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Back A Season for Hope
Chapters (57)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Chapter One
  4. Chapter Two
  5. Chapter Three
  6. Chapter Four
  7. Chapter Five
  8. Chapter Six
  9. Chapter Seven
  10. Chapter Eight
  11. Chapter Nine
  12. Chapter Ten
  13. Chapter Eleven
  14. Chapter Twelve
  15. Chapter Thirteen
  16. Chapter Fourteen
  17. Chapter Fifteen
  18. Chapter Sixteen
  19. Chapter Seventeen
  20. Chapter Eighteen
  21. Chapter Nineteen
  22. Chapter Twenty
  23. Chapter Twenty-One
  24. Chapter Twenty-Two
  25. Chapter Twenty-Three
  26. Chapter Twenty-Four
  27. Chapter Twenty-Five
  28. Chapter Twenty-Six
  29. Chapter Twenty-Seven
  30. Chapter Twenty-Eight
  31. Chapter Twenty-Nine
  32. Chapter Thirty
  33. Chapter Thirty-One
  34. Chapter Thirty-Two
  35. Chapter Thirty-Three
  36. Chapter Thirty-Four
  37. Chapter Thirty-Five
  38. Chapter Thirty-Six
  39. Chapter Thirty-Seven
  40. Chapter Thirty-Eight
  41. Chapter Thirty-Nine
  42. Chapter Forty
  43. Chapter Forty-One
  44. Chapter Forty-Two
  45. Chapter Forty-Three
  46. Chapter Forty-Four
  47. Acknowledgements
  48. About the Authors
  49. Also by Rosie Goodwin
  50. Welcome to the world of Rosie Goodwin!
  51. Letter from Author
  52. Meat and Potato Pie
  53. The Precious Stones series
  54. The Days of the Week Collection
  55. Mothering Sunday
  56. Victorian Tales from Memory Lane
  57. Memory Lane Club

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Nancy quickly hung the cape up and while Mrs Hamilton-Tate went straight upstairs to her daughter’s room, her husband made for the drawing room. Thankfully Nancy had thought to go in and make the fire up so it was warm and cosy as he crossed to a cut-glass decanter and poured himself a generous shot of whisky. He felt he needed it after the journey they had just endured being jostled about on the rough roads across the moors.

Having found her daughter sleeping, his wife joined him a short time later and soon after Nancy brought them a pot of tea and some slices of cold meat pie left over from dinner. She’d waited up long enough now and was ready for her bed so if they needed anything else they could damn well get it themselves, she decided as she stamped away up the bare wooden stairs that led to the servants’ quarters.

Shut away in the nursery, the next few days passed much as they always did for Amber and Becky, apart from two short visits from Margaret Hamilton-Tate who came to briefly visit her grandchildren.

‘She’s a cold fish, ain’t she?’ Becky snorted with disgust after one such visit. ‘She won’t even pick the babbys up fer fear o’ creasin’ her posh gowns. Still, it’s her loss, ain’t it? I reckon they’re both little crackers.’ As usual she was cradling baby David, who she had taken a great shine to. She had endless patience with him but despite all her best efforts, even she had got little response from him.

‘An’ I know the mistress is poorly but she ain’t asked to see ’em either, not once since I’ve been ’ere. It seems that the only one who gives a stuff about ’em is Mr Greenwood.’

Amber was secretly pleased that the mistress didn’t show a great interest in the children. She could only imagine how hard it would have been to see Louisa playing mother to her own daughter. She also felt a little resentful that it was the master and mistress who had chosen her child’s name, although begrudgingly she did have to admit that it suited her and she did like it, so she supposed she should at least be grateful of that.

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