Opal sighed contentedly as she stared at the twins, and her mind drifted back in time. She felt so at peace that she could even find it in her heart to finally forgive Henry – for after all, had she never met him, she would never have met Mrs King or her Matthew. And then she thought of her parents and Mrs King. How she wished they could be here to see the new arrivals . . . but, perhaps they were?
She smiled contentedly and reaching out she tenderly stroked the tiny faces of her babies as a feeling of pure love coursed through her. She certainly hadn’t done badly for herself for a girl from Rapper’s Hole, she decided. In fact, she was sure she was the luckiest woman in the whole world, and from now on things would get even better, because she was where she was meant to be at last.
Acknowledgements
First as always I’d like to say a huge thank you to ‘The Rosie Team’ at Zaffre! To Sarah, Katie, Kate Parkin, Ellen, Felice and all the rest of the team who have worked with me on this the first of my brand-new series. I feel blessed to have you all.
Also special thanks to Gillian Holmes, my wonderful copy-editor, and to my lovely agent, the remarkable Sheila Crowley, for your all your support and encouragement.
Not forgetting my long-suffering family who are used to me disappearing off to the computer at the drop of a hat when a new idea occurs – and of course, my wonderful readers!
About the Author
Rosie Goodwin is a Sunday Times bestselling author, and the first writer in the world to be allowed to follow three of Catherine Cookson’s trilogies with her own sequels. Having worked in the social services sector for many years, then fostered a number of children, she is now a full-time novelist. She is one of the top 50 most borrowed authors from UK libraries. Rosie lives in Nuneaton, the setting for many of her books, with her husband and their beloved dogs. The Winter Promise is her thirty-fifth published novel.
Also by Rosie Goodwin
The Bad Apple
No One’s Girl
Dancing Till Midnight
Tilly Trotter’s Legacy
Moonlight and Ashes
The Mallen Secret
Forsaken
The Sand Dancer
Yesterday’s Shadows
The Boy from Nowhere
A Rose Among Thorns
The Lost Soul
The Ribbon Weaver
A Band of Steel
Whispers
The Misfit
The Empty Cradle
Home Front Girls
A Mother’s Shame
The Soldier’s Daughter
The Mill Girl
The Maid’s Courage
The Claire McMullen Series
Our Little Secret
Crying Shame
Dilly’s Story Series
Dilly’s Sacrifice
Dilly’s Lass
Dilly’s Hope
The Days of the Week Collection
Mothering Sunday
The Little Angel
A Mother’s Grace
The Blessed Child
A Maiden’s Voyage
A Precious Gift
Time to Say Goodbye
Welcome to the world of Rosie Goodwin!
Keep reading for more from Rosie Goodwin, to discover a recipe that features in this novel and to find out more about Rosie Goodwin’s next book . . .
We’d also like to welcome you to Memory Lane, a place to discuss the very best saga stories from authors you know and love with other readers, plus get recommendations for new books we think you’ll enjoy. Read on and join our club!
www.MemoryLane.Club
/MemoryLaneClub
Dear Reader,
It doesn’t seem like a year since I last wrote to you all as we approached Christmas, and what a year it’s been! Perhaps it’s as well we didn’t know back then about the terrible Covid-19 that was about to attack the world. I’m sure that many of us have been affected by the death of someone we knew who fell victim to this horrible virus – myself included, when I lost a dear friend to it – and my heart goes out to all the families who have suffered the loss of a loved one.
But for those of us who have been fortunate enough to survive, life goes on and, as Christmas approaches, I think we will all give thanks and make it as happy as we can. I know I certainly shall.
One good thing about the lockdown was it gave me much more time to work. There wasn’t a lot else I could do apart from potter in the garden, which I love. For me one of the hardest things was not being able to see our family, so this Christmas will be even more special. We did Facetime each other, etc, but that just made me miss them all more!
Even so, we got through it, and now here we are at the start of a brand-new series, The Precious Stones series.
In The Winter Promise, the first of the new series, you will meet Opal. As with most of my characters, she has to endure a lot of hardships – but the more she came to life as the story progressed, the more I grew to admire and love her, and I hope you will too. I would just like to point out as I’m sure you already know, that all of my characters are purely fictitious, as are some of the places I invent. In The Winter Promise, Opal’s brother, Charlie, ends up in Australia, gold and opal prospecting, and some of the places and dates for the gold prospecting were tweaked to tie in with my story. That’s the good thing about writing fiction – you can make the characters and places be whatever or wherever you want them to be! And isn’t the cover lovely? I just love it. My thanks to the designer for doing such a lovely job.
I’m so excited about this new series and hope you will all love it as much as you all seemed to enjoy my Days of the Week collection. Thank you all so much for the wonderful feedback you gave me. I have already written the second of the series too and in that one, An Orphan’s Journey, you will meet Pearl. Each main character in each book will bear the name of a jewel, but as in the Days of the Week collection they will each be a stand-alone story.
So now for a few days off as Christmas approaches. I can hardly wait to share it with my family and, as usual our house looks like Santa’s grotto with sparkly lights and Santas everywhere!
This year as we do our Christmas shopping we’ll probably all be wearing masks – who would ever have believed it? I certainly never thought I would witness anything like this awful virus in my lifetime. Even so, I hope that you all have a wonderful time with your families and loved ones and, above all, I hope that you will all stay safe.
If the virus has taught me one thing, it’s the importance of the ones we love and I’m sure it’s the same for you. So enjoy yourselves, have a very happy Christmas and I shall very much look forward to hearing what you all think of my latest effort.
Finally, do join the Memory Lane Club on Facebook if you haven’t already done so. There are some wonderful competitions on there and lovely prizes to be won, and you’ll also be kept up to date with what’s happening with all the Memory Lane authors.
Much love,
Rosie xx
French Onion Soup
French onion soup is a traditional dish popular in France since at least the eighteenth century. It is one of the first things Opal eats on her ill-fated honeymoon in France.
You will need:
6 tbsp olive oil
6 large onions, peeled and thinly sliced in strips
50g butter
1 tsp of sugar
½ tsp salt
2 cloves garlic, chopped finely
2 tbsp plain flour
250ml white wine
1.3l beef stock
½ tsp thyme, or mixed herbs
½ tsp black pepper
8 slices baguette, cut into 2cm slices
150g Gruyere cheese, grated
Method:
1. Heat 4 tbsp of oil on a medium heat, then add in the onions. Fry them with the lid on, stirring regularly, for 15 minutes.
2. Increase the heat, add in the butter, and cook the onions for another 10 minutes, stirring regularly.
3. Sprinkle the onions
with sugar and salt and cook for another 15 minutes, until the onions are browned.
4. Then add the garlic, and cook for another few minutes.
5. Sprinkle with the flour and stir in thoroughly.
6. Pour the wine into the pot and stir. Then, increasing the heat, add in the stock and seasoning
7. Put the lid on, and cook on a low heat for 20 minutes.
8. While the soup is cooking, line a baking tray with parchment and preheat the grill to 250°C.
9. Brush both sides of the slices of baguette with olive oil, then toast under the grill until lightly browned.
10. Turn the bread over and sprinkle with Gruyere cheese. Then grill until the cheese is bubbling.
11. To serve, ladle the soup into bowls, then place a slice of toasted baguette on the top of each.
12. Enjoy!
Read on for a sneak peak of Rosie Goodwin’s next novel,
An Orphan’s Journey, and to learn more about her other books . . .
Order An Orphan’s Journey now
Prologue
December 1874
‘Come on, girl, your dad will be home wi’ no dinner on the table if yer don’t get a shifty on, an’ yer know what that means!’
‘Yes, Ma.’ Pearl renewed her efforts as she struggled to fill the pan of potatoes she was peeling, daring to glance across her shoulder just once at her mother, who was sitting at the side of the dying fire with a glass of cheap gin in her hand.
At twelve years old, Pearl was small for her age, as were all her brothers and sisters. It was no wonder really; both their mother and father spent most of the small amount of money that came into the house on drink. They often all went without food. But at least today they would eat. When the potatoes were softened, Pearl would mash them and smear the stale loaf she had managed to get from the bakers with dripping. It would be a feast, and her mouth watered at the thought of it.
At that moment, Matthew, Pearl’s youngest sibling, a baby lying in the drawer on the floor next to her mother’s chair, began to whimper. Sighing resignedly, Molly Parker lifted the infant none too gently, roughly yanking aside the dirty blouse she was wearing to allow him to suckle.
He must be practically drinking neat gin, Pearl thought to herself, it’s no wonder he’s so sickly – but she wouldn’t dare voice her thoughts. Her mother might be small, but she could certainly pack a punch, which accounted for the many bruises that covered poor Pearl’s arms and legs.
Molly Parker was only twenty-eight years old, and while she had once been pretty, the hard life she had led, lack of good food and the countless beatings she had received from her husband, meant that now she could easily have been taken for a woman in her fifties. She had married her husband, Fred, just over twelve years ago and Pearl had been born shortly after. Fred had promised her the world, but all she had to show for their marriage were the two downstairs rooms in a slum terrace house in a courtyard in Whitechapel that led down to the docks, which they shared with two other families, cockroaches and a legion of rats. From then on, the children had come one a year with frightening regularity – although not all of them had survived – and now, with all her dreams knocked out of her, Molly found her only solace lay in the bottom of a bottle of gin.
Ten minutes later, the potatoes were peeled and, after adding salt to the water, Pearl crossed the room to place them in over the dying fire, hoping they would cook through before it went out altogether. Yet again the coal store was empty, and if her father hadn’t got work on the docks today, they would all face yet another cold night.
As she crossed to the fire, she stumbled and some of the water in the pan sloshed across the hard-packed earth floor, causing her mother to growl.
‘Mind what yer doin’, you useless little sod. Yer neither use nor ornament, why did I have to ’ave a cripple, eh?’
Thankfully the infant in her arms stopped her from being able to lash out, but even so it didn’t stop the flood of colour that poured into Pearl’s cheeks. With her shock of blonde curls and her striking blue eyes she was a pretty little thing, or so people said, but she had been born with one leg slightly shorter than the other which made her walk ungainly – and her mother never let her forget it.
‘Right, now get this place tidied up a bit,’ her mother barked, once the potatoes were safely hanging above the flames.
Pearl nodded, although as she looked about the tiny room, she didn’t quite know where to start. Her brothers and sisters sat lethargically about on the bare floor, propped up against the walls, scratching at the lice in their hair, looking pale and wan. Pearl gave them an affectionate smile as she lifted a broom to start sweeping the floor.
But then, her mother remembered something and started, she said, somewhat fearfully, ‘Oh Lordie, I just remembered. It’s rent day. You’ll ’ave to get ’em all out o’ the way till the rent man’s been an’ gone. I can’t pay him, so we’ll have to pretend no one’s home. That won’t work if he hears any o’ this lot. Go on, away wi’ yer, an’ pull the curtains to afore yer go!’
‘But Ma, it’s freezing out there. Davey an’ Maggie have got a hackin’ cough already an’ they ain’t got any shoes,’ Pearl said worriedly, as she stared towards the grimy window.
‘Wrap a bit o’ that sackin’ about their feet,’ Molly ordered, pointing to the old sack that had held the last of the potatoes.
‘But where can I take ’em in this weather?’
Molly’s face hardened. ‘Can’t you think of anything for yerself? Take ’em up town an’ let ’em look in the shop winders,’ she ordered. ‘They’ll like that. They’ll be all decked out fer Christmas now. Now get a move on and less o’ your backchat or you’ll be feelin’ me foot up yer arse!’
Pearl quickly wrapped the children in anything she could lay her hands on, including tying some torn sacking around their feet; then she herded them all towards the door.
As usual, there was no sign of her other sister, Eliza. Once again, she had gone on one of her many walkabouts, so all Pearl could do was hope that she didn’t turn up at the house at the same time as the rent man. Once they were outside, Pearl quickly shepherded her siblings through the twisting alleys that led to the docks, telling them encouragingly, ‘We’ll take a look at the ships first, shall we? You’ll like that.’
None of her siblings looked very enthusiastic and Pearl couldn’t blame them, but she fixed a smile to her face and urged them along until they came eventually to the docks. There were ships of all shapes and sizes bobbing at anchor. Some were being unloaded of their cargo, others were being loaded, and burly seamen darted about everywhere they looked. There were also a number of ladies with pockmarked, painted faces wearing revealing, low-cut dresses, standing against the walls, hoping to entice the seamen who had just returned from long journeys to part with some of their hard-earned wages.
Three-year-old Davey was whimpering with the cold by then, so after a time Pearl led them towards the city centre.
‘I’s ’ungry, Pearl,’ nine-year-old Amy told her sister gravely, and Pearl squeezed her hand reassuringly.
‘Never mind, pet. Mr Grimley will have been an’ gone soon an’ then we can go home an’ get you all some dinner,’ Pearl told her sister, trying to ignore her own rumbling stomach.
Mr Grimley was the rent man and much dreaded by his tenants. As Lil, the woman who lived in the floor above them, had once commented to Molly, ‘I reckon that man ’as got a swingin’ brick fer a heart. He chucked the Freemans out on the bloody street in the snow last year ’cos they couldn’t pay the rent, but how were they supposed to when Bill Freeman had broke his leg unpackin’ cargo at the docks? The poor sods promised him they’d catch up just as soon as ever Bill got back to work, but he wouldn’t have a bar of it an’ out they went, wi’ her ready to drop her babby any minute an’ another two little ’uns not even out o’ bindin’s.’
Pearl shuddered as she remembered, and prayed that the same fate would not befall their family.
Minutes later, they came to a main road, and as they all strolled along, the children gazed in awe at the smartly dressed people walking to and fro. The women wore fur stoles or thick capes and pretty bonnets, while the men sported top hats and heavy great coats.
‘Is they rich, our Pearl?’ eight-year-old Tom asked, and Pearl smiled dreamily, trying to imagine how it would feel to be dressed in such fine clothes.
‘I suppose they must be – but look at this window ’ere.’
They all stopped as one to stare at a display of toys. There were wind-up train sets, dolls with pretty china faces and all manner of things to catch the young ones’ attention.
‘It must be nice to be rich,’ Tom commented enviously, and the little sea of pale faces crowded about Pearl’s dull brown skirt all nodded in agreement.
They were still standing there gazing into the window when a smartly dressed lady carrying a number of loaded shopping bags paused to smile at them. She was wearing a thick navy woollen cape that had a collar trimmed with fur and a beautiful bonnet with feathers that bobbed and danced in the breeze.
‘Are you hoping for Father Christmas to bring some of them to you?’ she asked kindly, but they all shook their heads in unison.
‘Nah! Christmas Day is just anuvver day to us, we won’t get nowt,’ Tom told her sadly.
The smile slid from the woman’s face and seconds later she rummaged in her purse and produced a shiny silver sixpence which she held out to them.
Pearl frowned. They might be poor, but she still had her pride and would have refused it – but before she could utter a word, Tom’s hand had snaked out and grabbed it.
‘Fanks, missus!’
‘You’re very welcome. Why don’t you go to the cart at the end of the road and get yourselves a nice plate of hot faggots and peas? It’ll warm you all up.’
The Winter Promise Page 39