Foxden Acres (The Dudley Sisters Quartet Book 1)

by Madalyn Morgan

  FOXDEN ACRES

  (BESS, FIRST OF THE DUDLEY SISTERS)

  Madalyn Morgan

  Foxden Acres © Madalyn Morgan 2013

  Kindle Edition published worldwide 2013 © Madalyn Morgan

  All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical (including but not limited to: the Internet, photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system), without prior permission in writing from the author.

  The moral right of Madalyn Morgan as the author of the work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Click to visit The Foxden Acres Website

  Proofread by Alison Neale, The Proof Fairy

  Author photograph – ©Michael-Wharley 2013

  Kindle formatting by Rebecca Emin

  Foxden Acres is dedicated to the memory of my wonderful parents,

  Ena and Jack Smith.

  *

  I also dedicate Foxden Acres to all the brave servicemen and women (British and Commonwealth) of the Armed Forces: Royal Air Force, the British Army and The Royal Navy. The home guard, air-raid wardens, nurses, doctors, hospital auxiliaries and volunteers, ambulance drivers, men and women of the fire brigade, factory workers, farmers, and wartime correspondents. And the women: The mothers, daughters, sisters and wives who kept the home fires burning, so our heroes had a home to return to. Last but by no means least “Britain’s secret weapon,” the hardworking women of the Land Army.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to thank my mentor, Dr Roger Wood, for his continued help and encouragement. David Chapman, editor of St. Peter’s Review, who published my articles when no one else would – and still does. Author and friend, Debbie Viggiano my beta reader. I would also like to thank my soul sister Dianna Cavender, my aunt Dianne Ashton, and friends, Jane Goddard and Valerie Rowe, whose faith in me has never wavered. As well as authors, Theresa Le Flem, Jayne Curtis and Gill Vickery.

  Thanks also to Jacky Willks, aged 7.

  PROLOGUE

  Bess and Annabel, each holding one of Charlotte’s small hands, crossed the road from the car park to the railway station at Rugby. They were early. The northbound platform was deserted but for an elderly ticket collector and the station’s resident pigeons. As they approached him the sprightly old man doffed his cap. Then, looking down at Charlotte with a twinkle in his eye, he said, ‘Good morning, sunshine.’

  Charlotte smiled shyly, ‘Good morning.’

  Returning the smile, the old man carried on along the platform, while the pigeons, perched high in the ornate rafters, cooed sleepily. The once transparent roof had been painted black at the beginning of the war to fool the Luftwaffe. Today the only creatures fooled were the pigeons that, until woken by the thundering approach of a train, dozed peacefully, believing sunrise was at noon.

  ‘I’ll ask what time the train’s due,’ Annabel said, and disappeared through a door marked Enquiries.

  Bess looked at her wristwatch for what must have been the twentieth time that day. Then she checked it against the clock hanging above the ticket office. Its round moon-like face and brass numerals were half hidden by a hooded shade and its chimes – like the station’s signposts and platform numbers – had been removed in 1939 and not yet replaced.

  The clock’s rusting hands met at twelve. The antiquated timepiece emitted a loud thud, and a pair of pigeons flew their illusory night.

  ‘When will my daddy’s train be here?’ Charlotte asked.

  ‘Soon, darling. In about an hour. We have to be patient for a little while longer.’ An hour was nothing, Bess thought, not when they’d waited for years, but it could seem like an eternity to a child. Looking into Charlotte’s enquiring eyes, Bess reflected on how bright the little girl was for her age. She stooped until they were on a level. ‘I know you’ve been waiting a long time, sweetheart.’

  Charlotte nodded.

  ‘But you won’t have to wait much longer, I promise.’

  At that moment Annabel came out of the Enquiries office. ‘The station master says the train left London on time and he doesn’t expect any delays.’ She threw her arms around Bess and laughed with relief.

  ‘I don’t know about you, but I could do with a cup of tea,’ Bess said. ‘What would you say to a glass of milk and some chocolate, Charlotte?’

  The little girl’s face lit up. ‘Yes please.’

  The cafeteria was bright and cheerful. The blackout blinds that had stifled the light for so many years had been replaced with colourful curtains. Paper chains in red, white and blue were looped across the ceiling and long white banners with bold red lettering that read, “BLESS ‘EM ALL” and “WELCOME HOME BOYS” had replaced solemn posters that had warned, “CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES” and asked “IS YOUR JOURNEY REALLY NECESSARY?”

  Seated with their refreshments, Bess and Annabel chatted excitedly. Charlotte, Bess noticed, sat quietly admiring her black patent shoes which she had chosen herself, and took great care to eat her chocolate without dropping any of the delicious treat on her new coat.

  The room quickly filled, but Bess and Annabel were oblivious to everyone as they reminisced about land girls, backbreaking work, young servicemen, Jewish evacuees – and how, amid the fear and turmoil of war, they had each fallen in love.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Bess was falling through the air in the pitch of night. The earth was getting nearer, beckoning with gnarled fingers. Before she hit the ground she heard a short grinding noise followed by a sharp clang! Then the familiar chimes of the library’s long-case clock struck the quarter hour. Bess opened her eyes, relieved to be out of the terrifying world of dreams.

  Bess put down the book she’d been reading before falling asleep, climbed onto the window-seat and looked out of the window. She traced the familiar snow-covered hills, the backdrop to Foxden Hall, across the windowpane with her finger as a flurry of snowflakes, the last of the afternoon’s fall, floated out of the blue-black sky to the courtyard below.

  That morning the courtyard, a cobbled quadrangle with stables on one side and the entrance to the servants’ quarters on the other, had been ankle-deep in snow, which Bess had crunched through purposefully, taking care to leave her footprints clearly defined. During the day caterers, wine merchants and musicians, arriving in a variety of vehicles to prepare for Foxden’s New Year’s Eve party, had trampled the crisp white snow into dirty brown slush. Now even that was gone and the wet cobblestones glistened beneath the headlights of chauffeur-driven motorcars.

  ‘Oh, no!’ Bess gasped. She stumbled from the seat and ran to the window overlooking the drive. A convoy of a dozen motorcars was heading towards the Hall. She had meant to leave before any of Lord and Lady Foxden’s guests arrived. Apart from anything else, she had promised her mother she’d be home by half-past six – to sit down to a family supper at seven. At that moment the clock began to chime again. The hour was seven. She was late. Her mother would be furious.

  Quickly Bess put back the books she had been reading, each in its original place, on the tall mahogany bookcases that lined the library walls. Then, after replacing the guard in front of what was left of the fire, she put on her coat, hat and gloves, and threw her satchel over her shoulder. Satisfied that she had left the library as she found
it, she switched off the reading lamp and made her way to a small panelled door at the back of the room, which would take her down a narrow flight of stairs and into the servants’ hall. She lifted the latch, but the door didn’t budge. She tried again and this time leant her shoulder to it, but the door held fast.

  Bess had no choice now but to leave the Hall by the front door - and, she hoped, without anyone seeing her. Taking off her hat and gloves and stuffing them into the pocket of her coat in an attempt to look less conspicuous, she made her way to the library’s main entrance. Reaching for the handle she pulled open the heavy oak-panelled door and silently stepped out onto the first floor gallery.

  She was alone. She wondered for how long. Below she could hear the orchestra and the chatter of people meeting and greeting each other, but there was no one in sight. Quietly she closed the library door, tiptoed to the edge of the balcony and looked over the banister. Beneath her shards of shimmering light, reflections from the huge mirror-ball that hung from the ceiling of Foxden’s elegant ballroom, darted through the open door, lighting up a giant Christmas tree. With its brightly coloured Victorian characters and shiny baubles, the magnificent fir was the centrepiece of Foxden’s marble hall.

  To her right a party of latecomers arrived. A footman was relieving them of their coats when one, and then another, looked up. Bess ducked. She felt sure they’d seen her. To her relief they were admiring Foxden’s seasonal décor – and carried on doing so all the way to the ballroom.

  Bess was angry with herself for not having the courage to simply walk down the main staircase. For ten years, since she had passed the eleven-plus and won the Foxden Scholarship to attend Lowarth Grammar School, Lord Foxden had allowed her to use the library. When he learned she was about to take her teaching certificate he had sent a message with her father – who was his head groom – inviting Bess to use the library during the Christmas holiday. In his words, she was to come and go as she pleased. Even so, Bess felt sure that tonight Lord Foxden would have preferred her to go, as she had come, via the servants’ stairs.

  Crouching, Bess inched her way along the balcony to the top of the stairs and peered through the spindles of the banister. This time there was no one in the hall, not even a footman. Before she had time to change her mind she leapt to her feet. Taking hold of the stair-rail, she fled down the stairs and, without making a sound, ran across the marble hall to the front door. She turned the handle, flung open the door and was through it in a flash. She spun on her heels and pulled the large brass knob on the outside of the door until she heard the door click shut. Holding onto the doorknob to steady herself, she caught her breath. ‘Done it!’

  ‘Done what?’ someone standing behind her demanded.

  Bess froze. A wave of panic went through her. She needed to compose herself – and quickly – so she lifted her head, stood as tall as she could, and turned to face her inquisitor.

  ‘Who are you and what are you doing?’ he barked.

  Bess opened her mouth, but was too shocked to speak. The man standing in front of her was James Foxden, her brother Tom’s childhood friend and heir to the Foxden Estate. She made a dash for the semi-circle of stone steps that would take her down to the drive, but James Foxden sidestepped and blocked her passage. He threw down the cigarette he’d been smoking and, without taking his eyes off her, ground it vigorously beneath the sole of his shoe. ‘I asked you a question. Who are you and what are you doing here?’

  ‘That’s two questions… Which would you like me to answer first?’

  James Foxden didn’t reply but kept looking at her, the frown lines on his forehead deepening.

  Bess felt the colour rise in her cheeks. I’ve gone too far, she thought. ‘I’m sorry, I--’

  ‘Just a minute…?’

  Bess watched the expression on James Foxden’s face turn from a scowl to a look of surprise. Then he roared with laughter. ‘It’s young Elizabeth, isn’t it? Tom’s sister?’ he asked, extending his hand in formal greeting.

  Bess’s eyes flashed. ‘I’m not so young now,’ she snapped, ‘but yes, I am Tom’s sister.’ Taking his outstretched hand, she thought how full of himself Tom’s old friend had become. ‘Bess Dudley, how do you do? Your father invited me to study in the library,’ she exaggerated slightly, ‘and I lost track of the time. Goodbye.’

  ‘Don’t go. I haven’t seen you for years, not since I moved to live in London. I hear you’re down there too, at a Teachers’ Training College. How are the long and lonely corridors of academia? How are your parents, your sisters? How’s Tom? Father tells me he’s doing a terrific job in Suffolk.’

  Bess wasn’t sure whether James Foxden was being patronising or whether he was genuinely interested in her family. She gave him the benefit of the doubt. ‘My parents are well, thank you, and so is Tom. He’ll be at home now; he’s here for the New Year.’

  ‘Good, perhaps we can--?’ At that moment an elegant young woman with black hair styled in a fashionable bob, wearing an evening gown of cherry-red velvet, appeared at the door – and James let go of Bess’s hand.

  Acknowledging Bess with a smile that was more polite than friendly, the young woman looked coquettishly at James. ‘James, you promised me this dance.’ Then, without waiting for a reply, she half-walked, half-waltzed back to the ballroom, but didn’t enter. She stood in the doorway, swaying to the music.

  Bess turned to leave. ‘Do you have to go?’ James asked. ‘Come and join the party.’

  ‘Thank you, but I’m not dressed for a party.’ Bess held her only winter coat firmly in place so the simple grey shift beneath it couldn’t be seen. ‘Besides, my parents are expecting me.’

  ‘Of course, I wasn’t thinking. Wish your family a happy New Year and give Tom my best, will you? Tell him to come up when he has time and we’ll go to the Crown for a drink - it would be good to catch up.’ James stood aside to let Bess pass. ‘Will you be safe walking home on your own?’ he asked as she drew level.

  Her heart was thumping so loudly in her chest, she felt sure he’d hear it. ‘Yes, I’ll be fine. I love walking home on nights like this,’ she said, gazing up at the full moon in the clear winter sky. Sensing James was watching her, she brought her focus back to earth and for the longest moment found herself looking into his eyes.

  Embarrassed by the intimacy of the situation, she said, ‘Happy New Year,’ which broke the spell, and she ran down the steps.

  ‘Happy New Year. By the way,’ he called after her, ‘what was it you’d done?’

  ‘Done?’

  ‘Yes, when you left the Hall you said, “Done it!”’

  ‘Oh, that!’ Bess didn’t stop. ‘I’d left without being seen.’

  ‘But you haven’t…’ His words were lost in the cold night air.

  As she walked away from the Hall hundreds of butterflies were flying round in the pit of her stomach. Excitement surged through her. She had an uncontrollable urge to run, to scream, to shout with joy. Instead, she walked calmly and with purpose along the drive until she was beyond the arc of light that surrounded the building. When she was sure no one could see her, she stopped and looked back.

  The French windows of the ballroom, which opened onto the peacock lawn at the side of the house, stood ajar. A narrow beam of light shone along the footpath leading down to the lake, and the sound of the orchestra rose into the night. Hugging her satchel to her chest Bess swayed to the gentle rhythm of a waltz, which she recognised as “The Blue Danube.” Then the tempo changed and the beat quickened. The orchestra began to play “Swing as You Sing” and Bess began to dance. She could feel the wind biting cold against her cheeks, feel it tugging at her hair, pulling it from its neat bun and forcing it to fly wildly like a banner of silk. Faster and faster she twirled until she was out of breath. She wondered what it would be like to dance with James Foxden. And she stopped.

  James Foxden had a dance partner. Besides, why would the heir to the Foxden Estate be interested in the daughter of one of his father�
�s estate workers, a schoolteacher – and not even that, yet – when he could have any one of a dozen beautiful society women?

  Pushing her hair from her face as if she was pushing James Foxden from her mind, Bess turned her back on the Hall and started for home. It was at that moment she thought she saw a light in the library window. It was no more than a flicker followed by a tiny red glow, as if someone was lighting a cigarette. Was someone watching her from the library window, she wondered, or was it a spark from the fire? She caught her breath. The thought of going back to the Hall sent shivers down her spine. She must think. She remembered quite clearly placing the fireguard in front of what remained of the fire – in case any dying embers spat – before she switched off the reading lamp. Or was it the other way round? No, it was definitely guard before lamp. She strained her eyes and looked again. This time there was no light in the window, but the full moon was in the sky. That was what it must have been, she thought, turning for home – the moon reflecting on the library’s stained glass window.

  Bess had barely stepped through the door of her parents’ cottage when her brother Tom ran down the passage, picked her up and swung her round.

  ‘You’re getting heavy,’ he said, pretending to stagger beneath her weight. ‘Must be the lazy life you’re leading in London.’

  ‘I don’t think so!’ Bess greeted her handsome older brother with a kiss. ‘We students work ten hours a day and live on bread and cheese.’ It wasn’t far from the truth. ‘Anyway, cheeky, you don’t call driving cars and riding horses for a living hard work, do you?’

  ‘No, but it’s good work if you can get it,’ Tom said, laughing.