If you enjoyed A Lancashire Lass, read on for an exclusive extract from Libby Ashworth’s next book in The Mill Town Lasses series.

Coming February 2021

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Chapter One

It was still dark when she woke, but Bessie could hear the knocker-up making his way down the street, rapping on the windows until he heard an answer from the sleepy occupants inside. She pulled the blankets tight around her neck and hoped for a few more minutes’ sleep.

Beside her, Peggy was breathing deeply as she lay with one hand tucked under the flock bolster and the other curled into a tight fist near her face. She’d slept like that for as long as Bessie could remember and since they were children.

It was no use, she thought, she couldn’t wait a moment longer. Not needing a candle or rushlight to find her way, Bessie swung her feet over the edge of the mattress and felt for her clogs with her toes. They were icy cold and a shiver ran through her. She reached for her shawl from the bedpost and pulled it around herself, over her red-flannel nightgown. She was bursting for a wee and she knew that it would be perishing cold outside. She went down the steep stairs, resting her hand on the wall where they curved midway, glancing back as she heard her mother getting up. She’d be in trouble if she was caught going out in her night clothes. Her mother didn’t approve of her going down the yard until she was properly dressed, but Bessie couldn’t wait and she hated using the chamber pot.

She unbarred the door slowly, trying not to let it squeak and wake Grandma Chadwick who had her bed in the parlour now that she couldn’t climb the stairs any more. Bessie could hear her snoring and knew that she’d be lying on her back with her mouth wide open, and probably a dribble of spittle running down her chin. She hated that her grandma had grown old. She remembered her when she lived in the cottage at Ramsgreave, when they would walk up there to see her and Grandad Chadwick. Bessie had always enjoyed that. She’d liked the way that the skies cleared to let the sun shine through and the scent of the air changed as they left the town and its dozens of smoking chimneys behind. The stench of the Blakewater was replaced by the clear streams that ran down from the hills, and the incessant noise of the engines gave way to the sound of sheep calling to their lambs and the gentle thud of the handloom weavers at work.

Her grandad had been a handloom weaver. She remembered watching him as he sat at his loom, working the treadle with his feet, as the shuttle flew back and forth. He’d tried to teach her to weave, but her legs hadn’t been long enough and her feet wouldn’t reach the pedals, even when she was sitting in his lap. He would laugh and kiss the top of her head and call her his grand little lass. She missed him.