Resisting Mr Rochester

by Sharon Booth

  Table of Contents

  Resisting Mr Rochester

  At least, that was the plan…

  About the Author

  With much love always.

  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-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

  Acknowledgements

  Other books by Sharon Booth

  A Kiss from a Rose (Kearton Bay 2)

  Once Upon a Long Ago (Kearton Bay 3)

  This Other Eden (Skimmerdale 1)

  A Highland Practice by Jo Bartlett

  Air Guitar and Caviar by Jackie Ladbury

  Beltane by Alys West

  Resisting Mr Rochester

  At least, that was the plan…

  SHARON BOOTH

  Published in Great Britain in 2017 by:

  FABRIAN BOOKS

  Kent, England

  www.fabrianbooks.com

  Copyright © 2017 Sharon Booth.

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Berni Stevens.

  www.bernistevensdesign.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.

  About the Author

  Sharon started writing as a child, when her Tammy comic proved far too short a read, and she decided to continue the stories herself, rather than waiting a whole week to find out what happened next. This resulted in a hundred-page novel, complete with illustrations, about a boarding school for girls who wanted to be ballerinas. As she had never been to boarding school and didn't know the first thing about ballet, it's fortunate that no copies of this masterpiece exist.

  She now writes contemporary romance with plenty of humour—much to her mother's dismay, as she was convinced Sharon was destined to be the next Catherine Cookson.

  Sharon lives in East Yorkshire with her husband and German Shepherd dog, and fits writing in around her job with the NHS, five grown-up children and hordes of grandchildren. She is a member of the Romantic Novelists' Association, one tenth of The Write Romantics, and is shamefully prone to all-consuming crushes on fictional heroes.

  Find out more about Sharon on her website:

  www.sharonboothwriter.com

  Also available by Sharon Booth

  There Must Be an Angel

  A Kiss from a Rose

  Once Upon a Long Ago

  This Other Eden

  Baxter's Christmas Wish

  For Tracey and Richard ~ my companions through life.

  With much love always.

  xxxx

  Chapter One

  There was no chance of taking a walk that day. It was, as my dad would say, siling down, and as I hadn't brought an umbrella, it seemed wiser to go straight home, as unappealing as that thought was.

  "I don't suppose you'll be going to the park today, then." It wasn't a question. Jilly patted me on the shoulder, as I stood gazing out of the window, watching the rain bounce off the school playground. "Though, I suppose park is a bit of an exaggeration, whatever the council calls it."

  I took her point, but if you ignored the broken roundabout and the graffiti scrawled all over the slide, and concentrated on the grassy area beyond, edged with trees, you could almost pretend that you weren't in the centre of Oddborough, a grim north-east city, overlooked by the concrete towers of high-rise flats.

  I liked to walk to the park every day after work, sit on one of the swings, face the greenery, and daydream. Jilly, who ran the nursery school where I worked, thought I was bonkers, but then she lived in a rather pleasant suburb with her dentist husband, and had a large garden, and wide, tree-lined grass verges down her road, and therefore didn't have to grab her slice of nature with both hands, wherever she could find it.

  "I suppose I won't," I agreed.

  "Good. Come to the pub with me. We should celebrate. Not every day a girl turns thirty."

  "I don't think I can be classified as a girl any longer," I said gloomily. "I'm positively geriatric."

  "Geriatric? At thirty? Give over." She laughed and nudged me. "Still a spring chicken! Are you doing anything special tonight?"

  I gave her a look that clearly spoke volumes, and she sighed.

  "At least let me give you a lift home. I don't like to think of you standing at a bus stop in this weather."

  "You live in the opposite direction to me," I reminded her with a smile.

  "So? A small detour won't harm me."

  "Quite a long detour, actually," I said. "Thanks, Jilly. That's really kind of you, but I'll be fine. I'm in no hurry to get home."

  She pulled a face. "Trouble in paradise again? What's happened?"

  "Nothing. I think that's the problem."

  "You know, you really do deserve better," she told me. "You're wasting your life away, Cara Truelove. It's time you took some control back. Oh, well, if you're sure you don't want a lift, I'll see you tomorrow."

  We said our goodbyes, and as she climbed into her car and began the journey home to domestic bliss in suburbia, I dashed down the street, dodging puddles and ducking umbrellas.

  I reached the bus stop just as the bus arrived. Jumping on, I bought a ticket and sank onto the nearest seat, gazing unseeingly out of the dirty, rain-streaked window, my heart sinking ever lower as the bus carried me mercilessly to the Feldane estate.

  "You're early tonight," Seth called from the kitchen, as I pushed open the front door of our tenth-floor flat.

  My heart—foolish thing—lifted momentarily, at the fleeting hope that maybe he was making our tea, but when he strolled into the hallway, carrying a mug of coffee, my heart landed with a thud where it seemed to nestle permanently those days—in my boots.

  He leaned over and planted a kiss on my cheek. "Had a good day? I've missed you." He didn't offer to pour me a drink, but carried his own into the living room.

  Scowling, I hung my coat on the hook, then headed into the kitchen to make my own. At least the kettle had just boiled. With a cup of tea in hand—we didn't even share a preference for hot drinks—I followed him into the room.

  It wasn't that I particularly wanted to spend the next few hours watching Seth's favourite programmes, but unless I wanted to stand in the kitchen, sit on the loo, or spend the evening in our bedroom, there wasn't much of a choice. The flat had been described by the council as compact. I could think of other descriptions.

  The one good thing about the place was the view. Being on the tenth floor
, I could see for miles from every window. Luckily for me, the location of our building meant that the view from our living room balcony was amazing. In the distance, I could see fields and trees—the promise of countryside. In dry weather, I would spend as much time as possible sitting on that balcony, staring into the distance and daydreaming. Years of practice had given me the ability to completely ignore the broken-down cars, piles of rubbish, and gangs of yobs congregating in the area immediately around the block of flats. My focus was all on the horizon, where there was beauty and hope.

  Seth yawned.

  "Tiring day?" I asked, screwing up my nose, as he put down his coffee and stretched, breaking wind as he did so. Where, I wondered, had my hunky, romantic boyfriend gone?

  Evidently, sarcasm went over Seth's head. "Yeah. Been really busy," he agreed. "I've written three poems."

  "Wonderful." Well, that must have taken up fifteen minutes of his time. Bet he hasn't done the washing, though. Lazy swine.

  "Naomi popped by," he said. "She's had another row with Dad."

  I tutted into my cup so he wouldn’t hear me. What was new? His sister was always rowing with her dad, because he had some weird idea that people should actually go out and earn a living. Neither of his children seemed to agree with that strange philosophy. Mind you, they didn't seem to object to other people earning a living on their behalf. Naomi was twenty-six and still living at home, sponging off her father. Seth, meanwhile, had me.

  "Oh, and Redmond called. Told him you were at work and you'd call him back."

  "Redmond called?" Not like him. He'd already sent me a birthday card, with a twenty-pound note slotted inside. It’d been a massive relief, as it meant I had enough money for my bus fares to work until that blessed day at the end of the month, when my wages would finally go into the bank. "Did he say what he wanted?"

  Seth gave me one of his looks. Once upon a time, I'd have melted at one of those looks. He used to seem smouldering and sexy when he lowered his head and peered up at me with those unusual grey eyes. Lately, he just looked cross-eyed and stoned. Which he probably was, judging by the sickly-sweet smell that lingered in the air. "You know your brother," he said. "Never tells me anything. Terribly disapproving. I'm far too much of a free spirit, and he just can't handle it."

  "Hmm." I fished my mobile phone out of my bag and went through the contacts list looking for Redmond's number, but when I called, I only got the engaged tone and hung up.

  Tapping into the Facebook app instead, I scrolled down through my feed, wondering if anyone had posted birthday wishes to me. Jilly had, which was lovely. Redmond wasn't on Facebook, as he was far too busy being an academic genius and earning shedloads of money from his work at a university. Tamsin had posted a photograph of a vast bunch of flowers on my timeline and wished me a lovely day. She'd sent me a beautiful bouquet through the post, which had really touched me, as no one ever bought me flowers. Although, I had panicked a bit, as I didn't possess a vase. An old Pyrex jug had served the purpose. I appreciated her kind gesture, but still tutted as I caught a glimpse of another of her impossibly jolly updates.

  Lovely sunny day! Off to Pilates! Feeling happy!

  Trust Tamsin. Even the sun was on her side. I could just picture my sister living her perfect life in her perfect five-bedroomed detached new-build, while I was stuck in a dingy council flat with the rain pouring down outside.

  My own fault, I reminded myself. You got what you deserved.

  The telephone was ringing. Snapping out of my self-pitying mood, I picked up the receiver, pretty certain it would be Redmond. He was the only person I knew who used a landline rather than a mobile whenever possible. He was infuriatingly—and rather endearingly—old-fashioned,

  "Evening, Cara." My brother's voice, with his broad Yorkshire accent, sounded comfortingly familiar. It reminded me of home and put a lump in my throat. "Mum asked me to call you," he said, without preamble. "It's Granny Reed. She's gone."

  "Gone where?" I had visions of her escaping the nursing home and roaming the streets of Newarth, the village where she'd lived all her life. Worse, maybe she'd got as far as the moors. Maybe, even now, she was stumbling through the bracken, confused and alone. "Is it raining there? Did she take a coat?"

  There was a moment's silence, then Redmond said, "No, Cara, I don't think you understand. She's gone. Kaput. Brown bread. You know. The candle has been snuffed out."

  "You mean, she's dead?" Well, what else could he mean? But I didn't believe it. Even after she'd been dragged, protesting all the way, from her terraced house to the nursing home, after trying to fry chips in a pan of lime cordial—an easy mistake to make, in my opinion—and, last Christmas, attempting to pay for a twenty-pound frozen turkey in the supermarket with a bag of chocolate coins pinched from its own shelves, she'd seemed indestructible. "But she can't be."

  "Why on earth not? She must have been ninety, at the very least," Redmond said without a trace of sentiment. "Anyway, the funeral's a week on Friday, if you think you can make it. Our Lady of Lourdes Church, eleven o'clock."

  "I'll try," I said, dazed. "I'll have to ask for time off work."

  "I'm sure it won't be a problem—not for a family funeral. Anyway, Mum and Dad said you can sleep over at their place, if you like. Are you—I mean, will you be bringing—"

  "I doubt it," I said. "Funerals aren't his thing."

  Seth looked up and raised an eyebrow. I shook my head, and he went back to composing poetry in his mind. At least, that was what I assumed he was doing. It was his stock answer whenever I used to query what he was thinking about. I only had his word for that, of course. He could have been thinking about the latest episode of The Simpsons, or daydreaming about Jennifer Lawrence, or wondering what I was planning for tea, for all I knew. It was more likely than composing poetry, when I came to think about it, given that the stuff he came up with was so bad, it surely couldn't have taken more than five minutes to create.

  To think, I used to believe he was an undiscovered literary genius.

  "No, I suppose not," Redmond said. "Well, if you're there, I'll see you at the church. Have to go. We've got Susan's boss coming here for dinner. Again."

  "Lucky you," I said. "Aren't you the favoured one?"

  He made a sort of mumbling noise that may, or may not, have included the word bloody in it, and added, "I've told Tamsin, by the way. She's going. Surprised she can fit it in with such a hectic lifestyle, but there you go. See you there, Cara."

  Seth glanced at me as I replaced the receiver. "What was that about?"

  "Granny Reed," I said, feeling bewildered. "She's dead."

  "Oh, right. Well, she was pretty ancient. Had a good innings."

  "Did you want to go to the funeral with me?" I asked, not sure how I wanted him to respond. Part of me wanted the support, but the other half dreaded the thought of playing referee between him and my family. I knew he'd be rude and condescending towards them, yet would take immediate offence if they said anything remotely unfavourable in return. I'd be on eggshells the entire time.

  He shuddered. "You must be joking. You won't get me anywhere near a church, and Catholic funerals go on for even longer than Anglican ones. Besides, I have work to do. My poetry collection is at an exciting stage. I don't want to disrupt the creative process."

  He took a slurp of his coffee and closed his eyes, and I clicked the Facebook icon and found Tamsin's page, spotting a later post with a very different tone.

  RIP Great Grandmother Reed. My heart is truly broken. #bereft.

  It was slotted between the Pilates post and another one, in which she trilled about the unexpected delights of a kale and spinach smoothie. No wonder I hadn't noticed it.

  "What's for tea?" Seth queried, not bothering to open his eyes.

  In my mind, I composed my own status.

  Crappy rainy day! Idle boyfriend! Dead granny! Feeling pissed off! #HappyBirthdayToMe

  Chapter Two

  Granny Reed was, in fact, my great-grand
mother, and Mum's granny, and she'd managed to outlive both her daughter, son-in-law, and husband, which my mum said had changed her personality completely, and not for the better. Not surprising, really. I couldn't imagine how she'd borne such terrible loss.

  For all her married life, she'd lived in a two-bedroomed terraced house off Newarth's main street, and I didn't know what she was like before such tragedy marred her life, but when I was a child, she wasn't the most welcoming, or warm, person. Even so, a trip to visit her had always been something to look forward to, because it meant going back to the village I loved.

  I'd lived there myself until I was seven years old, and I still considered it home, even though we'd moved to Beverley, in East Yorkshire, when Dad got a new job. The only time I got to visit the village, after that, was our monthly visit to Granny Reed.

  While I seriously doubted she'd fit anyone's image of a doting granny, as I sat there in church on the day of her funeral, watching the priest sprinkle holy water over her coffin, and listening as he chanted lots of strange Latin phrases, I felt a real and genuine sadness at her loss. She had tried to make something of me, all through my childhood. She'd always been convinced that I had some talent in me somewhere and, unlike everyone else—myself included—seemed determined not to give up hope of finding it. What a shame she hadn't succeeded before she'd finally turned her back on me.

  As a devout Catholic, Granny Reed had never got over the fact that her own daughter had married a protestant and turned her back on the true religion, so her face when she discovered that Seth's father was a Church of England vicar was a right picture. As if his long hair and lack of employment weren't enough to make her despise Seth already. She had pretty much washed her hands of me from the day I moved in with him, telling me I'd thrown away my life for a wastrel. At the time, I'd dismissed her words as the rantings of a religious, pious old nut.