand along the mantelpiece. Silver candlestick holders and an ornate clock smashed to the floor as Dickie growled menacingly, ‘I want my money, Mrs Best, and so help me God, I’ll have it. Whatever it takes, you will repay your husband’s debt to me.’

Myrtle Best bit the inside of her cheek, her body trembling as she lowered herself to sit stiffly on an armchair. She was grateful that Mr Newman had stormed out of the house, slamming doors closed behind him, but she had a feeling she hadn’t seen the last of the dreadful man. Oh, Herbert, she thought, shaking her head in despair. She wondered what sort of company her husband had been keeping, and if any more unscrupulous debtors would emerge like woodlice from the woodwork.

The door creaked as it opened, and Myrtle watched contemptuously as her daughter walked uncomfortably into the room.

‘Do not invite strangers into my home again, is that clear, Louisa?’ she snapped, trying her utmost to sound composed.

‘Yes, sorry, Mother. I thought he was a friend of Father’s. Why … why did he leave so angrily?’

‘That man claims to have given your father a loan and I’ve no reason to doubt him. I’m sure once word has spread about your father’s death, there will be others looking to be reimbursed. This unexpected situation only reinforces the urgency for you to marry, and I see no other option than Mr Mullen.’

Myrtle did feel a semblance of sympathy for her daughter. She could understand Louisa’s obvious repulsion at the idea of being married to a stout, balding man of at least three and a half times her age. Had they had another viable option open to them, then Myrtle would have taken it. But they didn’t. The bank account was empty. Even her store credit accounts at Harrods, Selfridges and Fortnum and Mason were up to the limits and payments were overdue. In fact, with the maids and the cook long since gone, what provisions remained in the kitchen would have to last, as there was no money to buy even the basics.

‘Mr Mullen will make a good husband, Louisa. He is kind, and generous, and he isn’t a gambler!’

‘But I don’t love him … and … and I don’t think I can share his bed.’

Myrtle drew in a long breath through her small, pinched nose and sucked in her cheeks. She didn’t have time for this sort of nonsense. ‘Your father has left us destitute, which means you do not have the luxury of choosing a husband whom you love. Love will not put a roof over our heads. Neither will love feed and clothe us. Forget any childish and silly notions you have regarding romance. You must be practical, Louisa, and you will marry Mr Mullen.’

Myrtle noticed her daughter gulp, and she could see that Louisa was fighting to hold back tears. The girl had her father’s traits – she was too soft and a dreamer. Herbert’s gentle temperament had first attracted Myrtle to him, yet she’d soon become infuriated by his unattainable dreams and irritated by his empathy for those less fortunate. Ironically, she herself was one of those less fortunate people now, thanks to Herbert!

Softening her harsh tone, Myrtle forced a smile. ‘Sweetest daughter,’ she soothed, ‘you need not fear sharing Mr Mullen’s bed. The man is old, and I believe that the desire lessens with age. It is your duty as a wife to tolerate your husband’s wants and needs; love does not play a part. It is not something for you to enjoy, rather it is an act for you to endure. And a comfortable lifestyle free of financial burden will be your compensation for your endurance. Do you understand?’

Louisa, though appearing downcast, nodded.

Myrtle sighed with relief, pleased her daughter wasn’t offering further resistance to marrying Mr Mullen. Now, she just had to gently persuade Mr Mullen to take Louisa to be his wife. Her daughter hadn’t been blessed with beauty, but she had youth, and Myrtle felt sure that Mr Mullen would be more than satisfied with a young bride to care for him in his dotage. Best of all, the man had no heirs to his wealth. One day, hopefully sooner rather than later, Mrs Louisa Mullen would be a very rich widow.

Three days later, Louisa glanced in the mirror on her dressing table and pinched her cheeks to add some colour to her pallid skin. Mr Mullen would be arriving shortly for afternoon tea, and she’d promised her mother that she’d make a good impression. As the hands of the clock slowly ticked, Louisa wanted to run from the house, to flee through the streets of London and escape her fate. The thought of marrying Mr Mullen left her feeling sick in the pit of her stomach. But as her mother had pointed out on many occasions – she had no choice. Either she married Mr Mullen, or they would find themselves starving and on the streets, possibly in the workhouse. Even Louisa had admitted to herself that a life as Mrs Mullen must be more palatable than struggling to live in poverty. She gazed up at the high ceiling, her mind wandering as she imagined a large Zeppelin airship floating in the sky above their house. Perhaps a German pilot would drop a bomb on their house and put her out of her misery. It wasn’t an unrealistic dream. Only last month, a Zeppelin air raid over Streatham had caused much damage to the railway line, and a bomb exploding in a school garden had killed four passengers on a nearby tramcar. Louisa shuddered with fear. She couldn’t abide the thought of marrying Mr Mullen, but she didn’t want to die, either.

Her mother’s voice reached her ears from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Louisa … Louisa, are you ready?’

Louisa straightened herself and smoothed down the front of her best dress. In pale blue, with heavy, dark blue velvet trimmings, the dress had been her father’s favourite. She recalled the smile on his face when she’d waltzed into the drawing room on his birthday, and he’d told her she was the fairest maid in all of London. Of course, Louisa had known she wasn’t pretty, and she hadn’t waltzed into the drawing room, either. It had been more of a clumsy fall, first tripping over the rug, and then stumbling towards the table. She grimaced at the memory, and her mother frowning, saying she had the grace of a seal on land. Today would be different. Louisa would carry herself like a swan, or later face her mother’s fierce wrath.

Downstairs, her mother seemed perplexed.

‘Is everything all right?’ Louisa dared to ask. She hoped against all hope that Mr Mullen had cancelled the arrangements for today.

‘Yes, Louisa, of course everything is fine. Sit up straight, girl. And keep your hands still.’

Louisa knew how important today was for her mother. After all, their future depended on it. It was little wonder she seemed even more highly strung than usual, and to make matters more fraught, they no longer had a maid to serve the tea. Louisa pondered how her mother would explain the lack of staff. Surely she wouldn’t admit their dire situation to Mr Mullen?

‘That will be him,’ Myrtle announced, eyes wide, when the doorbell rang.

After a few moments, Louisa prompted, ‘Are you going to let him in?’

Myrtle sniffed. ‘Yes, yes of course. Stand up, Louisa. And smile.’

When Mr Mullen entered the lounge, Louisa’s heart plummeted. He looked even fatter than she’d remembered, and with his hat in one hand, he used the other to brush over thin, grey strands of hair across his shining, bald scalp. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead, and his plump cheeks glowed red.

‘I’m not good with stairs,’ Mr Mullen panted.

‘Please, do sit down,’ Myrtle offered, gesturing towards the sofa.

‘Don’t mind if I do.’ As Mr Mullen threw himself down onto the sofa, his eyes roamed up and down Louisa. She could feel herself cringing under his gaze and she lowered her eyes. Horrific thoughts of living with this man bombarded her mind. Her stomach twisted and bile burned the back of her throat as she pictured his hands, with their sausage-like fingers, touching her body.

Her mother, seemingly oblivious to Louisa’s torment, busied herself pouring tea and making nervous chit-chat with Mr Mullen. All the while, his eyes continued to rake Louisa.

Leaping to her feet, nausea washing over her, Louisa held her hand to her mouth, sure that she was about to vomit. ‘Sorry … I can’t do this,’ she mumbled through gritted teeth as she ran from the room.

Her mother’s voice followed her. ‘Louisa! Louisa! How dare you!’

As Louisa hurried towards the front door, she could hear her mother apologising to Mr Mullen for her unacceptable behaviour. ‘I really don’t know what has come over Louisa. The girl must be quite overwhelmed. You do understand, Mr Mullen, Louisa is innocent and not experienced in keeping company with a man. Though I’m confident that with a little patience, she will make a gentleman like yourself a very fine wife indeed.’

Louisa had heard enough and flung open the front door. Granted, poverty was hanging over them like a dark, foreboding cloud, following them wherever they went, but Louisa couldn’t bear the notion of being Mr Mullen’s wife!

Fleeing along the street, tears streaking her cheeks, her heart dropped even further when she saw Dickie Newman emerging from his house. She was about to turn on her heel and run in the opposite direction, but the man had caught her eye and was beckoning her to him as he marched towards her. Louisa stopped running, her shoulders heaving as she stood on the street and drew in a long, juddering breath.

‘Every time I see you, you’re crying. What is it, girl? What’s so bad, eh?’

Louisa should have been terrified of the man. The last encounter she’d had with Dickie Newman ended with a smashed clock on the library floor, as he’d stormed out, banging doors and snarling obscenities. But when she looked up into his dark brown eyes, she saw only warmth. And when he placed a sympathetic hand on her arm, Louisa flung herself at him, sobbing into his chest.

‘Come on, sweetheart, what’s this all about, eh? Is it your dad? Are you missing him?’ Dickie asked, as he gently wrapped his arms around her.

Louisa sniffed, suddenly realising her behaviour was very inappropriate. Pulling away from Mr Newman, she could feel her cheeks burning with embarrassment as she reached into her pocket for her handkerchief.

‘I, erm, please forgive me, Mr Newman,’ she said, trying to compose herself.

‘Dickie. Call me Dickie. After all, we’re neighbours, ain’t we?’

‘Yes, I suppose we are.’

‘Now then, are you gonna tell me why you’re crying enough tears to flood the Thames and burst its banks? Has someone upset you? Do I need to go and sort them out for you?’

Louisa’s eyes shot up to look at Dickie, and she was relieved to see he was gently smiling.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ he reassured her. ‘I’m just kidding. But if someone does need a word in their ear, I’d be more than happy to oblige.’

‘No. No, thank you, Mr New— I mean, Dickie. No one has upset me.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do. Thank you, Dickie.’

‘So, what’s the problem?’ he pushed.

Louisa desperately wanted to talk to someone about her terrible predicament, but she knew better than to discuss her family business with relative strangers. Her mother would have a fit if she had even an inkling that Louisa was sharing her problems with Dickie Newman, of all people! Myrtle had made her thoughts about the man more than clear. Ruffian, lowlife, rogue and many other unpleasant words had been bandied around to describe him. Yet Louisa felt strangely drawn to him.

‘My mother wants me to marry Mr Mullen,’ she finally admitted.

‘What? Mullen who owns that big insurance firm?’

Louisa nodded and Dickie grimaced.

‘I take it you don’t want to marry the old timer?’

‘No, of course I don’t!’

‘I can’t say I blame you. But he must be worth a few bob.’

‘Which is exactly the reason my mother is insisting I marry him.’

‘I see. She’s skint, so she expects you to marry a rich bloke.’

Again, Louisa nodded and could feel tears welling in her eyes.

‘Don’t start bawling again,’ Dickie chuckled. ‘Worse things happen at sea.’

Louisa frowned, annoyed that he wasn’t taking her seriously, and she spat indignantly, ‘What could be worse than marrying Mr Mullen?’

‘Not much,’ Dickie sighed. ‘Have you got to do what your mother tells you?’

‘I don’t think I have a choice,’ Louisa shrugged. ‘And I don’t think I’m overreacting when I say it’s Mr Mullen or the workhouse.’

‘Christ, girl, marrying Mullen will be a walk in the park compared to the workhouse. You don’t want to end up in one of those places. Evil, they are, pure, rotten evil.’

‘It seems my fate is sealed.’

There were a few moments of silence, and then, eyes glinting with mischief, Dickie asked, ‘Would you rather marry me?’

Louisa stared up at him, blinking hard. Had she heard correctly, or was he just teasing her? ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said slowly.

‘You could marry me instead of that Mullen bloke. I’m rich, I’m easy on the eye and I’m half the age of Mullen. What do you reckon, eh? Do you think your old dear would be agreeable?’

Dickie was right, he was easy on the eye. With a thick mop of greased-back dark hair, long lashes framing his brown eyes and a muscular build, Louisa thought him very attractive. But she didn’t feel ready for marriage and dreamed of falling in love. As her mind turned, she found her mouth opening and closing, yet no words were coming out.

Dickie grinned. ‘You ain’t said no, so I’ll take your goldfish impression as a yes, then,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s go and tell your mum the good news.’

Dickie Newman led the way into Louisa’s house, swaggering confidently into the lounge. The expression on Myrtle Best’s face was a picture! The woman’s jaw dropped, and she looked as though her eyes had just fallen upon the monster in Shelley’s Frankenstein.

Louisa cowered behind him as Mrs Best sprang to her feet.

‘You have the audacity to come into my home unannounced and uninvited! I must insist that you leave at once, Mr Newman.’

Dickie ignored Mrs Best and glowered at the old man. ‘You, out,’ he ordered, pointing his thumb over his shoulder towards the door.

Rising to his feet, Mr Mullen appeared flustered as he puffed out his chest, asking, ‘I say, who the Devil are you?’

‘I, Mr Mullen, am Mrs Best’s future son-in-law, so your services are no longer required. Go on, clear orf!’

Dickie glanced round at Louisa, giving the worried-looking girl a reassuring wink.

Mr Mullen bustled towards the door. ‘This is preposterous!’ Stopping briefly for a moment, he glared at Mrs Best. ‘You, madam, are no longer in my favour. Never have I kept such rude company.’

Mrs Best dashed after him. ‘Wait … Mr Mullen, please, wait. Let me explain … I have no idea what this appalling man is talking about!’

Then, striding back into the room, sh