An Independent Woman
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
A word about the author...
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
An Independent Woman
by
Frances Evesham
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
An Independent Woman
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Frances Evesham
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First English Tea Rose Edition, 2014
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-390-2
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-391-9
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
For David, with all my love.
Chapter One
Philomena crept up the twisted stairs. A rat scuttled past and disappeared into the early morning fog of the London alleyway. She shuddered and pulled her shawl closer, stepping lightly to soften the clink of patten on wood as she climbed, head pounding and legs trembling.
Last week, dark curls bouncing, she’d skipped up the same stairs in happy anticipation of breakfast with Samuel, her guardian and employer. Since his death, Philomena lived in dread of Joseph, Samuel’s son. So far, she had come to no harm for Joseph fell into bed each night, drunk and incapable. During the day, though, as she moved around the workshop, Philomena felt her tormentor’s black eyes on her body. Whenever she looked up, Joseph licked wet lips and winked.
Philomena stole up the last few stairs, biting her lip at each protesting creak. All was quiet outside the room. Joseph still slept.
“You see,” she murmured. “There’s nothing to worry about.” She turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open.
Joseph shot out from behind the door, grabbed her arm, and dragged Philomena into the room. She stumbled and dropped the basket. Wiry fingers bit into her flesh. Joseph jerked her closer. She recoiled from the rancid stink of last night’s beer and held her breath as he sniggered.
Philomena twisted her head from side to side, searching for a weapon, but the dingy room, like thousands of similar tiny rooms in the teeming stews of the city, held little but a rough table and chairs. Neighbours hearing screams through the paper-thin walls would make no move to help. Quarrels and fights in the building were too common to raise more than an eyebrow.