by Diane Allen
Agnes shook her head in disbelief at Tom’s straight talking.
‘Aye, this is Lizzie. And before you say anything else, we are to be married in spring,’ Harry said quickly.
‘About bloody time. You’ve been going with her long enough, from what I heard. Poor Mary used to despair of your long walks. Thank God she never knew what you were about – and me neither, come to that.’ Tom shook his head. ‘While we are here, Agnes wants to visit Mary’s grave, so we will go there now and then we can all have a drink in the King’s Head to celebrate. Although you may already have done enough of that, Harry, by the look of that nose of yours. It’s as red as that robin redbreast over in that holly tree.’ Tom grinned as he took Agnes’s arm and they walked along the path to the small chapel graveyard where both Mary and Sam lay. Meg, Jack and everyone else followed them and stood looking down on the two graves, with those they loved inside them.
‘I’ll share my bouquet between Mary and Sam,’ Meg whispered to Jack, and he nodded in agreement as she split the few chrysanthemums between the graves, nearly crying as she willed thoughts of love to Sam.
Tom and Jack turned their faces up to the sky as the first snowflakes of winter came slowly and gently down to earth.
‘A blessing from heaven, that is, lass. They are telling you that they love you and are wishing you happiness,’ Tom said quietly.
Meg smiled and hid her tears. She hoped her father’s words were true, but time would tell. For now, she’d try and make her heaven on earth, with her husband and their child. Sam might be the baby’s true father, but the love Jack had shown her over the last few weeks was everlasting and she knew it.
‘Reeth Bartle Fair’
by John Harland (1806–68)
This mworning as I went to wark
I met Curly just coomin’ heame;
He had on a new flannin sark
An’ he saw at I’d just gitten t’ seame
‘Whar’s te been?’ said awd Curly to me
‘I’ve been down to Reeth Bartle Fair.’
‘Swat te down, mun, sex needles,’ said he,
‘An’ tell us what seets te saw there.’
‘Why, t’ lads their best shoon had put on,
An’ t’ lasses donn’d all their best cwoats;
I saw five pund of Scotch wether mutton
Sell’d by Ward and Tish Tom for five grwoats.
Rowlaway had fine cottons to sell,
Butteroy lace an’ handkerchers browt;
Young Tom Cwoats had a stall tuv hissel,
An’ had ribbins for varra near nowt.
‘Thar was Enos had good brandy-snaps,
Bill Brown as good spice as could be;
Potter Robin an’ mair sike-like chaps
Had t’ bonniest pots te could see.
John Ridley, an’ awd Willy Walls,
An’ Naylor, an’ twea or three mar,
Had apples an’ pears at their stalls,
An’ Gardener Joe tea was thar.
‘Thar was scissors an’ knives an’ read purses,
An’ plenty of awd cleathes on t’ nogs,
An’ twea or three spavin’d horses,
An’ plenty o’ shoon an’ new clogs.
Thar was plenty o’ good iron pans,
An’ pigs at wad fill all t’ deale’s hulls;
Thar was baskets, a’n skeps, an’ tin cans,
An’ bowls, an’ wood thivies for gulls.
‘Thar was plenty of all maks o’ meat,
An’ plenty of all sworts o’ drink,
An’ t’ lasses gat monny a treat,
For t’ gruvers war full o’ chink.
I cowp’d my black hat for a white un,
Lile Jonas had varra cheap cleath;
Jem Peacock an’ Tom talk’d o’ feightin’,
But Gudgeon Jem Puke lick’d ’em beath.
‘Thar was dancin’ an’ feightin’ for ever,
Will Wade said at he was quite griev’d;
An’ Pedley tell’d ’em he’d never
Forgit ’em as lang as he leev’d.
They knock’d yan another about,
Just warse than a sham to be seen,
Charlie Will look’d as white as a clout,
Kit Puke gat a pair o’ black een.
‘I spied our awd lass in a newk,
Drinkin’ shrub wi’ grim Freesteane, fond lad;
I gav her a varra grow leuk;
O, connies, but I was just mad.
Sea I went to John Waites’s to drink,
Whar I war’d twea an’ seempence i’ gin;
I knaw not what follow’d, but think
I paddl’d through t’ muck thick an’ thin.
‘For to-day, when I gat out o’ bed,
My cleathes were all sullied sea sar,
Our Peggy and all our fwoak said
To Reeth Fair I sud never gang mar.
But it’s rake-time, sea I mun away,
For my partners are all gain’ to wark.’
Sea I lowp’d up and bade him good day,
An’ wrowt at t’ Awd Gang tell ’t was dark.’
The Miner’s Wife
Diane Allen was born in Leeds, but raised at her family’s farm deep in the Yorkshire Dales. After working as a glass engraver, raising a family and looking after an ill father, she found her true niche in life, joining a large-print publishing firm in 1990. She now concentrates on her writing full time, and has recently been made Honorary Vice President of the Romantic Novelists’ Association. Diane and her husband Ronnie live in Long Preston, in the Yorkshire Dales, and have two children and four beautiful grandchildren.
By Diane Allen
For the Sake of Her Family
For a Mother’s Sins
For a Father’s Pride
Like Father, Like Son
The Mistress of Windfell Manor
The Windfell Family Secrets
Daughter of the Dales
The Miner’s Wife
First published 2019 by Macmillan
This electronic edition first published 2019 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-5098-9522-9
Copyright © Diane Allen 2019
Cover images: Woman © Richard Jenkins, background and leaves © Shutterstock.
The right of Diane Allen to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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