by Janet Woods
Born and brought up in Dorset, Janet Woods now lives in Perth, Western Australia, although she returns to her English roots on a regular basis to visit family and friends. Janet is the author of several historical romances, the most recent of which, Daughter of Darkness, won the 2002 Romantic Novel of the Year Award in Australia.
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2003
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Janet Woods 2003
This eBook edition, 2014
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Janet Woods to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
PB ISBN: 978-0-74346-799-5
EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-47113-658-0
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Dedicated to my husband, Trevor,
gem of a Dorset man.
*
The author is happy to receive feedback from readers.
She can be contacted via her website.
http://members.iinet.net.au/~woods
Contents
PROLOGUE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
BEYOND THE PLOUGH
1
PROLOGUE
Wales. 1815
The girl was a slip of a thing, her patched skirt and faded bodice hung loosely on her slender frame. A shawl, the wool hand-spun and woven by her grandmother, was clenched to her chest in a tightly fisted hand.
Beneath the grey drabness of the gown, the small bulge had been noticeable only to the most sharp-eyed of the village women, until they’d honed their tongues to match.
The girl’s face was pale, pinched around the mouth. Her eyes, burning with her shame though she kept her head held high, were of a peculiar greenness, a gift from her ancient warrior ancestors.
‘Get you gone, Megan Lewis!’
Behind her on the chapel steps stood her father, stern in his own righteousness and resolve. She would not look back. Behind her, a bad memory, the travelling preacher, his mouth thundering with the teachings of the Lord, his loins hot and thrusting with the instrument of Satan’s punishment.
‘Shame on you, sinner.’
Behind the lace curtains of a neatly kept cottage were her stepmother and sisters. Prayers would be said for her soul, then for as long as they lived she would never be mentioned again.
She bit back on a sob, resisting the urge to pull the shawl over her head. Led by her stepmother, the village women had hacked the waist-length locks from her head. She felt naked without it, the black tufts were spiky and rough between her fingers.
A clod of earth hit her between the shoulder blades and she stumbled.
‘Your mother was too proud for the likes of us,’ Aunt Wynn hissed with snake-like malice. ‘Descended from the marcher lords, she said she was. A pity it is that she isn’t alive to see this.’ Wynn stood next to Grandmother Lewis on the doorstep, a spinster, her youth withered by the lack of a man’s interest, unattractive in her brown plumage.
The older woman was still tall and upright at sixty. Her shock of white hair was pulled into a coarse linen bonnet, the black coals of her eyes were clouded over, her mouth crabbed inwards over her gums. ‘Megan . . . is that you, our Megan?’ Her voice had a high-pitched fluting strangeness to it.
Megan shivered. ‘It is me, Grandmother.’
‘I burned a lock of your hair, cariad. The smoke showed the future.’
‘And what is that future, Grandmother?’
‘You will go forth into misery, but the man who caused it will be cursed. Your life will be hard.’
‘And what will become of my child?’
‘Her Llewellyn blood will strengthen her, but she’ll never be accepted as one of us.’
Wynn’s breath sucked sharply in. ‘Llewelyn blood, is it? A lot of good that will do the bastard when the mother is already condemned as a temptress. She carries the devil’s child, not the preacher’s.’
‘Hush, Wynn, don’t be so hard on her, the girl has troubles enough to face, as does her child.’ The old woman stepped forward and whispered against her ear, so Wynn could not overhear.
Wynn tugged uneasily at her arm. ‘If you’re filling the girl’s head with pagan prophecy, come away in, before the chapel elders hear any words of blasphemy.’
Tears streaming down her cheeks, the woman’s bent old fingers clutched at her daughter’s arm. ‘Give Megan my piece.’ She turned and went inside, her head bowed.
Wynn came to the gate and held out a bundle. ‘Be grateful she is losing her wits, mind, for you’d not be offered a crumb from my table. Here’s a blanket and some food for your journey.’
‘Thank you, Aunt.’
Wynn avoided her eyes. ‘Despite being my own brother’s child, you will never call me aunt again. From this moment on you are nothing to us, you no longer exist and, God willing, we’ll never meet again. Good riddance to you.’ She walked inside without looking back, banging the door shut behind her.
The road from the village wound steeply upwards. When Megan reached the top of the hill she turned and looked back. Nobody stirred. No dog barked. The doors and windows of the cottages were closed. The village where she’d been born and raised was nestled into the border marches, as it always had been. But it was closed up, the backs of its inhabitants turned to her – and Megan felt like the stranger she’d become.
Over the peak and ahead of her, a track winding down. Then what? England? She’d heard there was work in the towns, and she could spin and weave.
She shivered as a cloud moved over the sun. Her grandmother had spoken of misery.
The woman was old, known for her strangeness. Some called her fey. But Megan, smiling with all the optimism of a girl nearing eighteen years, suddenly experienced a sense of freedom.
The road ahead was strewn with stones. Summer was in decline, but enough warmth was left in the day to lull a fool into believing the weather would be fair for ever. Although her heart was heavy, Megan’s clogged feet began to dance over the ground.
It was a while before she stopped to rest. The horizon was a smudge of grey and purple. She must find shelter for the night, the shepherd’s hut in the distance, perhaps. She headed towards it, into the long afternoon shadows.
There was a crusty loaf, a slab of cheese and a slice of mutton wrapped in a clean rag inside the blanket. There was also a small cloth pouch. Inside, a few preciously hoarded coins jingled as she tipped them into her hand. Amongst them shone an intricately patterned silver cross on a chain. She turned it over, painfully mouthing the few letters she’d learned at her mother’s knee before she’d died.
/> ‘Siana,’ she whispered, and a lump came to her throat. It was her grandmother’s cross.
1
Dorset. 1833
Straightening up from the tub, Siana Skinner stopped humming long enough to gaze over to where her mother was hanging a pair of patched corduroy trousers on the line. They hung, empty and baggy-arsed, dripping into the long grass.
It was early; the sun had just cleared the horizon; the air was still. Unless the breeze came up they’d be lucky if the washing dried by nightfall. If the trousers didn’t dry, it would fetch her a clout from Bill Skinner and worse for her mother, especially if he’d been drinking. She prayed for a good drying breeze.
‘Josh,’ she shouted towards the cottage, ‘when’re you going to scythe the top off this grass? The seeds are sticking in the wash and I have to pick them all out when it’s dry.’
‘Josh has gone already; he’s earning a penny or two running messages today over Tolpuddle way, and wanted to make an early start,’ Megan Skinner told her.
Siana’s smile faded as she gazed at her mother. ‘Our Josh will get into strife running messages for those troublemakers. A haystack was fired last week, and I hear tell the authorities have got their eyes on the Tolpuddle men.’
Her mother supported her back with her hands. She was carrying the infant low, Siana thought.
‘A pity there aren’t a few more who have the welfare of their fellow workers at heart. Not like some I could mention, who’re always out for themselves.’ And Siana knew she was referring to Tom.
‘All the same, we don’t want our Josh to get into trouble.’
‘I suppose so, but he’s got his head screwed on tight, and has got the right to earn a little for himself. One of these days he’ll wed and have a family to support.’
Siana laughed. ‘Get away with you, Ma. Our Josh is only twelve.’
‘And you’re seventeen. I was expecting you at that age.’ She shook her head. ‘Lord, it seems such a long time ago. Marry in haste, repent at leisure, they say. I hope you do better’n I did.’
Head slanted to one side, Siana gazed dreamy-eyed at the rolling green hills stretching off towards the coast. They lived a mile away from the village of Cheverton Chase, situated inland, five miles from both Wareham and the bustling harbour town of Poole. When the wind was strong you sometimes caught the pungent odour of salt and seaweed in the air.
‘One day I’d like to wed a man who treats me nice. I’d like to have a dress covered in flowers to wear to church on Sundays and a room specially for sitting in. A house with an extra bedroom and a pump in the yard would be lovely, too.’
Putting her hand on her hip, Siana paraded up and down, her chin in the air. ‘I’ll send you an invitation to take tea with me.’
Megan laughed. ‘I’ll be Mrs Gentry coming to call in these old rags. Look you, girl, this shawl belonged to my mother, and I swear this skirt was the one I was wearing when I was marched out of the village all those years ago.’
‘One day I’ll buy you another,’ Siana said fiercely.
Her mother smiled at the thought. ‘Well, I don’t see why you shouldn’t have all them things. You have the looks and the wit, and you speak like a little lady since you’ve been going up to the rectory.’ She shook her head in warning. ‘Just remember to keep your hand on your ha’penny, my love. A man respects a maid who says no to him. Proper gents like their women to be untouched on the wedding night. The other type they keep for their sport.’
‘I’ll remember, Ma.’
‘And be careful that Tom doesn’t get the chance to force himself on to you. I’ve seen the dirty beggar watching you. I thought marriage would have cured him of his itch, but it hasn’t. He’s like his father in that way.’
Siana bit her bottom lip as she remembered her stepbrother’s threat when he’d cornered her the week before. He’d given her a painful squeeze. ‘One of these days I’m going to have a taste of this little pie you’ve got under your skirt. Just see if I don’t.’
‘If he got the notion into his head, I don’t know if I’d have the strength to fight him off.’
‘It’s not his head you have to worry about, and he’d be counting on you putting up a fight. But there’s one little trick you can use if you have to,’ and Megan leaned forward to whisper something in her ear.
Siana grinned. ‘It’s a pity you didn’t do that to his father.’
The light went from her mother’s eyes as she said dully, ‘We’re married; he has the right to me.’
‘Why did you wed him, Ma?’
Megan’s eyes filled with memories. ‘It was winter. I was on my way to sign in at the poorhouse when you decided to be born. The only shelter I could find was a cow byre, and thank God I didn’t have to share it with the cows for they’d long been slaughtered. He heard you crying and found us there, nigh on frozen to death. Took us in, Bill Skinner did, and gave you his name. Turned out he needed a mother for his young uns. We needed a home, so I stayed.’
‘Did you love him when you married him?’
Megan’s mouth pursed, then she gave a bit of a smile. ‘He was a bonny-looking man then, all right. One thing led to another and before I knew it I was pregnant and the banns were being called. I don’t know whether it were love or not but it were a mighty powerful feeling.’ Her hands covered her stomach. ‘Been pregnant ever since, with only our Josh and Daisy and nine dead uns to show for it. Yonder cemetery is full of little Skinners. Unhallowed ground, mind. They didn’t survive long enough to be christened.’
‘Perhaps this one will live,’ Siana said gently.
Megan shrugged. ‘Perhaps. I remember Bill had to get permission from a magistrate to wed because of my age. Told them I was an orphan, he did.’
‘And were you?’
‘Might as well have been with all those blood relatives in Wales casting me out of the village. Pious in their praying, no charity in their hearts, that lot. There’s a name for such as them.’
‘Hypocrites?’ Siana suggested.
Megan’s work-worn hand caressed her daughter’s face. ‘There’s clever with words, you are, cariad. You must get that from your father’s side.’
‘What was my father like, Ma?’
Megan’s face tightened. ‘He was a rapist and a sinner, for he took from me by force. Said I tempted him with my pagan ways. The village women were worse. Except for my grandmother, the witches didn’t believe me. Those with daughters to marry off had their eye on him, see. Couldn’t have done them any good though, for your grandmother Lewis cursed him afterwards. The women cut off my hair, spat on me and cast me out for something not my fault.’
‘Did Bill Skinner know who he was?’
‘Bill never asked.’ She shrugged. ‘He was a different man then. He picked you up as gentle as if you were a lamb, sets you in my arms and says, “You and the infant’ll be all right now, missy.”’A faint smile touched her face. ‘Poverty drags you down, though. He took to the drink and turned violent. But men can be fools when they take the fancy for you. If you can get one with means all the better. Who wants to be miserable in poverty when you can do the same in comfort? If I’d known what was ahead then, I would have kept on walking.’
Her mother suddenly looked tired and gaunt, older than her thirty-six years. Her hair was dull and stringy, its raven darkness threaded through with pewter. Her eyes had lost their youthful gloss, but were as dark and green as the pine trees in the forest.
Siana was glad she’d inherited her ma’s looks. Megan Skinner still possessed the remnants of a wild beauty, but the never-ending cycle of drunken beatings and pregnancies had robbed her of her strength and vitality.
Thank God Josh and their babby sister, Daisy, had survived.
Daisy was crawling in the long grass, stalked by two kittens and giggling every time they pounced on her. Siana marked her sister’s position, in case she tired of the game and fell asleep. Daisy was a placid, easily amused child. Siana adored every inch of her flaxen-haire
d little sister, and Josh was a lovable, but cheeky scamp.
Gazing at her mother’s swollen stomach and her puffed-up ankles, Siana experienced a moment of unease. Although today seemed to be one of her good days, her mother had been lethargic and ill for most of this pregnancy. She ran out of breath quickly, and was carrying the child low, so her back pained her all the time. Siana wondered if she’d survive this birth.
‘Go and put your feet up, Ma. I’ll finish off the wash and mind our Daisy until it’s time to help out at the rectory.’
It was a secret between them, her job at the rectory. Half of the money she earned was handed over to her mother for food, the other half was saved for her by the rector himself.
Then there were the reading lessons, and the books she was allowed to borrow from Reverend White’s library – books she kept hidden in a secret place and read when she could get away from the battle of everyday survival. She memorized the information and stories she read so she could tell them to Josh, swearing him to secrecy in case her stepfather found out and put a stop to it.
‘You’re a good girl, Siana.’ Her mother came over to where she stood and unpinned a little cloth pouch from inside her skirt. ‘I’ve got something for you, a silver cross which once belonged to your great-grandmother Lewis. She had the sight. “You will go forth into misery, but the man who caused it will be cursed,” she told me. “Good will come out of bad. You’ll give birth to a daughter blessed by the gods. The child will have troubles to face, but the sight will be strong in her. Her pagan heart will beat a rhythm with the soul of the earth and it will bring her much happiness.”’
Siana smiled for she’d heard the prophecy many times and, as a result, had always felt a strange kinship with her great-grandmother. She had not known about the cross, though.
‘I named you for her and have been keeping the talisman safe all these years. Keep it hid, else your stepfather will have it off you and will sell it for what the silver will bring.’
As Siana looked at the celtic cross shining in her palm she felt that sense of connection with her unknown ancestor. Her hand closed over the object and she shut her eyes for a few moments, seeking something more solid for her mind to grasp. She found something the opposite of solid , but satisfying, all the same.
