by Jess Foley
Wait For the Dawn
Jess Foley
Random House (2010)
* * *
Tags: Sagas, Fiction
Synopsis
Faced with a future that holds little promise, Lydia Halley longs to leave home. But it is only after her mother's tragic death that she finally seizes her chance of freedom - a freedom she has yearned for all her life.
Taking up lodgings in the bustling city of Redbury, she meets handsome stranger Guy Anderson and so begins a friendship which blossoms into love. Until one day a telegram from Italy brings devastating news for Guy and their passionate leave-taking has dramatic consequences for them both...
Wait For The Dawn
Jess Foley was born in Wiltshire but moved to London to study at the Chelsea School of Art, then subsequently worked as a painter and actor before taking up writing. Now living in Blackheath, south-east London, Jess Foley’s first novel, So Long At The Fair, was published in 2001, followed by Too Close To The Sun in 2002, and Saddle The Wind in 2004.
Praise for Jess Foley
‘If all sagas were as convicing and exuberant as this, the world would be a better place. I loved it’ Monica Dickens
‘Jess has really captured the sense of a family united against great odds. The heroine is strong but flawed as all good heroines should be and as we follow her triumphs and trails we see her change from a girl to a woman in the most dramatic and satisfying of ways’ Iris Gower
‘A gripping saga . . . The author writes with exuberance and style, and the central characters are totally convincing. The climax of the story is superbly etched’ Northampton Chronicle & Echo
‘A magnificent, beautiful book . . . exciting, moving and riveting from start to finish’ Margaret Pemberton
‘A compulsive and well-paced story’ Wiltshire Times
‘An earthy tale of love, longing and tragedy’ Swindon Evening Advertiser
Also by Jess Foley
So Long At The Fair
Too Close To The Sun
Saddle The Wind
WAIT FOR THE DAWN
Jess Foley
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Also by Jess Foley
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Wait For The Dawn
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Part Two
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Part Three
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781446429891
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Published by Arrow Books in 2004
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright © Jess Foley 2004
Jess Foley has asserted the right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, 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
First published in the United Kingdom in 2004 by Century
Arrow Books
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 0 09 946647 3
For Pam and Bob
PART ONE
Chapter One
Lydia did not need a second guess to tell that her mother wouldn’t be going to church. A single glance at Mrs Halley’s bruised cheek and one could be sure she wouldn’t be setting foot outside the house that day.
Putting down plates on the breakfast table in the kitchen, Lydia looked at her mother, willing her to lift her gaze, but although Mrs Halley must have felt Lydia’s burning glance she kept her eyes averted.
‘I’ll finish getting breakfast, Mother,’ Lydia said. ‘Why don’t you sit down.’
‘Sit down?’ Mrs Halley said. ‘Why would I sit down?’
‘You look – a little tired.’
‘I’m not tired. I can’t afford to be tired; there’s too much to do.’ Mrs Halley took up the bread knife and cut two slices off the loaf on the board. That done she turned back to the range and moved the frying pan onto the heat, then moved back to the table and took up a dish of fresh eggs. Lydia wanted to say, I know what happened; I heard you cry out, but she kept silent. It would not do to acknowledge for one moment the abuse that had been suffered.
As Mrs Halley kept busy with the preparations for breakfast, Lydia turned away, facing the speckled looking glass above the old settle. Her reflection showed a young woman of twenty-one, above average height, with dark grey eyes and arching brows and a fine, rather narrow face. Touching at her fair hair, she looked past her own image to take in that of her mother. Mrs Halley was a small woman, shorter than Lydia by three or four inches, and slight and wiry of build. She had been pretty once, it was plain to see, but the passing years had taken their toll, and nowadays she appeared a little careworn, sounded a little hollow in her infrequent laughter and looked a little threadbare in her smiles.
Suddenly a sob burst from the older woman’s throat and she set down the eggs. Quickly Lydia was moving to her side, arms reaching out. ‘Oh, Mother, don’t. Oh, please don’t cry.’
‘I’m sorry, dear. Take no notice of me – I’m just being foolish.’ Avoiding Lydia’s arms, she lifted her apron to cover her face. ‘Take no notice,’ she said, her words muffled by the fabric.
As she finished speaking there came the sound of footfalls in the hall and moments later Mr Halley entered the room. He carried his jacket in his hand.
Mrs Halley spoke without looking at him. ‘I’m just putting the eggs on,’ she said.
He laid his jacket down on the settle and took his watch from his waistcoat pocket. ‘We’re in plenty of time,’ he s
aid. ‘There’s no rush.’ Without looking at his wife he pulled out his chair at the head of the table and sat down. He was a tall man of forty-nine, with thick, springy hair that had been grey since he was in his thirties. Cleanshaven, he was handsome, with strong, regular features, and an upright carriage. His voice, rather deep and strong, was touched with a note of kindness and solicitousness as he spoke to his wife. The tone did not fool Lydia for one moment, however. It was what she would have expected after such an incident.
‘Good morning, Lydia.’ He flicked the merest glance at his daughter, as if afraid of catching her eye. There was no fear of this, for Lydia could not face him, could not bear the thought of meeting his gaze, of seeing any hint of an awkward smile of greeting.
‘Good morning, Father,’ she said. ‘I’ll pour your tea for you. It’s just this minute made.’
‘Oh, by the way, Lydia,’ Mrs Halley murmured now as she shuffled the frying pan on the hob, ‘I shan’t be coming to church this morning.’ Her voice was only just there. ‘I’ve got several things I want to get done, so I thought I’d stay at home.’ She was trying to sound casual, doing her best to put an offhand note into her words, but they hung in the air, coldly exposed.
‘Well,’ Lydia said, as she poured tea into her father’s cup, ‘you won’t be missing anything in the sermon that you haven’t heard before. And if the Reverend Hepthaw should happen to say something new we’ll be sure to tell you about it.’ She set the cup and saucer at her father’s right elbow, and then poured for herself.
‘We certainly will,’ her father said, ‘but he hasn’t done such a thing for several years now.’ He took up a spoon to stir his tea, then smiled awkwardly towards his wife. ‘I doubt that you’ll be missing anything, Emmie.’
Emmie he had called his wife. He usually addressed her as Emma or Mother. It was a sign that he was touched by guilt that he used the diminutive of her name. There was also the business of Mrs Halley missing the morning service, in itself unusual. At any ordinary time, on any ordinary Sunday, Mrs Halley wouldn’t have dreamed of not accompanying them to church for morning service. This particular morning, though, was different, and it was no more than Lydia expected. In the past there had been tales told with averted eyes of running into doors, or tripping over steps, but they had only succeeded when the girls were very young. It had not been too long before Lydia – and her sister Ryllis after her – had put two and two together.
The eggs done, Mrs Halley added two to a plate of bacon and placed it before her husband. As she did so, Lydia couldn’t miss the way her father reached out and very lightly touched the side of his wife’s hand with his forefinger. The briefest touch it was, but she saw it, and saw in it all the guilt of last night’s act.
‘I think perhaps your mother’s coming down with a cold,’ Mr Halley murmured. ‘It’ll be better if she stays at home this morning.’
‘Yes, it will,’ Mrs Halley said, then added, ‘I’ll get your breakfast for you now, Lydia.’
Taking her seat at the table, Lydia said, ‘Oh, Mother, very little for me. I’m not that hungry.’
‘You must eat,’ Mrs Halley said, to which Mr Halley added, ‘Yes, indeed, there’s no telling how long Hepthaw’s sermon might last.’ He smiled as he spoke, as if aware of being amusing, but there was no humour in his self-conscious tone.
‘There you are, dear.’ Mrs Halley set down a plate of bacon and eggs in front of Lydia.
‘What about you?’ Lydia enquired. Her mother’s place at the table was bare.
‘Don’t worry about me; I had something earlier. I’ll just have a little tea.’ With this, Mrs Halley took her seat at the table and Mr Halley glanced at the two women and then closed his eyes and clasped his hands. Lydia and her mother did likewise.
‘For that which we are about to receive,’ Mr Halley gravely intoned, ‘O, Lord, make us truly thankful, and help us to be deserving of Thy bounteous gifts. Amen.’
‘Amen,’ the two women murmured, and breakfast began.
After grey days of bitter cold, the February morning was surprisingly bright and mild, and Lydia breathed in the clear air as she walked beside her father through the village streets in the direction of the church, whose spire rose up beyond the intervening rooftops. She wore her grey woollen cape and her dark blue bonnet, with a little dark grey muffler around her neck.
Capinfell was a small village of some three-hundred-odd souls, situated in the county of Wiltshire, the village lying just north of the market town of Merinville, and twenty-five miles north-west of the city of Redbury. It boasted no railway station of its own, so that those hopeful of travelling by train had to walk or take a coach ride to Merinville where the nearest station was situated.
On the way to the village church of St Peter’s, Lydia and her father made most of the journey with little or no conversation between them. As they walked they encountered two or three other villagers bound for the church or on errands, and Mr Halley smiled in his grave way, murmured a good morning and lifted his hat to them.
The church was a little more full than usual on this particular Sunday morning, and Mr Halley muttered to Lydia as they entered that the past harsh winter days were making the people look to their sins. The sermon delivered by the Reverend Hepthaw, was, as usual, meandering. Fortunately, however, it did not last an unconscionable time, so before too long the last hymn had been sung, the last prayer prayed, and the worshippers, to a man feeling better for the experience, made their way out into the air and thence towards their welcome Sunday dinners.
At the church doors the Reverend Hepthaw stood shaking the Sunday-clean hands of his departing flock, smiling at them, and voicing his wishes to see them in a week’s time. When Lydia and her father drew level with him, the reverend’s ruddy face beamed and he took their hands warmly. But where, he asked, was Mrs Halley this morning? He trusted, he said, that she was well; it wasn’t often that she was missing from a Sunday morning service. Mr Halley replied that his wife had a slight cold coming on, but should be better by next Sunday. They thanked the cleric and moved out of the shadow of the church walls into the weak winter sunshine. There Mr Halley glanced around to ensure that they were not likely to be overheard, then murmured into Lydia’s ear, ‘Reverend Hepthaw’s nothing more than a silly old fool. If I couldn’t do a better sermon that that I’d give up.’
As a lay preacher, and an evangelist, Mr Halley took his own sermons very seriously. He had become a devout believer in his late twenties, and his passion had not diminished in the intervening years. On two or three evenings a week he was away from the house, preaching at venues in Capinfell and the nearby villages where he had now become as familiar as the rain. For the most part he preached to the converted, rarely, to his regret, reaching those who would rather suffer their sins than give up their evenings at the local tavern. This coming week he was due to preach at the Temperance Hall in the nearby village of Pershall Dean, and also at a small community hall in Lipscott. Neither Lydia nor his wife would be accompanying him. Lydia had long ago made it clear that one morning of worship, that on a Sunday, was sufficient for her needs, and he had swiftly come to accept that she would not be persuaded otherwise. As for his wife, on his jaunts abroad she was more of a hindrance than a help, for in order to get to his various arranged venues he had to find shortcuts by traversing the fields, and she had proven irritating in her inadequate attempts to keep up.
Now, as the man and his daughter made their way through the churchyard, between the old gravestones on either side of the path, Mr Halley said to her, ‘I suppose you saw the letter that came from Amaryllis yesterday?’
‘Yes, Mother showed it to me,’ Lydia replied. ‘I heard from Ryllis myself, anyway, earlier in the week.’
‘You’ll be pleased to have her home for the weekend. Certainly your mother will be.’
‘Oh, yes. I’m so looking forward to seeing her. I can’t wait for Saturday. I’ll stay on in Merinville after work and go and meet her from the train. Th
is’ll be her first weekend off so far this year.’ Lydia raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m afraid the Lucases are not very generous with their time.’
‘Well, that’s as may be,’ her father said. He was not about to admit that the employers he had chosen would be in any way deficient. After a moment he added, ‘I wish the girl would settle. She doesn’t seem to get any happier.’
Amaryllis – or Ryllis as she was generally known – was sixteen years old, and had gone away into service at the age of thirteen. At present she was employed at a household in the village of Barford, situated some miles distant, and south-east of Redbury. She had not chosen her employers, Mr and Mrs Lucas; they had been chosen for her by her father who, impatient with Ryllis’s perceived procrastination in finding a new post a year earlier, had taken it upon himself to find her a position. So it was that she now found herself a general maid of all work with employers who, if her letters to Lydia were anything to go by, used her with little regard to her strength and energy.
Lydia, on the other hand, had remained living at home, finding employment in the Merinville button factory, Cremson’s, where her father worked as a foreman on the factory floor – though not for her the work at the finishing tables engaged in by some of the other local girls, her father had made sure of that. Through his instigation she had gained a place in the office, writing up letters and accounts and bills of trading. She did not enjoy the work; it was dull and repetitive – but for the time being she must put up with it. Still, she was glad of it, glad of the steady employment and clean work, and extremely glad, too, that she had not gone into service like her sister.
As Lydia and her father came to the church gates a young woman of near Lydia’s age broke away from a small group of four people and came to their side. She was Evie Repple, a friend of Lydia’s from years past. Of Lydia’s height, she wore a brown straw bonnet and a pale brown cape with a darker brown ribbon threaded at the hem.