The Favourite Child

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘How could I help it? And I want you to know that I’m proud of you. Real proud.’

  ‘What I’ve achieved so far is only the beginning. I want to work in ante-natal care as well as with birth-control. If we give women the care and education that they deserve to properly look after themselves, to have just the right number of children that they want, then that’s the best way to ensure a safe future for all of tomorrow’s children. That’s what I want to do; what I mean to do.’

  ‘I understand that but...’

  ‘No, don’t interrupt. Hear me out. Many more women are volunteering for this sort of work, all wanting to do their bit. In order to justify their faith in me, and to achieve my aims, means that I need to improve my own credentials. I can’t lecture to others unless I have studied too. I need to talk to doctors and university students, nurses and others who work with the poor. The message has to reach those who count, who actually treat women on a regular basis. Dr Syd has been coaching me, whenever she can spare a moment from the clinic and her family. I mean to take a degree at the university. Perhaps in Social Economics.’

  Dan took a slow intake of breath. ‘I see. And what about us?’

  It was a repeat of the same question. This time, casting him a shy, sideways glance, she answered it. ‘I was hoping, though I know that it’s a lot to ask, that you might wait for me. There’s nothing in the university rule book says I can’t have a boy friend. At least, I don’t think so.’ Her voice sounded almost flirtatious, filled with optimism, and something else. ‘So, it’s up to you. Will you wait for me, Dan? Is our love strong enough, do you think?’

  ‘Oh aye, it’s strong enough all right. I’ll be glad to wait for you, my love. But I just wondered, is there a rule against students having husbands?’

  She looked rather startled by the question. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Well, rules can be changed,’ Dan gently pointed out. ‘You’re good at doing that. It could be part of your next campaign.’

  Bella was laughing with soft affection now as Dan reached for her and she moved gladly into his arms, eager for his kiss. ‘You’ll wait if it doesn’t take too long, eh?’

  ‘Aye, that’s the ticket. We could wed any time. Just you say the word. Did you ever find out what happened to baby Holly?’

  ‘She’s still at the home, with the sisters. Why?’

  ‘I wondered if happen we could adopt her. How would you feel about that?’

  Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh, Dan, I love you so much I don’t want to wait too long either. What a treasure you are. No woman could ask for more.’

  Now take a sneak preview at Kitty Little

  Act One

  London and the Lakes

  1912

  Chapter One

  The girl standing in the theatre lobby seemed oblivious to the crowds milling and jostling about her. A young man inadvertently knocked her elbow and a stream of wine slopped over the rim of her glass to splash the extravagant silken folds of her new gown. Not that she noticed. Nor did she pay any heed to her attentive young escort who took the offender to task on her behalf. She was examining the photographs that lined the panelled walls. A lively scene from Charley’s Aunt, the riotous comedy of She Stoops to Conquer recently performed at the Coronet Theatre; Vesta Tilley, Little Tich, Harry Lauder and other music hall favourites, and the aristocratic figure of Henry Irving playing Hamlet. She stood before them all, enthralled.

  But her face, with its open, friendly aspect, seemed quite at odds with the sophisticated image the dress presented. Quite bare of powder or the current daring fashion for rouge, some might consider it to be the face of a strong woman. A more shrewd observer would notice deep blue shadows and the faintest hint of fine lines, which should hardly be present in one who’d barely attained maturity, displaying evidence of many sleepless nights. It was, unquestionably, the face of someone who has known too early in life inordinate pain and the value of compromise.

  In truth very few people noticed her either, or paid her the slightest attention, being too tall and ungainly to be considered a classic beauty. Even the hair, undoubtedly glossy and of a deep, dark brown, was plainly styled in twin plaited coils that formed ear muffs nestling against the dome of each pink cheek. The eyes, a deep velvety brown, were commendably alert and questioning, but the lashes were neither long nor curling, being rather short and functional.

  This was evidently a young woman afraid to make the best of herself in case she should inadvertently reveal her vulnerability.

  Only the dress might have excited interest, and had certainly been purchased by her socially aspiring mother with that purpose in mind. It was meant to take the wearer without shame or ridicule to any social event a busy diary might throw up, hopefully attracting attention in the right quarters.

  Undoubtedly exquisite, and of the purest silk, it was a wondrous example of the dressmaker’s skill and artifice. Encrusted with bugle beads and rows of tiny, non-functional buttons, the boned bodice sported a daringly low-cut neckline, and the multi-layers of the draped silk voile skirt, floated light as air against her legs.

  When Kitty had first seen the dress in the dressmaker’s boudoir she’d refused, absolutely, to wear it.

  ‘It’s a symphony in blues and lavender, Katherine dear,’ her mother had insisted, quoting the fanciful language of the dressmaker in the posh voice she always adopted whenever she felt outclassed. ‘You look a proper swank.’

  Clara Terry, whose real name was Smith but which she’d changed in honour of the famous actress, Ellen Terry, smoothed a hand over the shimmering silk and, completely ignoring the scowl on her daughter’s face, added, ‘I picked this design out special, ‘cause that’s what yer wears for half mourning, ain’t it?’

  ‘I shall feel dreadfully overdressed.'

  ‘Go on wiv yer. Draped skirts are all the rage this year.’

  ‘An excellent reason for me not to wear one then. Anyway, I don’t know that I even wish to go.’

  Clara had registered utter shock and disbelief at this remark. ‘Hark at ‘er? What a bleedin’ tale that is. Loves the theeayter she does.’ She made no mention of having invested a small fortune in goodwill and hot dinners persuading Frank Cussins to come up trumps and buy an engagement ring for her darling girl. The theatre tickets had been a part of her strategy of inducement. They were the best seats in the stalls and had cost her a mint of money.

  Clara had liked young Frank from the start, for all he was a bit pasty-faced. She’d let him have the best room in her Ealing lodging house, second floor front with a view over the common. The minute she’d sized up the solid state of his insurance business she’d made sure her Kitty was always the one to take up his tea or his hot shaving water. He’d taken quite a shine to the girl as a result. Took her up town regular, though he was close with his money and would as soon settle for a walk by the river or a cream tea at the Lyons Corner House, if left to his own devices. Men were like that. No imagination.

  It had been Clara’s idea to celebrate the couple’s engagement with an evening at the theatre, knowing how much Kitty would love it. Not that she’d any intention of revealing this fact, better the girl think it her fiancé’s idea. Clara had adopted her most cajoling tones. ‘Course you must go, cherub. Frank has got tickets specially, ain’t he? It’s Hullo Ragtime, what that American chap wrote, Irving Brussels.’

  ‘Berlin. Irving Berlin.’

  ‘There y’are then, Duchess. Yer knows all about it, so yer wouldn’t want to miss it, would yer? Not when everyone says it’s a hit. You’ll look a proper duchess in that frock. Besides,’ Clara persisted, ‘You can’t hide yourself away. Raymond wouldn’t want you to. Life goes on.’

  ‘To die so young is too cruel, Ma. So unfair.’

  ‘Who said life was fair, and don’t call me Ma, dearie. You know ‘ow I do detest it,’ Clara hissed under her breath. ‘We can’t bring him back, now can we? Nor be in mourning for ever. Life must...’

  ‘Don’t say
it must go on, not again. I can’t bear it. How can we go on? I’m not in the mood for high jinks and parties. I can’t flirt and jazz, drink cocktails and act as if everything is fine, because everything isn’t fine. Raymond is dead.’ Kitty revealed in every sigh, every gesture, every irritable pluck of her fingertips upon the silk fabric, her desperate unhappiness.

  ‘T’aint a party, dearie, it’s the theeayter. I thought you liked the theeayter?’

  Kitty hadn’t been near a theatre for over a year. Not since before the motor accident which had robbed her of a loving brother, when together they’d gone to see Charley’s Aunt with Raymond’s best friend, Archie. The beautiful eyes filled with tears. ‘I can’t do it. It’s obscene! Insensitive.’

  Clara sighed. For all she regretted the death of her only son and had done her share of grieving these last months, she’d no intention of making it her life’s work, as Kitty seemed set on doing. But then the poor girl couldn’t help being soft as marsh mallow, disguise it as she may, and the two had been especially close, them being twins and all.

  Tears were rolling down her cheeks and she was sweeping them angrily away. ‘I don’t deserve to enjoy myself, or to see new American musicals. It would be like a betrayal. How dare I even think to buy a new dress? I won’t go and that’s that.’

  She’d begun to prise open loosely stitched buttons and scatter pins in every direction, sending the dressmaker scurrying about the room, picking them up as best she might. Clara, to her credit, had simply shaken her head in sorrow.

  In the end Kitty had allowed herself to be persuaded. Oh, and wasn’t she glad? It had been the most wonderful experience of her life. Now the show was over and people were streaming out onto a wet London street and Kitty couldn’t bear to drag herself away.

  The performance had been stunning, the costumes dazzling, the music foot-tapping, in particular Alexander’s Ragtime Band which she could hardly stop humming. There she’d sat, very straight and proper in her elegant gown in the orchestra stalls, feeling as if she were up there with the actors on that stage, living every scene along with them. The whole atmosphere of the theatre had been thrilling and exciting. Simply to experience row upon row of delighted, happy people laughing, applauding and singing, felt as if for the first time since Raymond’s death she was vividly and stupendously alive.

  Kitty bestowed a dazzling smile upon the ever-patient Frank in his shiny suit and stiff collar, despite his somehow having managed to irritate her beyond endurance all evening by attempting to anticipate her every need. She felt suffused with guilt since it was their engagement night after all. For a fleeting second the smile transformed her, making the fine lines vanish, winging the eyebrows upwards and seeming to lengthen the laughing eyes into a delightful almond shape, endowing the face with a radiant and unusual beauty.

  ‘Wasn’t it all wonderful?’

  ‘Of course, my dear. Don’t I always know what is best for you?’ Frank concluded in self-satisfied tones. And while he collected coats and capes and hailed a cab, Kitty experienced the slightest chill drift across her shoulder blades.

  Also by Freda Lightfoot available as ebooks

  Family sagas

  The Promise

  House of Angels

  Angels at War

  Lakeland Lily

  Kitty Little

  The Bobbin Girls

  The Favourite Child

  For All Our Tomorrows

  Gracie’s Sin

  Trapped

  Biographical Historicals

  Hostage Queen

  Reluctant Queen

  Historical Romances

  Madeiran Legacy

  Whispering Shadows

  Rhapsody Creek

  Proud Alliance

  Outrageous Fortune

  The Luckpenny Series:

  Luckpenny Land

  Storm Clouds Over Broombank

  Wishing Water

  Larkrigg Fell

  Poorhouse Lane Series

  The Girl from Poorhouse Lane

  The Child from Nowhere

  The Woman from Heartbreak House

  Champion Street Market Series

  Putting On The Style

  Fools Fall In Love

  That'll Be The Day

  Candy Kisses

  Who’s Sorry Now

  Lonely Teardrops

  Short Stories

  A Sackful of Stories

  About Freda Lightfoot

  Born in Lancashire, Freda Lightfoot has been a teacher, bookseller and smallholder. She lived for a number of years in the Lake District where she tried her hand at the ‘good life’, kept sheep and hens, various orphaned cats and dogs, built drystone walls, planted a small wood and even learned how to make jam. She has now given up her thermals to build a house in an olive grove in Spain, where she produces her own olive oil. She’s published over 35 novels including many bestselling family sagas and historical novels.

  To find out more about Freda Lightfoot and keep in touch with her latest books, visit her website and sign up to receive her regular newsletter, or join her on Facebook and Twitter where she loves to chat with readers.

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