For Love and Pride

by Elizabeth Gill

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas; Historical Romance

Synopsis

From the bestselling author of Miss Appleby's Academy comes a gritty story of tragedy and overcoming hardship, perfect for fans of Margaret Dickinson and Milly Adams.

As a solicitor in the small northern mining town of Hexham, Sam Browne knows more than most about the affairs of the town's inhabitants. He has known several of his clients since his schooldays, and has become a fast friend to their growing families. But when tragedy strikes, affecting the town in many terrible ways, Sam finds himself unwillingly drawn into the complicated emotional entanglements that arise. Are Sam and his friends' lives to be forever changed by what has happened?

Release date: May 5, 2016

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 195

Sample

Hexham, Northumberland, October 1991

The weather was cold and already there had been snow in Hexham. The elegant Georgian houses had white window sills and all around the Abbey, with its stained-glass windows that shone sapphire and ruby in the morning sunshine, people trod carefully through the slush.

It was market day and the town was busy. Sam Browne, local solicitor, was sitting in his office in the street called Robson’s Field. The houses in this street were all on one side, some with gardens so luxuriant that trees hung over the walls on the steep hill. Some of the walls had gates, behind which there were narrow lanes and neat yards and, in summer, pots of herbs and flowers spilled over on to the flags and families sat in shaded gardens, completely secluded, only moments from the town.

The building which housed Sam’s business was inside one of those gates, a house almost two hundred years old, with stout walls, generous rooms and a big garden, the gate itself half hidden by the trees which overhung the garden. But it was well known to the townspeople, since Sam’s mother and father had both been in the practice and had lived there before they grew prosperous and moved into the country, to a fortified farmhouse where Sam and his twin brother, Dominic, had grown up.

Both of Sam’s parents had died a long time ago and Dominic had been ill most of his life and had died the previous Christmas. Sam was thirty-five, divorced, no children, not bad-looking in a northern kind of way, with sharp cheekbones and keen eyes, the kind of eyes which in former times had stood the Northumbrians in good stead as they watched over their sheep and cattle, mined their lead and coal and minded their farms and families. Sam was thin, with the kind of thinness which meant that he didn’t think much about food, and he was six feet tall. His ancestors had thankfully been much shorter, to go down pits and hew coal and into quarries and lead mines.

That particular morning he had been busy and was glad to get back to the office. He had had two difficult encounters already and it was not yet noon. The first was that he had had to visit Edward West, who owned a drift mine called the Sunny Mary, a few miles beyond the town. The mine provided work for almost all the people who lived in the village of Burnside, a settlement which was nothing but a few streets on a hill with a church at the top, a chapel at the bottom and the fells all around.

Mr West had been his father’s client, had been with them for as long as Sam could remember. He was in his sixties and was ill. He had had cancer on and off for years but this time Sam could see he was not going to get better.

Sam knew the family well, had gone to primary school with the son, Stephen, before they each went off to different public schools. The Wests had been prosperous people; they lived in one of the biggest houses around Hexham, Allenheads House, situated in its own grounds almost equidistant between Hexham and Burnside. The West family had brought coal from there for almost a hundred years.

The last few years had been hard, the mine was not prospering, it was cheaper to bring it in from other countries and, to the dismay of the locals, Polish coal was brought in through northern ports to supply local needs. The downward turn in business showed in the Wests’ house, Sam thought.

There was no central heating. Edward West lay upstairs with a coal fire for comfort. Although it might have looked romantic to other people, there was very little which pleased about having to lug coal up a big flight of stairs. They had no help nor could afford any and Mrs West did everything herself.

The house had an orchard, a kitchen garden, a front garden with formal beds, a rockery and a big oblong rose bed, a pond behind it with a paddock, a circular drive at the front of the house. The house itself had a great hall with stained-glass windows in an arch halfway up the stairs. It had a back stairs too and a back kitchen and a dairy and a wash house and all the things people had needed in the late nineteenth century when the Empire meant that middle-class people were prosperous and servants were cheap to employ.

Sam knew the house well from his childhood and teenage years. The bedrooms were too large for comfort and the bathroom was cavernous. The windows were flaking paint and many of them were draughty and, he suspected, rotten. The carpets were thin and inadequate and the curtains, most of which were velvet, reflected the fact that they had gone through many a summer, so worn and faded were they. The furniture was dusty and, although it was old, it was not the kind of old which would have got it into any of the antique shops in the area. The windows were flecked with rain and dirt and most of the house was freezing.

Mrs West wore a lot of clothes. She was a proud woman and Sam dared not suggest to her that the social services might be able to help. Did Stephen not know how his parents were living? He had stayed in London after university and had become a top journalist, working for a quality newspaper. Sam knew that they had been disappointed in his marriage. Susan West was beautiful, she had been a model, from a modest background, and Sam could remember having heard that Mrs West said nothing was ever good enough for a woman who had nothing. After they were married Susan West gave up modelling, did no work of any kind and did not produce children, so she was doubly condemned by her in-laws.

It had been a difficult meeting this morning in Mr West’s bedroom, Sam’s front was scorched by the fire, his back freezing against the draught. Stephen, Sam thought, must be told how ill his father was and he must come home.

Sam didn’t envy Stephen’s homecoming. Since his marriage, he had rarely come back. Sam had heard rumours that the mine was badly managed since Mr West had been so ill, and was losing a great deal of money. The word bankruptcy had been mentioned. If Stephen West didn’t come back soon, there might be nothing for him to come back to. Mr West had been gradually making his possessions over to his wife so that it would be solely hers before he died and there would be as little tax to pay as possible.

Sam made comforting noises, took details and went back to the office. He drove through the town. The shops were already getting in goods for Christmas. Sam didn’t want Christmas to come, it would remind him of last year. Dominic had been so ill throughout the bad weather in early December and Sam had had to go and leave him most days with a nurse until the last fortnight or so. His brother had died on Boxing Day.

Sam’s memories of Dominic were most difficult early in the mornings when it was dark at the farm. He would hear the wind outside, rushing across the open fell, and also the noise his ears had become accustomed to over the years, the sound of his twin brother getting out of bed. It didn’t matter what light there was or what the season, how cold the house, whether the curtains were drawn or not, Dominic awoke every day of his life at exactly half past five.

At one time Sam had tried to alter things, getting Dominic to stay up later so that he would be tired and sleep in, but he never did. If Dominic had gone to bed at four he would still get up at the same time.

For almost as long as Sam could remember, the routine had been the same. The house was his brother’s safety and his life. He had lived there since he was small and knew nothing else and he was happy there. During the week he would go to the day centre. Otherwise he would stay here, mostly with Sam. He would come into Sam’s room, hair ruffled with sleep, pyjamas creased.

‘Is today Sunday?’

‘No, it’s Wednesday.’

Dominic didn’t wait. He went off to the bathroom. Within half an hour he would be washed and dressed, having his breakfast and watching his favourite cartoons on television. He always had the same thing for breakfast, porridge in his special bowl. Sam would drop him off at the day centre and then go on to work, so Sam was always at work long before anybody else, and it was the best time of the day. With nobody about, he could think and sometimes he accomplished more work in those two hours than he did all day, but it meant a long day. In the evenings he would fall asleep over the television.

Sam picked his way across the marketplace now, thinking that his secretary, Kathleen, would make some coffee as soon as he got in. He hadn’t far to go, just past the old gaol and halfway down the hill. There were a great many people whom Sam recognized and several whom he spoke to and others who nodded and waved. It made him feel better, knowing that he was among friends. Apart from the time at school, he had lived here all his life. As he set off down the hill, his blue eyes caught sight of someone he hadn’t expected to see, Michael McIver, a few years older than him. Michael had done well for himself. His father had been a pitman at the Sunny Mary but Michael was a chemist. He worked for a big American company which was based in Germany. It made cosmetics, toiletries. It had an office in Newcastle and Michael had worked there first.

‘Mike!’ he yelled and the other man turned. Sam’s business had made him particularly sensitive to people’s problems and Michael didn’t look glad to see him or pleased to be seen. ‘Thought you were in Frankfurt,’ Sam said.

‘I am, just home for … you know.’

Sam didn’t know.

‘On business?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

Michael was always cagey, Sam thought. He didn’t know why, and for the past year or two Gareth Forester, Sam’s partner, had dealt with Michael’s legal affairs, so Sam had no idea what Michael was doing there but his instincts told him something was wrong.

There was something about his stance, his whole body, which spoke of defeat. Sam could see through people as though they had no skin, blood, muscle or bone, and he had known Michael for a long time. Michael’s shoulders went down.

‘They let me go in August,’ he said. ‘Why do I always tell you things?’ He looked away, at other people, at the wet street and beyond, where the oranges, pears and apples on the stall were rounds of colour in the grey day.

‘Does this mean you haven’t told anybody else?’

Michael looked at him again.

‘Caroline thinks I’m doing well,’ he said.

‘You’ll get something else soon. You’re clever, you’ve got experience, qualifications.’

‘I’m forty-five. That’s old in this game.’

Michael was married to a beautiful woman, red hair, green eyes, endless legs. They had a daughter, Victoria, who was seventeen. He had a lot, Sam thought, he was lucky. No empty bed, no echoing rooms.

‘You will. How’s Caroline?’

‘She’s at her mother’s.’

Sam hesitated.

‘You should tell her,’ he advised.

‘I promised myself I’d always keep her well. Her parents never thought I was good enough for her. Anyway, I have an interview this week in London. It’s not as good as the job I lost but it will have to do, if I get it.’

Sam tried to cheer him but had to get back. He had another appointment at midday.

Kathleen made him some coffee. Even through the closed window of his office Sam could hear people walking into town up the steep hill and into the pubs. He had to wait for his client. Usually it was the other way round, he often made people wait, not deliberately, just because the law was complex and so were people, but Tom Beardsley was late.

Tom was another man whom Sam had known for a long time. Tom was American. He had come to Hexham to live with his grandmother when his parents split up. He was a teenager then. Tom was not, Sam reflected, what English people thought of when they thought of Americans. Tom was the old-style eastern American, in that he came from well-heeled Connecticut. Tom was educated, well mannered, softly spoken. His parents had divorced, his mother had gone off and not been heard of since and then his father had died and left him a great deal of money. Sam had met Tom fairly often socially over the years. Tom, like Michael, lived in Frankfurt, they had worked for the same company for years. Tom was a sales director.

They rarely met in a business capacity, so Sam was curious and not quite comfortable that Tom wanted to see him that morning. Tom was the kind of person Sam liked best, in that he looked after himself. He had long since made his will, had made sound financial investments for himself and his young wife. He was clever, successful and shrewd. Sam liked that. It was a solicitor’s dream that your client came to you for sensible things but he could not imagine what was bringing Tom to him that morning.

It was afternoon, twenty-five past twelve. There was no other appointment until two o’clock, Sam had been hoping they could go to the pub and have a sandwich and a pint and talk about things which had nothing to do with legal matters, since they hadn’t seen each other in months. He went to the window and looked out over the big yard and the tubs of flowers which greeted his clients at the back of the house and up further at the surrounding houses. Beyond them it would be a bright day on the moors and he was restless. The door opened and Kathleen, a pretty woman of thirty whom Sam had lately suspected of trying to get pregnant and leave him for domesticity, opened the door, smiling.

‘Mr Beardsley,’ she said.

Tom wore a silver-grey suit and a generous smile but Sam was undeceived. Too many people had walked in at that door with a similar strained look in their eyes. Something was wrong and all Tom’s instant American apologies would not mend it. Sam’s heart sank. What was it? Tom had married a lovely girl, he had a good job, money, brains, prospects, charm.

The door closed. Sam went forward and shook his hand, slightly formal because he realized that this was not a trivial matter and there would be no friendly pub drink and sandwich.

‘Tom, have a seat,’ he said. ‘How’s Jess?’

Jess Beardsley was the most beautiful woman ever to come out of Burnside Village. She was twenty-four, looked like people imagined orphans looked, with huge dark eyes, freckles and a lot of glossy hair. She was tall, slender and softly spoken. A great many people envied Tom Beardsley his wife. He stopped apologizing for his lateness, sat down and didn’t look at Sam for several moments, always a bad sign. Sam didn’t say anything, he believed in letting people say what they had to say in their own time. Misery was a common thing in a solicitor’s office, so was joy and despair and unsolved problems. After a while Tom looked up, met Sam’s carefully blank eyes.

‘I’m going to leave my wife,’ he said.

Only Sam’s training kept his mouth shut and his expression level.

‘I want you to sort things out,’ Tom said quickly as though the very words hurt. ‘She’ll get half, of course, I’m not trying to cheat her of anything and I know it’s my fault. I’ll want a divorce. You can put things in motion.’

There was somebody else, Sam knew. Women left men for all kinds of reasons but men only left women when they had found somebody else. Sam also realized that Tom hadn’t told her yet. Also that Tom and Jess’s marriage had been something he relied on, believed in, was glad of. It had been something to hold on to in your mind on a particularly bad day. Jess held Tom’s hand at parties as though he was too precious to leave her sight. She would smile into his eyes. Jess adored Tom and she was gentle and kind. She had the warmest gaze that Sam had ever seen and it was for her husband only.

‘It’s none of your business,’ Tom said sharply. In the silence he got up. ‘It isn’t anything to do with you.’ He turned his back, pushed his hands into his trouser pockets in a way that would have made any decent tailor shudder.

‘Did I say anything?’

‘Goddamn you, you don’t have to! You were born to be a bloody solicitor, sitting there, saying nothing and judging people. I’ve met a woman who’s my intellectual and social equal. Jess is neither of those things. She bores me.’ His voice was rough, guilty. ‘She’s always there, always waiting for me. She never has a bad day, the house is perfect, the meals are perfect, she’s perfect, so eager to please, so …’ He stopped, looked down at what had been a pretty carpet twenty years ago and was now indistinguishable in colour.

‘You have to tell her,’ Sam said, echoing what he had said earlier to Michael.

‘How do you know I haven’t?’ Tom turned around, glaring at him.

‘She needs a solicitor, preferably a woman, she needs somebody on her side.’

‘How could she have somebody more on her side than you?’

Sam had to acknowledge the justice of this. He and Jess had been friends for years. He would have done anything for her. She was an ideal. She was a pitman’s daughter, had no education, few advantages. All she had were her looks, her elegance and her sweet smile.

‘She still needs—’

‘All right, all right.’ Tom put up both hands in submission. ‘I’ll talk to her, OK? Just don’t sit there and think you know everything.’ Tom collapsed back into the chair. ‘Will you act for me?’

‘I’d rather not.’

‘But you will, won’t you?’ Tom said.

Sam didn’t stop for lunch. When Tom had gone his appetite had disappeared. Kathleen brought him a sandwich when she came back from her lunch hour but he didn’t eat it and she made him some more coffee and he worked. By half past five he was more than ready to go home but he still had a great deal to do. It was often easier working in the evenings when the others had gone and there were no interruptions but he was not even allowed that. There was a tentative knocking on the thick oak door of his office and Andrew Elliot, the youngest member of the practice, put his head round the door.

‘You busy?’ Andrew’s mother had just died, he had already asked for time off to go to London for the funeral, so Sam could only hope that this was to be something positive.

Andrew Elliot was one of the least competent people he had ever employed. He looked like a boy even though he was twenty-seven and he acted rather like one most of the time. He had been Gareth’s choice and for all the wrong reasons.

‘His father is Matthew Elliot. We cannot afford to offend him,’ Gareth had said.

‘So, we have to take his son on?’

‘He’s our top client. He doesn’t have to, he could use other people in London. He’s stayed loyal because we are his original solicitors.’

Gareth handled all the work Matthew Elliot sent their way.

‘I’d rather do without people like that.’

‘We cannot afford to do without him. And why should we? He’s a controversial figure. He’s well known, rich—’

‘He’s a ruthless bastard,’ Sam said.

‘You’d be a ruthless bastard if you’d come up that far—’

‘Spare me the details,’ Sam said.

‘The point is that Andrew is as unlike his father as anybody could be. He’s sensitive, nice and he will be an asset to the practice. Old ladies will flock to him. He’s just what we need.’

God save me from sensitivity, Sam thought as Andrew closed the office door. Sam had met Matthew Elliot on a good number of occasions and cordially loathed him. He owned restaurants, fashionab. . .