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Back A Season for Hope Save as PDF
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

‘Right, my dear, this is the drawing room,’ Mrs Carter told Amber ushering her into a large room with a deep bay window that had a glorious view across the road towards the sea. It was plainly but comfortably furnished and very much a man’s room. There were no flowers or feminine touches about the place and as Mrs Carter saw Amber taking it all in she lifted a cushion from a leather wing chair to one side of the empty fireplace and plumping it up she grinned. ‘Your uncle has very simple tastes,’ she told her as if she could read her mind. ‘He’s never been one for frills and furbelows. Oh, and I should warn you, Biddy is a little, er . . .’ She tried to think of a kindly way to explain the woman. ‘Slow,’ she said eventually. ‘But she’s a good worker and totally devoted to Mr Harding. She’s worked here for almost as long as I have. He took her from the poorhouse when she was fourteen years old. They were going to turn her out on to the streets but Mr Harding took her in for a trial and she’s been here ever since. Biddy and I keep the house running between us. I do the cooking and manage the accounts and Biddy does the laundry and the majority of the cleaning.’

At mention of the poorhouse Amber’s stomach sank. Would her child be tipped on to the streets when it reached fourteen? she wondered. But then she pushed the thought away. There was no point in going soft now; she had chosen the path she must go down and there could be no going back.

Biddy hobbled back in shortly after with a tray of sandwiches and a pot of tea which she placed on a small table in the bay window and now Amber saw what Mrs Carter had meant about her. There was a childlike manner in the way she spoke and she seemed to be constantly looking at Mrs Carter for instructions.

‘You may go now, Biddy. Perhaps you could go out to the yard to see if the washing is dry?’ Mrs Carter suggested, and with a lopsided smile the woman shuffled away and Mrs Carter turned back to Amber. ‘I’ll leave you to enjoy your snack for now then, Miss Ainsley.’

‘Oh please . . . just call me Amber.’

‘Very well, Amber,’ the woman answered with a kindly smile before she swept from the room in a rustle of stiff skirts and petticoats.