Read an Excerpt
This Land, this Love
By Linda Sole St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 1997 Linda Sole
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-7713-9
CHAPTER 1
Dusk was falling fast, enveloping the land, shrouding it in a blanket of velvet darkness, gradually taking it from her sight, piece by piece. She strained to see across the low-lying fields, seeking out the familiar places she knew so well, but tears misted her eyes and she knew that she was remembering rather than seeing. The words he had spoken all those years ago kept running through her mind, over and over again until she thought she would go mad or die of grief.
'This land ... this land is ours. Never forget that. It may break our hearts and our bodies at times but always, always, we hold to the land ...'
It wasn't the land that had broken their hearts, though, it was other things: pain and grief ... and betrayal.
She raised her head proudly, dashing away the stupid tears. She had brought them to ruin with her pride and her dreams ... dreams she now saw as the foolish yearnings of a lonely, naive girl.
Well, she had reaped a bitter harvest. Much of the land was gone, as were the riches he had heaped at her feet in the days when he had loved her. She had killed that love, little by little, drop by drop – and now there was nothing left.
It had all gone: money, love, laughter – and the man she needed, needed so much that her body ached for the loss of him.
All gone. All but these few acres. Somehow – no matter what it cost her – she would save at least this land for her children then perhaps ... but there was no hope of more. It was over, finished. She had driven him away with her coldness and her silence, – and the pain was almost more than she could bear.
Pain and regret for what might have been if only ... but tears would not help her now, nor would memories. She had to be strong, she had to hold on to what was left, but just this once she would let herself remember the way it had been at the beginning. So many years had passed but she could remember that morning as if it were only yesterday; it was vivid and real in her mind ... as if it were happening now.
* * *
The rooms above The Cottrel Arms were low-ceilinged and rather dark. Rebecca walked into the parlour and frowned as she saw her father was not there. She'd thought she'd heard him come up earlier, but he must have gone back to the taproom almost at once; they'd be busy downstairs.
Jack Cottrel was the landlord of the popular inn, which was why he seldom had time to spend with his daughter – why she sometimes felt as if she hardly knew him. She sighed and was about to turn away when she heard the sound of laughter in the yard below and went to look out of the window. What was going on down there?
Market day had brought the sleepy little town to life. Nestling at the edge of low-lying fenland, Chatteris shimmered that morning in a haze of warm sunlight. It was one of those wonderful spring days when the air is filled with the scents of blossom and petals drift sweetly on the breeze, skipping and dancing along the pavements. There was a buzz of excitement in the yard, which was bustling with people dressed in their second-best clothes (the best were of course kept for Sundays and church). On market days, everyone who could came swarming in from the surrounding villages and isolated farms, eager to spend their money at the market stalls, and for a break from the routine of their lives.
A man had just brought in a waggon drawn by a team of two perfectly matched horses. Their grey coats shone as though they had been thoroughly groomed that morning, their tails hanging in bunches of burnished silk strands; they were good horses, strong and powerful – like the man who drove them. Something about this particular man made Rebecca look more closely at him.
He stood talking for a moment after he had handed the waggon over to a groom, his black hair glinting in the sunlight with the sheen of a bird's wing. He was tall and his laughter had a warm, infectious quality as it floated up to her through the open window. Then he glanced up and she saw the weathered complexion of a man used to spending his life outdoors. He seemed to sense her watching him and grinned at her, obviously finding her curiosity amusing.
She drew back from the window as if she had been stung, her heart pounding. What did he find so funny? His laughter rang out again several times, then became lost in the general cacophony from the streets and the cattle market pens beyond: grunting, blaring and cackling blended with the rattle of wheels on cobblestones. She could no longer pick out the sound of his laughter. How ridiculous! For a moment his smile had disturbed her, rousing her from her reverie, but it was forgotten as her father came into the room and began to speak.
'So there you are. Finished your unpacking then?'
'No, not yet.' She smiled at him. 'I was just getting used to things again.'
'It will be strange for a start. Bound to be.' His thick brows met in the middle. 'You could always ask your friend to stay if you're afraid of being lonely.'
She had returned to her home that spring morning of 1890 after spending a year at a finishing school in Switzerland with her friend Celia – the pretty, charming but sometimes spoiled daughter of Lord Charles Braithewaite. It was Celia's father who had persuaded Rebecca's to let her have that last, very expensive year of schooling and she should have been grateful, but was not, because it had only made her more aware of the differences between her prospects and those of her friend.
She blinked hard, fighting the surge of emotion her father's thoughtfulness had evoked. 'Celia will be too busy to come. Besides ...' Lord Braithewaite would not consider their home a suitable place for his daughter to stay, but she could not hurt her father's feelings by saying so openly. 'I'm sure I shall find enough to ...'
The words died on her lips as she turned to see the figure standing in the doorway behind her. It was the man from the yard, and close to he was even more disturbing than he had seemed from a distance.
'Father,' her heart jerked oddly, 'someone has come to see you.'
He had left instructions that no one was to come up but the barmaid must have let this man through, which was a little surprising considering Dotty Prentice's sharp tongue. She usually had no difficulty in keeping customers in their place, even when they had had a few drinks too many.
'Oh, it's you, Aden,' Jack said, and his frown eased as he swung round. 'I told Dotty we weren't to be disturbed. Rebecca has just come home from school.' His gaze rested on her. 'This is Aden Sawle – a farmer from Mepal. His mother and yours were friends years ago.'
She sensed a reluctance in him; he seemed to welcome the man and yet be wary of him at the same time.
Aden Sawle studied her in silence for a moment, bringing a faint flush to her cheeks. 'Pleased to meet you, Miss Cottrel,' he said at last. 'You'll be glad to be home, I dare say?'
'Mr Sawle.'
Rebecca inclined her head. She wasn't sure that she was pleased to meet him. His dark eyes seemed to intrude into her thoughts and he was clearly amused by what he read – or sensed – about her feelings towards him.
'You may as well stop now you're here, Aden. Rebecca has some unpacking to finish.' Her father spoke as the silence became awkward.
She had been given her cue and took it thankfully. This farmer was altogether too sure of himself! As she passed him she caught a sharp woody smell mixed with body musk. Her stomach tightened and she drew her skirt away, giving him a look she had learned from a rather haughty mistress at the school in Switzerland. It was meant to put him firmly in his place but his mouth quirked at the corners and laughter lurked deep in those velvet dark eyes.
Then the door closed behind her, muffling the sound of the men's voices as she walked along the gloomy passage to her own room. Her pulses were racing and she was annoyed. How dared Aden Sawle come up uninvited – and what right had he to look at her in that way? He was passably good-looking, she supposed, but arrogant and conceited – a most unpleasant creature!
Safe in her own room, Rebecca closed the door and leaned against it to catch her breath. Her heart was still beating much too fast and her skin felt hot.
She moved away from the door, glancing without enthusiasm at the trunks waiting to be unpacked. Now that she was back in the private rooms above her father's inn in the small, sleepy Cambridgeshire town, she had begun to miss her friends and to realize that it was unlikely she would see much of them in future. From now on Celia's life would be full of society dinners, dances and handsome men, while hers would be – what?
When they had first met at their boarding school both girls had been feeling lonely, away from home for the first time and floundering like fish in shallow water as they attempted to settle in. Because they were both newcomers, and because Celia had been a shy, vulnerable girl in need of someone to lean on, their friendship had become stronger than most – the kind that endures. For the past few years they had scarcely been out of each other's company, so perhaps it wasn't surprising that Rebecca was missing her friend.
'Father is determined that I shall marry well,' Celia had told her with a sigh as they travelled home to England under the watchful eye of the chaperone Lord Braithewaite had sent to fetch them. 'All I want is to be happy, Rebecca. I want to fall in love with a handsome, charming man who will love and cherish me.'
'At least you will have the chance to meet lots of men,' Rebecca had replied, feeling a pang of envy. 'I shan't meet anyone at home. Father is always too busy to take me anywhere.'
'You could come to us for the summer. My mother would be pleased to have you – you might even meet someone and fall in love.'
The offer was so tempting that Rebecca knew a moment of intense longing – a longing she hastily suppressed.
'My father wants me home ...'
It would be useless to ask if she could stay with Celia for the summer. Her father had been reluctant to let her have that last year in Switzerland and from the tone of his recent letters she'd sensed that he had regretted giving way to Lord Braithewaite's persuasion.
'I'm a plain-spoken man,' he'd told her just before she left to join her friend at the school. 'I sent you to boarding school after your mother died because I had no choice. But don't lose sight of who and what you are, Rebecca. I'm Jack Cottrel, a publican, businessman and councillor – and don't you forget it. Your mother was a vicar's daughter and we're decent folk, worth a bob or two, but not gentry. Not like those fancy friends of yours.'
During the years of her friendship with Celia she had often stayed at the Braithewaites' home and despite her father's warning, Rebecca's head had undoubtedly been turned. She had for a while allowed herself to dream of a different life, but now she was home and back to earth with a bump.
She glanced round the large bedroom, which was crammed with dark oak, newish but rather ponderous furniture, Staffordshire pottery figures and several engravings of dogs and horses (mostly from pictures by Landseer, who was said to be a favourite of Queen Victoria and very fashionable), and compared it unfavourably with the elegance of Braithewaite Hall: there the best of many centuries combined to give the rooms a charm and stylishness that put her own home to shame.
This must stop at once! It was wrong and foolish and she was ashamed of her own thoughts. Her father had always made it plain that he wanted her home when she was eighteen and in a way she was glad to be back. She was grateful for the advantages she had been given and she loved her father – it was just that she could not imagine how she would fill her time.
Both the inn and the private rooms were kept clean by a woman who came in every other morning to scrub and polish, and her father's food was cooked by Eileen Henderson, who also did the cooking for the customers on market day and Saturdays. Eileen had taken over in the kitchen soon after Rebecca's mother had died, and The Cottrel Arms was popular with the people from neighbouring villages; they came to shop at the market and stayed to eat at The Arms before returning home.
At school Rebecca had discovered that she had a talent for cooking. She had suggested to her father that when she came home she might help Eileen in the kitchens but he had immediately squashed the idea.
'You're Jack Cottrel's daughter,' he'd told her with a flash of pride. 'There's no need for you to work. Eileen will take you along to some of the women's meetings at the hall – and there's always something needed for the church. You'll find enough to do, Rebecca, don't you worry.'
It all sounded so dull! The past year had been exciting and Rebecca's head was filled with pictures of glorious scenery: vast mountains, sweeping valleys and deep, pale lakes that sparkled in a cool, clear sunlight; of midnight feasts in the dormitories and all the plans that Celia and the other girls had made for balls and parties. On their return home her friends would be swept up in a whirl of excitement but she was faced with endless, empty days. If only she could think of something worthwhile ... something that would stretch her mind a little. Perhaps marriage?
She had a very clear picture in her mind of the man she wanted to marry – an intelligent, cultured man with good manners and a gentle nature, someone who would cherish and spoil her. Or did she imagine him that way because Celia had described the man of her dreams to her so many times?
If she did marry it certainly wouldn't be to anyone like that arrogant farmer she had met a few moments ago!
Rebecca glanced at her reflection in the dressing mirror. Her heavy, reddish-brown hair was drawn back into a neat pleat at the nape of her neck, her complexion was creamy but not pale and delicate like Celia's, her mouth was full – perhaps a little too wide? – and her eyes grey. She was not ugly but certainly no beauty – yet there was nothing in her appearance to amuse Mr Sawle, was there?
No, she thought not. It was simply his tiresome manner and she would not allow it to upset her.
* * *
It was an hour or so later when she saw her father again and was immediately aware of a brooding anger beneath the surface.
'Is something wrong?' she asked. 'Have I displeased you in some way?'
'You?' Jack Cottrel glanced at her and sighed, reaching up to ruffle his wiry greying hair. 'No, it's not you, Rebecca. It was that young rogue earlier. He had the cheek to threaten ...'
'Are you speaking of Mr Sawle?' she asked as the words died on his lips and his expression became severe. She was surprised at his change of attitude. He had seemed to approve of the farmer, to welcome him ... though she had noticed a certain wariness towards him.
'Aye, that's the one. He tried to push me into – well, I told him straight. I've finished with him. He's no longer welcome here. You're to have nothing to do with him, Rebecca. Do you hear me? I won't have the rascal in my pub or my home.'
'I'm not likely to want anything to do with him. I don't know Mr Sawle and I don't wish to.'
'Good. You're a sensible lass. He's a rogue and a scoundrel, though a charming one, I'll admit.' Jack's eyes narrowed, his normally good-humoured features becoming harsh as his thick brows drew together. 'Let's forget him. I've news for you, Rebecca. Eileen has offered to take you to one of her meetings tomorrow afternoon. It's naught but a bit of gossip and a cup of tea, but you'll make friends – and you can ask any of your school friends to stay whenever you like.'
'Thank you.' Rebecca's eyes were misty as she leaned forward to kiss his cheek. His skin was slightly rough and he smelt of ale and spirits, though he drank little himself. 'Don't worry, Father. I'm finding it a bit strange at the moment but I'll settle down soon.'
(Continues...)
Excerpted from This Land, this Love by Linda Sole. Copyright © 1997 Linda Sole. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
