‘… I had hoped after that battle at Ypres… but there is no use in hoping…’
A little way from her a figure waited and listened, the low sunset casting no shadow of the tall presence.
‘… I wish you could have known him, Joshua…’ Anne’s fingers caressed the name carved in the stone.
‘… Abel Preston was a fine man, he would have been your friend as he was mine, you would have loved him as I loved him, as I will always love him.’
A short, stifled catch of breath betraying she was not alone Anne turned quickly, a scream rising to her throat as hands reached for her.
She was on her feet, her hands held tightly in stronger ones, a deep voice making no impression above the fear so suddenly gripping her.
‘Anne.’ The strong hands shook her once. ‘Anne, it’s me, it’s me. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you… Anne, it’s me!’
The revolving carousel of trees and shapes, that moments before had been St Lawrence churchyard, slowed and the voice began to penetrate.
‘I shouldn’t have come up behind you like that, I should have waited but when Unity said where you were—’
‘Abel!’ Held in his, Anne’s hands trembled, her eyes opening wide in disbelief. ‘Abel, oh Abel! I thought… I thought…’
‘Not that I was some freak out for a good time?’
That smile… how she had missed that smile. She freed her hands, afraid somehow her true feelings would show in their shaking.
Watching the sharp turn of the head, the glow of sunset adorning chestnut hair with the glint of rubies, quick tears glistening like the first dew of morning in the soft hazel eyes, Abel’s insides lurched with an old familiar stab. This was what had kept him alive day after endless, shell pounded day, what had kept him going through long sleepless nights; the thought, the hope of seeing this beloved face again.
‘When did you arrive? Where have you been staying? How long have you been home?’ Knowing she must speak yet knowing also she could not speak what was in her heart Anne let the questions tumble one after the other.
‘Which one would you like answered first?’
He was smiling again. Didn’t he know what that smile did to her, didn’t he know? But of course he did not know, he must never know. Anne pulled her thoughts together but as she turned to leave the churchyard she could not entirely hide the yearning as she asked, ‘Why did you write only once?’
‘The letter, Alfred Bunn sent my letter? I should not have written it, not have asked him to send it, what good could it do!’
‘Did you mean what you wrote, that I held a special place in your heart?’
Christ, don’t let her look at him like that. How much was a man expected to take before breaking! His body tense against the strain of his feelings, lips tightly drawn, Abel tried to hold back the words but they pushed free in an almost angry demand.
‘Did you mean what I heard you say a few minutes ago, the words you spoke over Joshua’s grave? Did you, Anne?’
He was so tall, this man she loved. For long seconds Anne stared into the blue eyes and for the first time read the truth of what lay in their depths. ‘Yes,’ she answered softly, ‘yes, Abel, I meant what I said.’
It wasn’t a whoop, it wasn’t a grunt, it was a deep sob which rose from his very depths and she was in his arms, held close, his mouth seeking her own.
‘I did not mean to eavesdrop,’ he said a thousand kisses later, ‘but I had so long wanted just to be near you, to hear your voice again, I could not force myself to leave, then, when you said those last words, I knew I could not go without speaking to you. Oh my dearest, if you only knew my heart… if you knew how much I love you.’
Her heart throbbing with joy Anne lifted her mouth again. ‘Tell me, spend the rest of your life telling me…’ The whisper ceased as his lips closed over her own.
*
The porch of the ancient church looked out over silent stones bathed now in the scarlet gold of the lowering sun. Sitting in its shadowed privacy, Abel’s arms still reluctant to release her, Anne rested her head against his shoulder.
‘I love you so much, Abel,’ she said quietly, ‘I knew I loved you before you went away.’
Abel’s arms tightened. ‘And I loved you, my darling, so much I thought it would kill me.’
‘I’m so happy it did not.’ She smiled against the jacket of his khaki uniform. ‘But why did you not speak of your feelings before enlisting?’
His gaze travelling over her head Abel watched the gleaming beauty of sunset painting the church grounds.
‘How could I?’ he replied. ‘You were the daughter of Jacob Corby. You had not only his name but his property; the Glebe Works, Butcroft House and possibly more beside, and I knew that even though you had not yet claimed them the day would come when you would. You would be a wealthy woman while I – I was Abel Preston… a saddle maker with a cottage and a few pounds of savings.’
Pushing a little away from him though not clear of his arms, Anne looked at the face half lost amid the lengthening shadows.
‘That would have made no difference then, it makes none now… I love you, Abel. I may have been late in realising it but I have always loved you, even from being a child. I don’t care about money or property, it is you I care about: I love Abel Preston and I want to spend the rest of my life with him.’
Abel’s smile was gentle, his eyes finding hers darker than the evening shadows which played over them. ‘As he does with you,’ he said, ‘but you can never become Mrs Abel Preston.’
It was sharper than a slap, more cruel than the blows rained on her with that whip. A gasp tearing from her, Anne drew back, staring in disbelief.
‘But… but you said you love me.’
‘I do, more than life itself.’
‘Then why?’ she asked, trembling. ‘Why can I never become Mrs Abel Preston?’
‘Because of this.’ Taking a paper from the pocket of his jacket he handed it to Anne.
A frown coming to her brows she glanced at it. Was it a marriage certificate? Was the reason she could never become Mrs Abel Preston because the name was already held by some other woman?
‘Read it, Anne.’
The words reaching quietly she unfolded the paper, holding it to where the remaining daylight revealed the words.
My son,
Apart from the biological truth of those words I have no right to address you so, but in all the years since begetting you my heart has loved you. That cannot be an excuse for my never owning you nor is it offered as one, it is simply a statement of fact.
I was a lad of twenty-seven when you were conceived, your mother a girl of sixteen. My grandmother would not countenance marriage of her grandson to a chambermaid, it would bring disgrace to her house and dishonour to the family name. Bound also by the terms of my late father’s Will, I had not a penny of my own until my thirtieth birthday, so agreed to my grandmother taking matters into her own hands. To her dying day I did not know how. Your mother was entered into a private hospital where she died giving birth, you following an hour later. That was the story given me and only after my grandmother’s passing did I find out you still lived.
By that time you were past your twenty-third year… already a man. So why did I not come to you then? The answer is I could not bear the hate and resentment I would see in your eyes. You were happy with Mrs Preston and I could not take that happiness from you, yet neither could I justify keeping your true heritage from you.
I was allowed to make registration of your birth due to the auspices of the Registrar General who declared himself satisfied with the evidence laid before him and with the affidavit I signed before Magistrates. Those documents, together with this letter, I leave to be forwarded after my death.
I pray one day you might come to think kindly of me.
Corbett Foley
Abel took the paper, slipping it back into his pocket. ‘You see,’ he smiled, ‘you see why you cannot become Mrs Abel Preston
.’
Still shocked by what she had read Anne could only whisper, ‘You – you are Sir Corbett’s son!’
‘Yes, and as my father’s son I ask you to take his name, I ask you to become Mrs Abel Foley.’
Reaching her once more into his arms he looked deeply into shining eyes. ‘Will you, my darling?’ he whispered. ‘Will you marry me?’
His mouth on hers, her heart bursting with love, Anne heard an echo of words drifting back from the past.
… you are home…
Yes, she was home. Nestled in the arms of the man she loved with all her heart she let the words sing. The unhappiness which had dogged her life was over. The imagined powers invested in a pendant, those silly tales and superstitions, misfortune or coincidence, which she had allowed to fill her mind with shadows of fear were over; the nightmare was ended. Abel loved her and soon this terrible war must end.
Across the quiet churchyard the shimmering red gold of the sun’s departing bathed the earth with beauty.
With a smile in her heart, Anne turned to meet Abel’s kiss. There would be no more shadows of fear.
About Meg Hutchinson
Meg Hutchinson lived for sixty years in Wednesbury, where her parents and grandparents spent all their lives. Her passion for storytelling reaped dividends, with her novels regularly appearing in bestseller lists. She was the undisputed queen of the saga. Passionate about history, her meticulous research provided an authentic context to the action-packed narratives set in the Black Country. She died in February 2010.
Become an Aria Addict
Aria is the digital-first fiction imprint from Head of Zeus.
We are Aria, a dynamic digital-first fiction imprint from award-winning independent publishers Head of Zeus. At heart, we’re avid readers committed to publishing exactly the kind of books we love to read — from romance and sagas to crime, thrillers and historical adventures. Visit us online and discover a community of like-minded fiction fans!
We’re also on the look out for tomorrow’s superstar authors. So, if you’re a budding writer looking for a publisher, we’d love to hear from you. You can submit your book online at ariafiction.com/we-want-read-your-book
Get in touch: [email protected]
Become an Aria Addict
www.ariafiction.com/we-want-read-your-book
@Aria_Fiction
@ariafiction
@ariafiction
Addictive Fiction
Heritage of Shame Page 31
