Always In My Heart

  Also by Freda Lightfoot:

  Historical Sagas

  Lakeland Lily

  The Bobbin Girls

  The Favourite Child

  Kitty Little

  For All Our Tomorrows

  Home is Where the Heart Is

  Gracie’s Sin

  Daisy’s Secret

  Ruby McBride

  Dancing on Deansgate

  Watch for the Talleyman

  Polly’s Pride

  Polly’s War

  House of Angels

  Angels at War

  The Promise

  My Lady Deceiver

  The Luckpenny Series

  Luckypenny Land

  Wishing Water

  Larkrigg Fell

  Poorhouse Lane Series

  The Girl from Poorhouse Lane

  The Woman from Heartbreak

  House

  Champion Street Market Series

  Putting on the Style

  Fools Fall in Love

  That’ll Be the Day

  Candy Kisses

  Who’s Sorry Now

  Lonely Teardrops

  Women’s Contemporary Fiction

  Trapped

  Historical Romances

  Madeiran Legacy

  Whispering Shadows

  Rhapsody Creek

  Proud Alliance

  Outrageous Fortune

  Biographical Historical

  Hostage Queen

  Reluctant Queen

  The Queen and the Courtesan

  The Duchess of Drury Lane

  Lady of Passion

  Born in Lancashire, FREDA LIGHTFOOT has been a teacher and a bookseller, and in a mad moment even tried her hand at the ‘good life’. A prolific and much-loved saga writer, Freda’s work is inspired by memories of her Lancashire childhood and her passion for history. For more information about Freda, visit her website: www.fredalightfoot.co.uk

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Freda Lightfoot

  About the Author

  Title Page

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Copyright

  One

  1944

  Rain pounded upon the windows as the small bus wound its way along narrow lanes. The sound of its grinding gears as it lurched around a bend and began to climb steeply upwards stirred Brenda from a deep sleep. Blinking herself awake, she gazed out at the scramble of sharp peaks, jutting rocks and smooth green-humped hills, disappointed they were not lit by the warmth of September sunshine. Yet she felt some relief to have at last reached the Pennines. The journey had been long and difficult. She still shivered at the memory of being halted and searched by a German guard at the foot of the Pyrenees in Spain. A terrifying moment! Now, after years of danger she was at last safe; in a bus driving mile upon mile over beautiful open moors cloaked in purple heather.

  Eventually the vehicle stopped and the driver called out, ‘Trowbridge Hall.’ Hitching her heavy bag high on to her shoulder, Brenda climbed out of the warmth of the bus into the chill damp of the valley. When first she’d set off from France she’d felt dizzy with anticipation, filled with hope. But much as she had longed to reach her destination, now a nervous tension was setting in. She could remember all too well the scowls, furious arguments and strong tone of disapproval on the day she’d been thrown out of the manor house all those years ago.

  Today it felt strangely silent as Brenda walked down the rutted track, the only sound that of her boots squelching in the mud, a clogging mist swirling about her. Thankfully it had at last stopped raining. Turning a corner, she paused to gaze up at the tall chimneys, mullioned windows and grey stone walls of this grand house. For a moment her nervousness faded even if the mist did not. When at a low ebb during her recent troubles she would often bring to mind the majesty of these rolling hills, and the autumn glory of the scabious, goldenrod and blue harebells that clustered the verges. The memory of this place had at times helped to keep her sane.

  Her heartbeat quickened as she recalled coming to work here back in the spring of 1939. That was the day she and Jack had first met, and despite her being no more than a mere scullery maid and he the son of a wealthy land owner, they’d fallen in love almost at first sight. At just seventeen she’d been young and eager for a new life, utterly captivated by his good looks, his gentle kindness, and the way his blue-grey eyes smiled at her. Whenever her day’s work ended and she’d take a walk for a breath of fresh air, Jack would be sitting on a wall or leaning against a tree waiting for her.

  ‘I thought I’d show you around,’ he’d said with a twinkling smile the first time she’d found him there. The thought had thrilled her.

  ‘Oh, that would be lovely.’ She’d felt herself blushing even as her insides tingled with excitement.

  They’d stepped out along the path into the wood, the dog at his heels as Jack explained how he didn’t want her to get lost. ‘It’s not a good idea to venture too far on your own as it’s all too easy to lose your way in these woods,’ he’d warned.

  ‘I confess I am more accustomed to the busy streets of Manchester,’ Brenda had admitted, gazing in wonder at the bluebells in bloom. It was May and she could hear the rippling chatter of fieldfares celebrating the coming of warmer weather. ‘Or at least the Castlefield part of the city. I’m more used to walking along canal towpaths than in woodlands. Never really been out much in the countryside before, but it is so beautiful here I’d love to explore it.’

  ‘Then take care if you set out for a walk to always leave markers, such as a small pile of stones at every turn in the path to mark your way. We call them cairns. Then you can retrace your steps by following them on your return.’

  ‘What a wonderful idea. Thank you, I’ll remember that.’

  ‘And if you should ever get lost, follow a stream downhill towards the river, then walk north along the riverbank back to the house. You can judge the direction by checking the green moss that grows on the northern side of the trees. It certainly does here in the Pennines. But it would be safer and much more fun, don’t you think, if we were to walk out together? And Kit does love a good walk,’ he’d said, introducing her to the farm collie.

  Meeting his gaze, she knew in that moment they were meant for each other, and his desire for them to walk out together had little to do with the dog. The expression in his eyes was utterly captivating, reaching to the heart of her.

  After that, it seemed perfectly natural for them to meet up every single evening. And when he eventually stole a kiss she’d responded with eagerness, loving it when he almost lifted her off her feet to gather her in his arms. Explosions of pleasure had shot through her, almost as if she’d been waiting her entire life for this moment.

  Fond as Brenda was of the city of Manchester where she’d been raised in an orphanage by nuns and still had many friends, she instantly fell in love with the beauty of Saddleworth, and the dramatic and rugged Penn
ine hills and moorland. She soon came to think of herself as a country girl, if working class and a bit plain and plump with fluffy brown hair. Jack, however, always regarded her as gorgeously curvaceous, and adored the twinkle in her downward-sloping brown eyes. It was certainly true that she was rather well endowed, but liked to think that her round face generally appeared cheerful, even if there was sometimes a flutter of nerves behind her eyes. How she’d loved it when he’d whispered such compliments as he kissed her. She smiled now at the memory.

  They’d naturally tried to keep their feelings and meetings secret, only too aware that his family would not approve. They’d carefully avoided visiting the local villages of Trowbridge, Uppermill and Greenfield together in case people Jack knew spotted them. Much safer to remain high in the hills where few people roamed.

  But then one afternoon Jack’s father, Sir Randolph, caught them together locked in the kind of clinch that clearly revealed their love for each other. Sadly, he was an ice-cold, aloof sort of man. Perhaps living as he did in this fine house with a large estate and money to answer his every need, caused him to be bossy and self-opinionated.

  ‘Girl, return to the kitchen where you belong,’ he’d roared. She’d spun on her heels to scurry away as fast as she could, tripping over tree roots and stones in her anxiety to escape his fury. Jack had stoutly remained where he was, clearly preparing himself for a lecture.

  Brenda had found herself instantly dismissed. Jack was ordered to go to France to stay with his French mother, who’d returned to Paris some months previously on a visit to her family. She showed no sign of returning any time soon, which did not surprise Brenda, bearing in mind she had such a controlling husband. Brenda had been sorry to see her go, as it was this lovely lady who had offered her the job in the first place. Lady Stuart had been a regular visitor to the orphanage and very friendly with the nuns who’d brought Brenda up.

  Jack made no protest to this plan, as he adored his mother, but instead of leaving Brenda behind he’d suggested she go with him. Brenda had been unable to speak a word of French at the time, yet loving him as she did, how could she resist the temptation?

  Her time in France had felt like a real adventure to her. Memories she would nurture forever in her heart. She’d worked hard to learn the language, and happily helped Jack to care for his dear mother who was not at all well.

  When war broke out they’d quickly married and enjoyed such a happy time together, until the dreadful effects of bombs and fighting took their toll, robbing her of the love of her life. Brenda’s heart still bled at the pain of her loss.

  Now she was quite alone, and the events that had followed his death were a period in her life she desperately strived to block out. Returning to her late husband’s home had been a difficult decision to make, but so important. It was vital that she find her son and prayed this would provide the answers she needed. After all her efforts to resolve the issue had failed, this seemed like the only solution left.

  There was no one around to welcome her, all doors closed and curtains drawn. Perhaps dear old Kit, no doubt too old now to be out working with the flock, might offer a welcome, unless he too had forgotten her. As Brenda hitched up her bag and set off again along the track, he must have recognised the sound of her footsteps for he was suddenly scampering towards her, his wittering greeting a positive warble of doggy ecstasy.

  ‘Hello, old boy. So you do remember me, even after all this time. How wonderful.’ Brenda went down on one knee to rub the collie’s ears, chuckling at the way his whole body seemed to wag with joy, his tongue caressing every inch of her face. Fighting back tears she smiled as she stroked him. Then hearing the crunch of gravel and the sound of heavy boots approaching, her smile quickly evaporated. Rising slowly to her feet, Brenda strengthened her resolve, as she had learned to do throughout the years of war. Surely her father-in-law could do no worse to her than what she’d already been forced to endure.

  ‘Good lord, so it’s you, girl.’

  With relief Brenda saw that it was Jack’s brother, if sounding every bit as cold and arrogant as his father. Stiffening her spine, she took a breath. ‘Good to see you again, Hugh.’

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  Brenda faced him with a shot of her well-tuned courage. ‘I believe as Jack’s wife, or rather his widow, I do have that right.’

  He gave a snort of disbelief. ‘You’re claiming to have married him?’

  She blinked, stunned by this response. ‘You surely knew that we married late in 1939?’ Perhaps Jack had never mentioned their marriage because he was fearful of being cut off from his family completely, in view of his estrangement from his father. Camille was constantly cautioning her son about Sir Randolph’s temper and possible reaction.

  Hugh glowered at her. ‘Jack never wrote to tell us about any damn wedding, so why would I believe you?’

  ‘Why would you not?’

  ‘Because you’re a feisty little madam. Always were.’

  ‘Please, we need to talk.’

  Lifting his head to glare up at the grey sky as rain again began to fall, he marched to a side door and flung it open. ‘Very well, you can stay tonight, and explain exactly what did happen to my brother.’

  Stifling a sigh, Brenda went to pick up her heavy bag then followed him into the house along the passage towards the kitchen, which was no doubt where he thought she belonged. Every step she’d taken in recent years seemed to have led to yet more trauma. Making decisions had never been easy in the terrifying world following Jack’s death, and despite believing she’d made the right ones, it had all gone terribly wrong.

  Two

  France, 1940

  Brenda stood washing dishes at the sink in the kitchen of her mother-in-law’s elegant apartment, quite close to the Jardin des Tuileries. Surrounded by gilt mirrors, chandeliers, glorious armoires and huge arched windows, she spent every day cleaning, washing and cooking, rarely setting foot outside except to buy food at a local market. Ever since Jack’s death a strange sense of detachment had enveloped her, leaving her largely oblivious to whatever was happening in the world. It felt as if she was living in some kind of frozen bubble, so devastated at losing him that she could barely think, let alone eat or sleep. Camille, his dear mother, was equally distraught and had largely confined herself to her room. Brenda continued to care for her, not only out of love for her husband, but felt she could never neglect this lovely lady who’d become almost like a mother to her too.

  ‘I thought you might like an egg custard with your afternoon tea,’ Brenda said to her now as she set a tray on the small coffee table by her chair.

  ‘Oh, what a lovely girl you are.’ Camille’s pale face creased with a smile in a valiant attempt to disguise the bleakness of grief. ‘I wouldn’t have the first idea how to make one of those tarts, even though it was a favourite treat of Jack’s.’

  ‘Mine too,’ Brenda said, with a slight tremor to her voice. ‘Let’s sit and enjoy it together, then I’ll run a bath for you before dinner. I’ve managed to find us some fish, if only a small piece of cod. But we can liven it up with some rice and tomatoes.’ There was a serious shortage of food these days, although the smartly uniformed German military were able to fully indulge their own appetites for fine meals, beer, women and dancing, no doubt viewed as a reward for their victory.

  ‘You are so amazingly resilient,’ Camille said as Brenda switched on the small gas fire to warm up the cool bedroom. ‘But you mustn’t work too hard, my dear. You and that little one you are carrying need rest, so do take an afternoon nap each day.’

  Sleep was not something Brenda felt in need of right now. Whenever she closed her eyes, her mind would vividly replay all she’d learned about the manner of his death. Reliving how he must have run for cover when he’d heard guns going off all around him. Was his memory of her his last thought on this earth? Brenda would prefer to think he died instantly, not lying on the ground in pain and anguish, waiting for the end to close
in upon him. Terrified of such nightmares, she found that keeping busy was the only solution. Retiring to her bed only when exhaustion overwhelmed her, Brenda could manage to sleep more deeply and avoid them. It also gave her a reason to go on with life.

  ‘Exercise is good for me,’ she smilingly replied, settling herself in the armchair opposite. In addition, she was doing her utmost to persuade Camille to eat more, as she was increasingly thin, a sad fragility about her. She’d never been particularly robust. Despite only being in her early fifties she’d aged considerably since her son’s death, her golden blonde hair turning silver grey almost overnight.

  ‘Did you hear any news while you were out shopping today?’ Camille politely enquired, her tone of voice flat as she sliced up the tart.

  ‘When I bought our bread this morning the boulanger told me that although the southern part of France around the spa town of Vichy is seen as a zone libre, Marshal Pétain, who is in control, still insists upon cooperating with Hitler. He apparently believes the state has greater rights than the people. So the area may not be as free as he claims it to be.’

  Camille’s pale-blue eyes narrowed as she considered this. ‘That may well be the case. The man does have strong fascist sympathies.’

  ‘The boulanger also said I should take care, as there’s a growing resentment among some French that the British haven’t done enough to help prevent the German invasion.’

  ‘An attitude which will make them anti-British as well as anti-Nazi. Perhaps you should go back to England while you can, dear girl, to be safe.’

  ‘Would you come with me?’

  The older woman’s eyes frosted over as she avoided meeting Brenda’s gaze. ‘As you know, I have no wish to return to my over-controlling husband. I was born and brought up here in France. This is my home.’

  They both fell silent following this familiar response, concentrating on enjoying an unexpected treat, the eggs made available thanks to a neighbour who kept chickens. Were it not for her fondness for this dear lady, and the fact she was expecting Jack’s child, Brenda knew she would have returned to Manchester long since. She missed it badly, and her many dear friends, particularly Cathie whom she’d known for most of her life, as well as Jack’s sister Prue. There were times when she ached to hear a northern voice cracking jokes with their deliciously dry sense of humour. But here she was, stuck in France.