At the bend near the top of the hill Lacey paused, her heart beating more with trepidation than the exertion of the climb. Richard, wearied by the excitement of his speedy journey and the fresh air, had fallen asleep.
Lacey rounded the bend.
‘Nathan! Nathan!’ Her cry floated on the wind like that of a bird winging its way over the moor. She quickened her pace but Nathan made no attempt to run to meet her.
He stood with his back to the wind, his body rigid, no movement at all save for his overly long hair, blown against his cheeks by the stiff breeze. Lacey’s eager footsteps faltered, something in his stance making her afraid to rush and hold him as she had intended. Her next steps tentative, she stumbled to a halt, gazing at him across the distance. No more than six feet separated them, but to Lacey it felt like a hundred miles and a hundred years. The joy at seeing him evaporated, an icy dread replacing it.
‘Nathan?’ She heard the fear in her voice as she struggled to understand what was happening. On the way to Cuckoo Hill, she had imagined him running to meet her then taking her in his arms, kissing her and she kissing him back. ‘Nathan,’ she cried.
Nathan stayed where he was, his gaze riveted on Lacey and the child in the pushchair, his eyes absorbing every detail and his lips moving soundlessly. Lacey returned his gaze, looking deeply into the grey-blue eyes that were so like Richard’s. But whereas Richard’s eyes shone with happiness and mischief, Nathan’s reflected torment and the fear of rejection.
‘Oh, my love,’ breathed Lacey, ‘my poor, poor love.’ Steps uncertain, she crossed the chasm and placed her arms around him crying, ‘You’re home now; home and safe.’ The tremors coursing through Nathan’s body threatening to unbalance them, she tightened her grip.
‘Lacey. Lacey.’ The words sounded as though they were stuck in his throat.
Releasing her hold, Lacey stepped back to gaze into Nathan’s face. His eyes had lost some of the fear and uncertainty she had seen earlier, but his gaunt features were etched with unspeakable suffering.
Nathan returned her gaze, his lips trembling as though he was afraid to speak. Without a word he stepped away from her and limped over to the pushchair. Only then did Lacey notice he leaned heavily on a slim cane.
Nathan stooped and gazed into Richard’s sleeping face. ‘My son, my son,’ he sobbed. His eyes brimming with tears he turned his face to Lacey, and in a voice shaking with wonderment, he said, ‘He’s beautiful, and so big. The photographs you sent don’t do him justice.’ With his forefinger he gently stroked Richard’s cheek.
Richard frowned and slept on.
Then, his steps unsteady, Nathan wheeled the pushchair behind the cairn, into the lee of the wind. Lacey followed. ‘Why did you send the strange message with the young lad,’ she asked softly. ‘Why did you not come straight home?’
‘Because I thought the cairn on Cuckoo Hill would bring me the same luck as it did when first we met.’
Lacey stared at him.
Nathan’s eyes begged understanding. ‘I want us to start all over again in the same place where it began. I have to be sure you can love me again. I’m not the same man you fell in love with and married, Lacey.’ He turned away, gazing into the distance, Lacey suspecting he did not see miles of beautiful Yorkshire moorland but some other scene; a place straight from hell.
She turned him gently back to face her. ‘It’s over, love. Put it behind you, and,’ she gave a little laugh, ‘whatever do you mean, love you again? I’ve never stopped loving you. I never will. You’re my Nathan, just as you’ve always been.’ Her voice rang with conviction.
Nathan shook his head. ‘Look at me, Lacey. I’ll never be the same.’ He tapped his left leg with the cane. ‘This will never function again as it should and…’ his eyes clouded, his face twisting in unconcealed rage, ‘then there’s this.’ Pulling aside the collar of his greatcoat he pushed back his hair.
His left ear was missing, and in its place an ugly red knot of flesh. Below it, an attenuation of livid scars spread under his chin and down his neck. ‘Shrapnel,’ he said.
Lacey stood on tiptoes, her lips tracing the scars before coming to rest on his mouth, the sense of taste and touch rekindling a love they had both thought was lost forever. In between kisses, Lacey whispered, ‘I didn’t marry you for your looks, Nathan Brearley. I married you because I fell in love with your beautiful mind.’
Nathan averted his head. ‘I’m sorry, Lacey. You’ll have to say that again. I’m deaf in that ear.’
Lacey giggled and gently cupping his face in both hands she repeated the words in his good ear, adding, ‘An’ don’t think you can use that as an excuse to ignore what I say in future.’
Nathan visibly sagged, the fear of rejection that knotted every muscle in his body dissipating. His laughter woke Richard, Lacey releasing him from the pushchair and into Nathan’s arms. ‘This is your Daddy, come home to love us again.’
Richard gazed solemnly into Nathan’s haggard face. ‘He doesn’t know who I am,’ said Nathan, looking as though his heart would break.
Suddenly, as though a light had been switched on in a dark chamber, Richard threw back his head, a huge smile curving his rosy lips. Pointing a stubby finger at Nathan’s face, he crowed, ‘Daddy! Daddy! My Daddy.’
Nathan held Richard closer, Lacey embracing them both as she cried tears of relief on Cuckoo Hill. Here they had fallen in love and together they had overcome his mother’s harsh objection to their marriage. Then, torn apart by the war, they had struggled for survival each in their own way, their love for one another giving them strength to carry on. No matter the hardships, they had won through.
Lacey released her hold and stepped back, smiling. ‘I think maybe we should attach our own plaque to this cairn. It will say ‘Here, on Cuckoo Hill, love was born; and love conquers all adversity.’
We hope you enjoyed this book.
Chrissie Walsh’s next book is coming in winter 2019
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Acknowledgements
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Acknowledgements
First and foremost I thank my agent, Judith Murdoch, who took a chance on an absolute beginner; her sound advice and encouragement got me this far. Thanks, Judith, for keeping the faith. I am also extremely grateful to the team at HoZ/Aria for their friendly guidance, particularly my fantastic editors, Sarah Ritherdon and Rose Fox, proof-reader Sue Lamprell and team member Vicky Joss; what a difference a sharp eye and a broad vocabulary makes to any story.
My love and sincere thanks to my son, Charles, and his wife, Martina, whose IT skills rescued me on numerous occasions, and to Paul and Annemarie Downey, June Shields and Elizabeth Rice for reading and patiently listening to me as I waffled on. Thanks to Andrew Downey and my brother, John Manion, for keeping me right with their local knowledge of the Colne Valley, and to Matthew and Jack Downey for keeping the gardens under control and my grandson Harry for simply making me happy.
This story and all the main characters, places and events are entirely fictitious.
About Chrissie Walsh
Born and raised in West Yorkshire, CHRISSIE WALSH trained to be a singer and cellist before becoming a teacher. When she married her trawler skipper husband, they moved to a little fishing village in Northern Ireland. Chrissie is passionate about history and that passion and knowledge shine through in her writing. The Girl from the Mill is her debut novel.
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Addictive Fiction
First published in the United Kingdom in 2018 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Chrissie Walsh, 2018
The moral right of Chrissie Walsh to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (E) 9781789541502
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