Chapters (56)
- Cover
- RITA BRADSHAW
- Acknowledgements
- Prologue
- PART ONE
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- PART TWO
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- PART THREE
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- PART FOUR
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Chapter Twenty-Five
- PART FIVE
- Chapter Twenty-Six
- Chapter Twenty-Seven
- Chapter Twenty-Eight
- Chapter Twenty-Nine
- PART SIX
- Chapter Thirty
- Chapter Thirty-One
- Chapter Thirty-Two
- Chapter Thirty-Three
- Chapter Thirty-Four
- Epilogue
- Dancing in the Moonlight
- Beyond the Veil of Tears
- The Colours of Love
- Snowflakes in the Wind
- A Winter Love Song
- Beneath a Frosty Moon
- One Snowy Night
- The Storm Child
- The People’s Friend
- The Winter Rose
- By Rita Bradshaw
‘William, please.’ Arabella’s voice was low and urgent with a plea in it he ignored. He was furiously angry; with Arabella, with the couple still sitting in the drawing room and even with this child who was looking up at him with a slight frown as though he had committed a faux pas of some kind.
He strode off, and as he went Betsy said in a very small voice, ‘He doesn’t like my mammy and me, does he.’
‘Of course he does, my dear,’ said Arabella, completely at a loss. ‘He’s just – just not himself today, that is all. A – a touch of indigestion, I fear.’
A pair of big brown eyes surveyed her unblinkingly, and it was Arabella’s gaze that fell away as she said brightly, ‘Let us go and see Flossie and her babies, shall we?’ The feel of the little hand in hers had brought a lump to her throat and she was as angry with William as she felt he was with her. He was being positively churlish, she told herself indignantly, and his curtness with this dear little child was unforgivable. She would have words with him later but for the moment she would forget about him and try to make the afternoon pleasant for Betsy.
In the drawing room, Rose was voicing the same sentiments as her daughter. ‘Your father doesn’t like me.’
‘Nonsense. He doesn’t know you.’
‘Nevertheless.’
‘Rose, even if that were the case, which I am sure it is not, it doesn’t matter, not really.’ There was a long pause in which she just stared at him, and then, his words seeming to come from deep in his throat, he said, ‘Nothing matters except you and me, and Betsy of course.’
‘That’s not true—’
‘It is true.’
‘Your mother was being kind but underneath she feels the same way your father does, and I don’t blame them, Alexander. If you were, well, moderately wealthy, that would be one thing. Even then our relationship would be difficult but not insurmountable. As it is’ – she waved her hands expansively – ‘all this . . .’
‘Is my parents’, not mine, remember.’
‘You are your parents’ only child.’
‘That doesn’t mean I have to inherit. If I make it plain I am walking away from this, then there are cousins and other family members who would be only too happy to step up.’
She stared at him, horrified. ‘And you think I would let you do that for me?’