Krista’s
Chance
GemmaJackson
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, businesses, organisations and incidents portrayed in it are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published 2020
by Poolbeg Press Ltd.
123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle,
Dublin 13, Ireland
Email: [email protected]
© Gemma Jackson 2020
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
© Poolbeg Press Ltd. 2020, copyright for editing, typesetting, layout, design, ebook
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978178199-3514
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
www.poolbeg.com
Also by Gemma Jackson
Through Streets Broad and Narrow
Ha’penny Chance
The Ha’penny Place
Ha’penny Schemes
Impossible Dream
Dare to Dream
Her Revolution
Published by Poolbeg
Foreword
Hello, dear Reader,
Welcome to Krista’s Chance. So glad you have travelled along with me for the journey. How are you enjoying these shorter reads? I am loving getting them out to you in such quick time. Many of my readers have requested I write faster!
We join Krista as she is setting off on a camping trip. I was introduced to camping by my daughter, through sheer desperation. After yet another cold, damp, miserable summer in Ireland, I was determined to take off and chase the sun. I love Ireland. I love living here but, dear Lord, I NEED THE SUN. I kid you not. I often take off to chase it.
Before leaving Dublin, a long-time neighbour insisted on putting an old tent he had on hand in my car. I had never been camping in my life and didn’t intend to start then – but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. To keep the peace, I allowed him to put it in. The car was a sort of station wagon so the daughter and I had plenty of room. The tent had no stakes, my neighbour told me, which meant absolutely nothing to me. We took off for France.
I had intended to spend three days sleeping in the car then have a hotel stopover to shower and what not. Bad idea. Every hotel I could afford was fully booked. I drove around France, passing more and more signs with tents on them. I was determined to find a hotel room I could afford. Finally, in desperation, I followed my daughter’s directions to the nearest camp site. It was becoming dangerous for me to keep driving.
My daughter unpacked the little tent. I found out what tent stakes are then – they are the things you stick in the ground to hold down the guy ropes. My daughter, an experienced camper, used knives, forks and spoons instead. We slept on the bare ground with towels under us and coats over us.
When the sun rose in the morning, I unzipped the tent’s opening to look out onto a world of sheer beauty. We were right near the beach, almost falling into the sea. An older couple were stepping out of a campervan across from us. There was a beautiful domed tent to one side of it. I said over my shoulder to my grumbling daughter (she does not like mornings) how I thought it was a wonderful idea to bring along a tent for the grandchildren. The beautiful tent was opened and out jumped the dogs! The dogs had a prettier tent than we did.
I always carry tea-makings with me. I had a gas stove, kettle and all I needed for tea in the back of the car. I brewed up my first pot of tea. A lovely Frenchman approached me and asked if I would be offended if he offered me a table and chairs which I could use to break my fast!!! He didn’t like to see us sitting on the grass.
When I went to pay the bill for the site, the ridiculously low cost astonished me. We left the tent in place and took off to tour the area in the car. When we returned to eat, I was once again offered the table and chairs. This time we were asked if we would be offended if another camper offered us a large salver of fresh seafood she had left over. Lobster, crab, shrimp. I wasn’t in the least offended.
We packed up our tent the next morning, thanking our French campers profusely for their kindness. I set off for a shop I had noticed and bought everything I could possibly need to camp throughout Europe. I was hooked. I found out the French for tent stakes is sardines and I was all set. I have been pitching my tent around the world ever since.
Chapter 1
OCTOBER 29th 1938
Grand Ballroom
Duke of Stowe-Grenville Estate
Bishop Stortford
“You look delightful, my dear.”
“Thank you, Captain Caulfield.”
Krista waltzed to the delightful music of the orchestra in the arms of a handsome man in full-dress naval uniform. She smiled to think of the dance classes held at her school in France. There her partner was more often than not another girl. She always played the gent, being the tallest girl in her class.
“Charles, my dear,” said the captain.
“I couldn’t possibly!”
Krista was swept expertly across the magnificent ballroom. The light cast by the many glittering chandeliers caught the pearls in her hair, around her throat and the thin thread of silver in the white of her ballgown, making her look like a glowing candle against the white of the captain’s dress uniform. The medals and awards on his chest gleamed.
“You have no difficulty calling my wife ‘Lia’,” he said.
Charles had agreed to attend the ball at the Duke of Stowe-Grenville’s country pile. It had taken a great deal of planning to arrive on time for this event. His ship was on manoeuvres off the coast of Scotland. He’d left his first officer in command. He would have to leave early Monday morning. His darling wife asked little of him. She had wanted him to escort her to this ball. How could he refuse? He smiled as his wife danced past in the arms of her brother Albert, Lord Winchester. She looked like a flame in her scarlet gown which hugged her body in a way that delighted his senses. The diamonds and rubies she wore at her neck and wrists caught the light.
“She looks like a film star this evening.” Krista had followed the direction of his eyes. She ignored his request to call him Charles. She simply could not call this man – who looked like a picture-book hero – by his Christian name. “You are a very fortunate man.”
“I am aware of my blessings.” Charles smiled, thinking of the night ahead.
Time passed delightfully, with the group comprising Lord and Lady Winchester and their daughter Beatrice, Captain Caulfield, Lia and Krista meeting up to seek refreshment and compare notes on the evening, parting, dancing and generally enjoyed the lavish entertainment on offer. The orchestra ceased playing when the guests were called to dine.
“What fortunate men we are!” Albert, Lord Winchester, looking distinguished in white tie and tails, with his wife Abigail on one arm and his blushing daughter Beatrice on the other, prepared to walk into the dining room.
“We are the envy of all.” Charles laughed, his wife Lia on one arm and Krista on the other.
The dining room glittered with a display of wealth that rendered Krista speechless. She tried to keep her eyes away from
the fleet of servants, the gleam of silver, the glitter of crystal. She felt a fraud in her elegant gown, borrowed pearls in her hair, around her throat and on her wrists over her long evening gloves which perfectly matched the silvered white material of her gown. She did not belong here!
Krista was tired, her feet ached. She had danced, made polite conversation and smiled until her face hurt. It was the early hours of the morning. What time did something like this end? Was she the only one ready to leave?
“Excuse me, His Grace would like a word.”
Krista turned from her conversation with the captain and Lia to see the commanding figure of the Duke’s butler standing at her shoulder.
“I beg your pardon?”
“If you would follow me, madam. His Grace wishes a word with you.”
“Certainly.” Krista bowed her head graciously, desperately trying not to let the panic she felt show on her face.
“Krista, my dear,” Abigail, Lady Winchester, feathers and jewels fluttering, appeared at her side as if by magic, “what is happening?” Her eyes demanded answers of the butler.
“His Grace desires a word with this young lady.” The butler wasn’t proof against the force of Abigail’s silent demand.
“Does he indeed?” Abigail straightened her spine, ready to do battle.
Albert, Lord Winchester, knew that look. “My dear.” He had to step in and stop his wife from giving everyone – looking out of the corner of their eyes at this unusual occurrence – a show.
“But, Bertie!” Abigail objected to the command in her husband’s eyes.
“Abigail, we must step aside.” Lia too was aware of the discreet interest of the crowd around them. They had been aware of the risk they had taken, bringing Krista into this house.
This was a family matter. They could not interfere.
“Who are you?” His Grace the Duke of Stowe-Grenville didn’t turn when the butler closed the door to his study after announcing Krista. He stood with one arm braced on the fireplace mantel, a brandy goblet in hand, staring up at the large painting hanging on the chimney breast. He cut an impressive figure for his age. His evening attire of white tie and tails flattered his upright carriage. His silver hair was brushed back and oiled, revealing his harsh-featured face.
“A guest in your home, Your Grace.” Krista kept her eyes on her feet.
“Don’t bandy words with me, young woman – you are outgunned!” he barked, without sparing her a glance. He had seen all he needed to see as this young woman danced around his ballroom – her every gesture and movement was familiar to him. He turned slowly to look at her standing before him with eyes lowered, hands demurely clasped in front of the full skirts of her gown. “I asked you who you are – you will answer me.”
“I have given you my answer, Your Grace.” Krista raised her eyes to stare at the man she knew was her great-grandfather. “I am a guest in your home.”
“Look at her!” He waved the hand not holding a glass towards the painting. “Look well at her and tell me again who you are.”
“I am nobody, Your Grace.” Krista stared at the portrait of an older woman. The features were familiar – she saw them every day in the mirror – the woman’s silvering hair added to the resemblance.
“This family does not breed many females.” The Duke thought of his lost granddaughter with familiar pain. He stared at the purity of the girl’s face, raised to examine the portrait of his mother. “I want to know which of my sons or indeed my grandsons – as you appear quite young – has dared to bring his by-blow into my home!” He almost roared – heads would roll. Who among his progeny would dare such a thing? They were all financially dependent upon him. He wanted to know who had dared break society’s rules in such a way.
“I am a French orphan, Your Grace, here at the invitation of friends who have welcomed me to this country.” Krista refused to tell him what he wanted to know.
“You cannot so forcefully resemble my mother without being some relation to my family. I ask again, who are you?”
“I am tired, Your Grace.” Krista’s heart hurt. “I have enjoyed my time in your home.” She turned towards the door. “I wish you goodnight.”
“I have not given you permission to withdraw.” The Duke, a bastion of British nobility, could not believe this slip of a girl dared defy him.
“You and your family have given me nothing, Your Grace.” Krista looked over her shoulder, her hand on the doorknob. “Goodbye.” She stepped from the room and shut the door. She held her body upright with great difficulty. She longed to collapse back against the closed door and sob. She was shaking and wanted only to escape. She ignored the roar of demand that followed her.
“Krista, there you are!” Abigail appeared in the hallway. She had shaken off her husband and family, needing to be here for Krista. Her daughter Beatrice was surrounded by gossiping young girls, positively agog at the disappearance of Krista from the ballroom in the company of the Duke’s butler. The foolish, foolish man – he was old enough to realise his every move was scrutinised.
“May we leave?” Krista wanted to leave this sprawling house, its every feature demonstrating the wealth and power of the family who called it home.
“Of course we can.” Abigail wanted to cry at the emotional pain etched on the young face. She had no doubt she would be sent for in the coming days to answer questions from the Duke. She only hoped she wouldn’t box his ears. The old goat!
***
The sound of swishing curtains being pulled back shocked Krista awake. She would never become accustomed to servants entering her room while she slept. She threw one arm over her eyes when harsh winter sunlight streamed through the lace curtain.
“Sorry, miss.” The uniformed maid turned to the occupant of the bed. “M’lady said it was time you were up and about.”
“What time is it?” Krista tried to focus her eyes, to see the clock on her bedside table. It had been past four o’clock when she sought her bed.
“It’s gone eleven, miss.” The maid stepped into the hall to retrieve the tray she had left on the hallstand outside the bedroom. She had needed her hands free to open the curtains.
“Eleven!” She had never slept so late in her life.
“Yes, miss.” The maid carried the tray to the bed and waited. “If you would sit up, miss.”
“Yes, of course,” Krista felt wool-headed this morning. She pulled her aching body into a sitting position, bunching the pillows behind her back for support.
“Tea and toast, miss.” The maid put the tray over Krista’s lap. “Just the thing to set you up for the day.” She turned to leave.
“Thank you!” Krista called after her swiftly departing figure.
“You are welcome, miss.”
Krista poured tea into the delicate cup with a sigh. She would have preferred coffee. She needed something to wake her up fully. Dancing all night was a great deal more fatiguing than she would ever have imagined. Thank goodness that would be the first and last time she would be called upon to do such a thing.
“Krista,” the bedroom door was flung open, “you are such a slugabed! I declare I do not know how I have waited for you to awaken.” Beatrice, eldest daughter of Lord and Lady Winchester, exploded into the room. She was dressed for the day in a stunning dress of green, every hair in place.
“Beatrice,” Krista groaned, “how on earth can you be so full of energy. I am barely awake!”
“I did tell you to take a nap yesterday.” Beatrice carried a chair over to the bed and, without asking permission, parked it and took a seat. “You ignored my good advice.”
“So you did and so I did.” Krista had never, to her knowledge, taken a nap in the middle of the day. When the ladies had all taken to their beds yesterday she had explored the grounds.
“Isn’t this cherry preserve delightful?” Beatrice helped herself to a slice of toast from Krista’s tray, spreading the jam thickly over a coating of yellow butter. “Cook makes it every year.”
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br /> “Lovely.” Krista pushed the plate of toast closer to her visitor. She could not eat upon awakening.
“Was not last evening the most wonderful evening you have ever known?” Beatrice asked around a mouth filled with bread and jam.
She reached for Krista’s cup but she pulled it away from the reaching hand. She would share toast she did not want but drew the line at sharing a cup!
“Sorry,” Beatrice giggled. “My sister and I shared food and drink all of the time, much to our governess’s despair.”
“Beatrice,” Krista leaned back against the pillows, feeling old and tired, “you are a wonderful person – but has anyone ever told you that you are exhausting first thing in the morning?”
“Oh, everyone!”
Beatrice’s delighted peals of laughter brought a reluctant smile to Krista’s face. It was impossible to remain cross with the girl.
“Now!” Beatrice used Krista’s napkin to wipe her face and hands. She picked up the milk jug from the tray and with no apology drank from it, her pale-blue eyes dancing over the rim of the china jug. “Tell me all.”
“All?”
“Krista, do not be so mean. You were called to the Duke’s private rooms. We all of us saw his butler lead you from the ballroom.” Beatrice had a milk moustache. “Tell me all!”
“You have a moustache,” Krista held up the napkin, waiting while Beatrice removed the milk stain. It gave her a brief moment to gather her thoughts. She needed to come up with a convincing story or Beatrice was quite capable of inventing one of her own.
“You are being excessively meanspirited.” Beatrice sulked. “I want to know what the Duke of Stowe-Grenville wanted with you. Please,” she begged, “tell me!”
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