Tomorrow the World

by Josephine Cox

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

Synopsis

One snow storm. One choice. A lifetime of consequences.

In Tomorrow the World, Josephine Cox writes a moving saga of heartache, friendship and longing. Perfect for fans of Cathy Sharp and Sheila Newberry.

Bridget Mulligan loves her husband. He is caring, loyal and dependable - everything a woman could ask for. But she can't quite forget Harry - the one that got away - and when a snow storm drives her into his arms, the inevitable happens. Nine months later a child is born.

Overcome with remorse, Bridget is determined that her husband should know the truth, but her confession can lead only to heartbreak. Although he allows his wife and her child to continue living in his home, Tom Mulligan makes it clear that their marriage is over. Lonely and afraid, Bridget finds comfort in the friendship of Fanny, a feisty young mother who knows what it is to be alone. But Bridget's life can never be complete until she has the love of the only man she ever really wanted...

What readers are saying about Tomorrow the World:

'Brilliant read, loved it. I just couldn't put it down. Was disappointed when I finished it. Excellent writer, felt like I was in the story myself'

'I found this book hard to put down, the further you get into the book it gets more and more exciting'

'Gripping - five stars'

Release date: January 19, 2012

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 238

Sample

‘Never!’

‘Then trust me.’ A charming, confident fellow, Peter Doyle had the mistaken idea that every woman in the world fancied him. ‘The snow’s coming down heavily,’ he told Bridget, ‘you’ll never get through on foot.’ He’d had his eye on Bridget ever since she came to work at Weatherfield Grange. ‘I insist on taking you home.’

‘No thank you, sir.’ Wise beyond her years, Bridget always felt nervous in his presence.

‘You are afraid of me!’ His smile was wonderful, but he had a certain naughty gleam in his eye, and judging from the way he moved his hand inside his trousers, he also had a rising bulge that would not be contained. It was a long time since his wife had shown him any favours. A man had to get his pleasures wherever he could.

As a rule he had no difficulty in persuading even the shyest of creatures into his bed. But Bridget Mulligan was not like the others; at only twenty years of age, she was delightfully fresh and different. It was no wonder he wanted her but, as yet, he had not managed to worm his way into her affections – or her bed, more was the pity! Still, there was time enough yet. He was a patient man.

‘It’s very kind of you, sir,’ Bridget said, ‘but I don’t need to put you to any trouble because a friend of the family is collecting me any minute now.’

‘Really, my dear?’ Suspicious, Peter scrutinised her pretty features.

‘It’s a standing arrangement.’ When needs must, Bridget lied beautifully. ‘If it snows, like today, I’m to wait for him at the gate – and I must not accept a ride home from anyone else.’

‘Quite right, my dear,’ he grudgingly conceded. Secretly, he thought it was downright wicked, especially when he could have been giving her the best ‘ride’ of her life. Damn her eyes, and damn her friend with her!

For what seemed an age he stared at her; the smile frozen to his face, and the member in his trousers straining to burst forth. When she nervously returned his smile, he gave a shrug, a little laugh, then turned abruptly and left the room.

‘Good shuts!’ she hissed, relieved that he’d given up. ‘Randy old bugger, I know what you’re after, but you can whistle in the wind till kingdom come, for all you’ll get from me.’

As she made her way down the back path to the servants’ gate, Bridget was shocked to see how the weather had deteriorated since midday. Now, at half past six in the evening, the wind was sharp and bitter-cold, driving the snow into her face.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Cook rushed by, her coat above her head, and her long skirt flapping round her ankles. ‘I wouldn’t let a dog out on a night like this!’ A fat lady, too layered with lard to catch a cold, she was never without a nip of gin in her pocket, and as she paused at the gate, she sneaked a swig from the flask. ‘That’ll keep the goosy pimples away,’ she chuckled. Returning the flask to her pocket, she set herself against the wind and cut a crooked path home. She was soon out of sight, but the sound of her voice raised in song told its own merry tale.

Bridget laughed. ‘Drunk as a lord tonight, and crotchety as hell tomorrow. We’ll all suffer in the morning, you can be sure of that.’ Still, she had a fondness for the dear soul, and anyway, what was life all about if a lady of Cook’s responsibilities couldn’t have a nip or two of gin when the fancy took her?

Bridget looked up at the dark and laden sky. ‘I don’t like the look of it and that’s for sure.’ Wild and spiteful, the night air cut through her hooded coat. ‘By! It’s bloody freezing!’ Drawing her coat tighter about her, she glanced back to the house; it looked warm and cosy, with the lights blazing a path through the night. ‘Happen I should have let him take me home after all.’ Thinking of his disappointed face made her smile again. In truth, she would rather run naked in a storm than let a man like Peter Doyle have his way.

Coming to the gate in a hurry, she lost her footing and slid to the ground. ‘Damn and bugger it!’ Now she was wet to the bone, her boots letting the snow in. And to make matters worse, as she tried to struggle up, she realised with a sinking heart that she had turned her ankle.

She had two options. She could either bear the discomfort of her ankle and press ahead, or she could try and get back to the house.

A pleasant thought struck her.

If she was to go back to the house, Harry might be there. But no, Harry wasn’t back from Manchester yet. She knew that, because she’d been watching for him all day. It was strange how she missed him whenever he was away.

Feeling ashamed, she chastised herself. ‘Bridget Mulligan, shame on you! Here you are, thinking pleasant things of Harry, and you a married woman these past four months.’ She had no right even to look at another man, let alone miss him. Not when she had a loving husband like Tom.

‘Maybe Tom will come for me,’ she thought aloud. But there wasn’t much chance of that, she reminded herself. Tom was at the quarry, taking delivery of new rolling stock. Before he left this morning, he had warned her he might not be home until later than usual.

‘Aw, well.’ Brushing herself off, Bridget sighed. ‘I’m not going back to the house, not with the squire after me at every turn, and I don’t mean to sit here and freeze to death.’

As she struggled on, Bridget was afraid she might fall into some deep ditch and be lost for ever. The landmarks were rapidly disappearing beneath a blanket of snow and it was becoming increasingly difficult to see where the lane was. ‘The squire was right after all,’ she groaned, her teeth chattering uncontrollably, ‘though I would never give him the satisfaction of telling him so.’

With the wind howling and the snow lashing down, Bridget didn’t hear the cart coming up behind her.

‘Whoa, boy!’ Catching sight of the small, forlorn figure in front, Harry Little drew back on the reins. ‘Easy there . . . whoa!’ A strong young man in his early twenties, Harry had no trouble bringing the horse to a halt. Dropping the reins, he leaped from the cart and hurried forward.

‘Bridget! What the devil are you doing out in this weather?’ He was angry, but that was nothing new. Bridget had a way of making him angry; mostly because she was married to someone else and not to him.

Relieved, and utterly exhausted, Bridget fell into his arms. ‘Harry! Oh, Harry, you don’t know how glad I am to see you.’

He gently shook her. ‘Have you gone mad? What possessed you to set out on such a wild night?’

‘I didn’t know it was this bad.’

‘You should have waited. You know I would always see you home.’

‘I know.’ She had no intention of telling him how the squire had offered and she had refused.

‘Well, this is no time to argue the point. Come on.’ Effortlessly lifting her into his arms, he carried her over the rough ground. ‘Good God, woman! You’re soaked to the skin!’

Bridget made no reply. The feel of his strong arms about her made her feel safe and warm.

Harry Little was a contradiction to his name; he was a tall, powerful man, lean and lithe, but as gentle as a lamb. He had a thick mop of brown hair and hazel eyes, an easy smile, a quick temper, and a heart as kind as any you could hope to find.

‘There!’ Placing her on the seat at the front of the wagon, Harry took a blanket from a box under the seat. ‘That should help keep you warm.’

Watching Harry tuck the blanket round her legs, Bridget couldn’t help but smile. He was like a mother hen. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I know it was stupid of me to try and make my way home in this weather.’

He climbed on to the seat beside her. ‘So why did you do it?’

Bridget shrugged. ‘It’s Friday and I wanted to get home, that’s all. And now I’ve turned my ankle.’

‘Hmm!’ Clicking the horse on, he skilfully manoeuvred the cart to the highest ground; pitting his strength against the elements was no easy matter. ‘Hold on tight,’ he warned. ‘There’s no way round this lot, Bridget. We’ll have to plough right through it.’ The weather was worsening by the minute, and Blackburn town was a good six miles away.

Sneaking a glance at Bridget, Harry couldn’t help thinking how pretty she was. With that long, thick brown hair and big brown eyes, she had the bright, wondrous look of a child. Even now, with just her cold, pink nose poking above the blanket, her goodness shone out, and not for the first time he realised how much he loved her.

‘I’m surprised the master let you out at all,’ he said. ‘If he had any sense he’d have made you wait until I got back, or at least offered to take you home himself.’

‘He did.’ Bridget suspected that Harry already knew.

‘I thought as much.’ The wind was howling so loudly that he had to yell to make himself heard. ‘Fancied his chances, did he? The lecherous bugger!’

Just then the cart struck a boulder and the impact threw them sideways. ‘Jesus! That’s all we need.’ Harry climbed from the seat and took stock of the situation. ‘Part of the wall seems to have broken away,’ he called back. ‘It must have given out under the weight of snow.’ Squaring his shoulders, he began digging into the rubble with his bare hands. ‘Got to clear a way here,’ he shouted. ‘Stay where you are, and keep well wrapped up.’ The wind was like a cold, hard blade slicing through him.

Glancing up, he was angered to see Bridget climbing down from the cart. ‘No! Stay there!’ Waving his arms, he gestured to her not to come any further.

Pretending not to hear, Bridget ignored him. In no time at all, she was beside him, pulling her weight with his to roll back the large boulders that blocked their way.

‘You’re a stubborn little devil,’ Harry told her, but he admired her determination all the same, especially when he knew she was in pain from her ankle.

With the way partially cleared, Harry helped Bridget back to the cart and lifted her on to the seat. That done, he checked on the horse. ‘God willing, we’ll soon have you out of this,’ he told the tired creature, and for his reward he got a wet, grateful nose nuzzled in his face.

‘Is he all right?’ Bridget, too, was concerned about the horse.

‘He’s a big strong feller, used to all manner of weather.’ Harry clambered on to the seat and took up the reins once more, adding pointedly, ‘And he knows how to be patient, whereas you, you young bugger, couldn’t sit still if your life depended on it.’

‘It doesn’t though – does it?’ The danger they were in was all too apparent.

‘It well might, unless we can keep going.’ He knew they would have to negotiate some deep rutted tracks, invisible under the drifting snow, before coming to level ground.

Images of Tom coming home and not finding her there turned Bridget’s stomach. Her husband was a good man, but he was a stickler for routine; discipline, pattern and good order, that was Tom. So much so that if one day was too different from the one before, he could be impossible to live with.

Reaching out, Harry squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t you worry, sweetheart,’ he told her. ‘I’ll get you home.’

‘I know you will.’ Harry had a habit of calling her sweetheart. Tom never did, and that was a shame because when Harry did it, it made her feel warm all over. But then Harry and Tom were like chalk and cheese. Harry was twenty-two and Tom only four years older, but there was a world of difference between them. Harry was full of spirit, always smiling and cheerful, while Tom took life too seriously, rarely smiling, and always looking for the next problem. But the thought of Tom was strangely reassuring. She did love him, she told herself. In fact, she told herself this time and again, as though wanting to believe it.

‘Tom’s bound to worry if I’m not home when he gets back from the quarry.’ What she meant was, that Tom would throw a tantrum. That was his usual way of dealing with things that upset his precious routine.

Harry urged the horse on, gently tapping its rump with the whip. ‘Come on, feller, get the young lady home and it’s worth an extra bag of hay to you.’

The weary horse made a valiant effort, but deep down Harry was worried. If the wind kept up at this rate, they might not get through this side of morning.

‘How about if we turned back?’ Bridget was no fool. She knew the road well. She also knew the dangers.

‘Too late for that.’ Harry had given it a passing thought, but with the walls collapsing into their path and the road possibly blocked behind them, it was not an option. ‘Wrap that blanket tight about you,’ he advised. ‘With luck, the heavens will ease up and smile on us. All the same, from now on, if I ask you to stay on the cart, I’d be obliged if you’d do as you’re told. Two of us out there breaking our backs is downright reckless. If one of us gets hurt, there’s always a chance the other can fetch help.’

‘Sorry.’

‘So you should be.’

There was a lull between them, before he suddenly reached out and took her hand in his. ‘It’s me that should be sorry,’ he apologised. ‘I ought never to have started the journey. I should have taken you back to the house there and then. Trying to get you home on a night like this is sheer bloody lunacy!’

Opening the blanket to encompass him, Bridget huddled close. ‘You’d die before you would admit it,’ she said, ‘but I know you’re frozen through. Please, Harry, share the blanket. We can keep each other warm.’ Her face was so close to his, she could feel the stubble on his chin. ‘And no arguments.’

Harry wasn’t about to argue. In fact, with Bridget’s small soft body next to his, he was the happiest man in the world.

When they got as far as Samlesbury, Harry called the horse to a halt. ‘Just as I thought,’ he told Bridget. ‘With few hedges along these lanes and only low-lying shrub beyond, there’s nothing to stop the snow from whipping across the fields. We ought to be standing right in the middle of the lane but it’s impossible to be sure. Looks like the whole area is buried under four feet of snow.’

‘What can we do?’

‘I’m just wondering where we are exactly, and whether there are any farms hereabout.’

‘There is a farmhouse somewhere along this lane, I’ve seen it on my way home.’ She always thought how pretty it was, with its thatched roof and bull’s-eye windows.

Rubbing his hands together, Harry encouraged the blood to circulate faster. ‘We’ll be hard pressed to find it in this lot.’

‘What then?’

‘One thing’s for sure. We can’t go on, and we can’t go back.’ Turning the blanket away, he climbed down. ‘You stay where you are,’ he told her. ‘And I mean, stay . . . where . . . you . . . are!’

‘Don’t worry.’ Her quiet smile reassured him. ‘Anyway, somebody has to look after the horse.’

He looked at her and, for one precious moment, his love shone in his eyes. Then, just as quickly, his features were grim. ‘Get down under the seat. It’s important to keep warm. Wrap the blanket tight about you.’ He made certain she was tucked securely underneath the seat, with the blanket covering her from top to bottom, until only her eyes peeped out. ‘I’m going to scout ahead. If there is a farmhouse like you said, I’ll find it.’

Sorry eyes stared up at him. ‘I’d rather come with you, even if it is reckless.’

He shook his head. ‘You drive a man crazy, Bridget Mulligan!’ Strong, lean fingers caught hold of her. ‘Will you do as I ask? Or must I tie you to the cartwheel?’

‘All right. But what if you get hurt? How am I supposed to know?’

He answered with a grin. ‘Oh, you’ll know all right because I’ll shout and yell until you find me.’

‘What about me? I might be frightened here in the dark all on my own.’

He shook his head. ‘Not you,’ he declared with a smile. ‘Anybody else, maybe, but not Bridget Mulligan!’

Taking the spare lamp from the box under the seat, he lit it from the one he had hung on the shaft. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ he promised. ‘Meanwhile, do as I say. If I come back and find you’ve gone off looking for me, I’ll track you down and give you the smacking you deserve.’

Bridget laughed out loud. ‘You wouldn’t dare!’

Without answering, he put up the collar of his overcoat, and tightened the straps of his boots, and set off.

As Bridget watched him go, she couldn’t help but wonder how Tom might cope in these circumstances. Like Harry, Tom was a strongly built man and probably just as capable of dealing with an emergency as Harry was. But, as far as she was aware, the circumstances had never arisen for him to be put to the test, whereas Harry had proved himself more than once, in particular last year when there had been a bad fire at the Grange. Cook had gone into fits and the master was worse than useless. But Harry had quickly ushered everyone outside. He sent the pot boy running for the brigade, and by the time they arrived, Harry had organised the staff with a line of water buckets to prevent the fire from spreading. Afterwards, the brigade officer commented on his calm nerve and organising ability. ‘You did well,’ he told Harry, and offered him a job, should he ever leave Weatherfield Grange.

Curled up beneath the seat, Bridget thought about the two men. What if she had married Harry instead of Tom? But Harry had not asked her, whereas Tom had pursued her right from the day she dropped her purse in the puddle outside the market. Tom had retrieved it and given it back, and after that he had set his cap at her. Not a day passed when she didn’t receive a note, or a box of chocolates, or a posy of flowers, until in the end she fancied herself in love with him.

But it was a peculiar love. Quiet and predictable. Going home to Tom was like going home to a stern father, accompanied by a feeling of guilt without quite knowing why. It wasn’t at all how she felt whenever she saw Harry; with him, she had the most wonderful glowing feeling inside.

Bridget had no way of knowing what time it was, or how long Harry had been gone. ‘It seems like he’s been gone for ever,’ she murmured. ‘I hope he’s all right.’

Straining up from her cramped position, she peered ahead. The snow was blinding. She cupped her hands round her mouth and called his name.

Her only answer was the howling wind and the hush of snow as it fell about her. She tried again, this time louder.

Still no answer. Now she was really concerned. If he was in trouble or hurt, it was obvious she would not hear his calls for help, and he had been gone for such a long time. ‘I have to find him!’

Impatient, she climbed down from the cart – and immediately sank up to her knees in snow. ‘Damn it, Harry, where are you?’ She called again but there was still no answer.

Her teeth were chattering and her limbs were beginning to set. With great difficulty, she managed to make her way to the front of the cart to the horse. ‘Oh, you poor thing,’ she groaned; the creature was wet and bedraggled, head hanging low, his big brown eyes looking at her appealingly. His beautiful lashes were speckled with snow and the water trickling down his face made him look as though he was crying. ‘I know,’ she said, putting an arm round his thick neck, ‘it’s a bad situation. All we can do is put our trust in Harry.’

Harry had strapped a horse blanket over the animal, and by now it was heavy with snow. Bridget shook it off as best she could, then slid it higher over his withers. ‘It won’t keep you dry,’ she told him, ‘but it might keep the worst of the wind off you.’ The wind was worsening, swirling the snow and sending it into a frenzy. ‘Harry won’t let us come to any harm,’ she assured the frightened creature, ‘and I won’t leave you, I promise.’

He seemed to understand. Snorting, he pushed his nose into her shoulder.

‘Be patient,’ she coaxed. ‘He’ll be back soon.’ Wrapping both arms round the animal’s wide shoulders, she snuggled up. ‘We’ll keep each other warm,’ she promised, and, for what seemed an age, that was what they did.

Then at last Bridget saw the hazy glow of a lantern as Harry made his way back. ‘Thank God,’ she murmured.

She pushed her way through the snow to meet him. ‘Oh, Harry! You’ve been gone so long.’ The force of the wind sent her into his arms. She made no move to free herself, nor did he want her to. She felt herself blushing. The insane idea that Tom might see them made her break away.

‘I thought I told you to stay put,’ Harry said gruffly, though he was greatly relieved to see her. He had been frantic in case she wandered off. ‘We’d best get started,’ he urged. ‘We’ve a way to go yet.’

‘You found the farmhouse then?’

Harry shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t. It’s like all hell cut loose out there.’

With his arm tight about her waist, he helped Bridget back to the cart; he might have carried her over the snow-laden ground, but his legs were weakened by the long, heavy trudge, and his back felt as though it was cracked right down the middle. More importantly, he had to preserve what strength he had left. Who knew what lay ahead?

‘Where are we going?’ It was increasingly difficult for Bridget to make herself heard against the noise of the wind.

‘There’s a barn about a mile away. It’s not the best place in the world, but it’s got four walls and a roof. If we make it there, we should be all right till morning.’

‘If there’s a barn, surely the farmhouse can’t be far away?’

‘Probably not, but I couldn’t find it and I’ve searched as far as I can tonight,’ Harry answered. ‘It’s impossible trying to find anything in this blizzard.’

Bridget nodded in agreement.

Harry urged the horse forward. ‘Hang on,’ he warned Bridget, ‘we’re in for a rough ride,’ and sure enough, the cartwheels ran straight into the ruts. Thankfully, though, the mighty heart of that brave, weary horse soon carried them on to smoother ground.

As they fought their way through, Bridget clung to the sides of the seat, wishing she was home with Tom, and then wishing she could stay with Harry for ever. Right now it seemed as if they were the only two people left in the entire world, and nothing else mattered. Then she chided herself, and once again her mind turned to Tom, and her thoughts became bleak and confused.

‘Hold the lamp up,’ he said, and Bridget did as she was told without question.

It took an age for Harry to open the great doors; the snow had piled up against the timbers, holding them fast. Summoning all his strength, Harry put his back to the doors, straining his muscles until they felt as though they were being wrenched from his frame. With agonising slowness, the doors began to creak apart.

As soon as the opening was wide enough to drive the cart through, he returned to where Bridget waited. ‘Sit tight,’ he told her. ‘A few more minutes and we’ll be in the dry.’ He took up the reins and gently urged the weary horse to make one last effort.

Once the cart was inside the barn and the doors were closed behind them, Harry quickly unshackled the horse, while Bridget scouted round.

‘Harry, look!’ She pointed to a pile of grey blankets on a rail. ‘At least we’ll be warm.’ Plucking the top blanket from the pile, she shook it hard, dropping it with a scream when a fat brown rat fell out and scurried away. ‘He’s probably more startled than I am,’ she said boldly, but her voice was shaking with fright.

After a further look round, she’d found two hurricane lamps, a sizeable length of thick, strong rope, a billycan filled with cold, rank tea, horses’ tack and throw-overs, and any amount of dead rabbits, tied by their feet and strung from the rafters. There was also a loft above, filled with last summer’s hay.

‘The horse won’t go hungry,’ she said with a satisfied smile as she came to lend a hand with the unshackling. ‘Not with all that hay up there.’

Once the horse was dried off and led into a railed-off section in the corner of the barn, he seemed contented enough, especially when Harry gave him a generous bite of hay. ‘I’m sure the farmer won’t mind,’ he said, patting the animal fondly.

Bridget, too, expressed her gratitude to the horse. ‘You’re a brave old feller,’ she said, both arms round his neck. ‘Thank you for getting us here safely.’

Harry watched her as she stretched up to embrace the horse, and he thought how delightful she was, small and perfect, with an honest, warm heart and a kindness that belied her tender years. Whenever he looked at her, like now, he felt the anguish of a love that could never amount to anything. Bridget was happily married, while he was hopelessly tied by an aged mother and a selfish sister. They both relied on him, and always would. There was no time or opportunity in his life for anyone like Bridget, and even if she had been a free woman, he could never have asked her to share his burden. He pulled off his cap and ran his hand through his hair. Maybe it was just as well she was happily married, he thought philosophically. Funny how Fate had a way of sorting things out for the best – or the worst.

Suddenly aware that she was being watched, Bridget spun round. When she saw Harry looking at her, she smiled shyly. He was so handsome, standing there, one arm stretched to the upper rail and his foot placed on the lower one. His skin was tanned from his work in the open air, and his hair lay rough and unkempt. He looked like a Gypsy from the roads, she thought fondly.

For a long, poignant moment they gazed a. . .