A Fallen Woman
An unforgettable saga, full of romance, shocking secrets and page-turning scandal . . .In the Black Country a scandal is set to hit the town … but can Aurelia Sampson survive?All seems well in the Black Country, Aurelia having sacrificed her own happiness for her newly found half-sister’s future after returning from a separation to her husband’s bleak and unhappy house. That is until Benjamin discovers that Aurelia had an affair, and serves her with divorce, demanding custody of his son.Aurelia, once a woman with the world at her feet, suddenly finds herself a fallen woman. As the rumours of her disgrace are discussed in shops and street corners, Aurelia finds herself destitute. But despite her circumstances Aurelia knows she must survive and she’ll do anything it takes to get her son back…Concluding the gripping story begun in A Country Girl, don’t miss this unforgettable new saga.
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2018
Copyright © Nancy Carson 2018
Cover design © Debbie Clement Design 2018
Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com
Nancy Carson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © February 2018 ISBN: 9780008134884
Version: 2017-01-09
‘There are in nature neither rewards nor punishments – there are only consequences.’
Robert Green Ingersoll
1833–1899
Table of Contents
For the people of the Black Country, past and
present, who have always inspired me with their
warmth, their humour, their can-do positivity, and
their collective achievements.
1892
Aurelia Sampson awoke early. The dream she reluctantly left behind had been delicious, yet disturbing. It had been about him. She had met him clandestinely, as she had in wakefulness. Adulterously, she had shared a strange bed with him that over time would become familiar – in a room lit only by a flickering coal fire, in a second-rate hotel – exactly as she had in wakefulness. The astonishing realism of the dream provided a sense of contentment and she had not wanted it to end, but when she awoke, the cruelty of truth brutally shattered that transient happiness.
With her slender fingers she rubbed tears that welled unbidden in her eyes, allowing herself both the luxury and the heartbreak of thinking about him for a few more precious moments. She stretched languidly before slipping out of bed. As she stood up and eased her feet into her dainty slippers, she shook out her long dark hair, running her fingers through its sleep-entangled strands. She moved to one of the windows, parted the curtains and opened the sash. The warm summer breeze seemed to whisper secrets through the elm trees, which cast crisp, slanting shadows across the lawn and the curving gravel drive.
Aurelia turned, and in the cheval glass that faced her from the opposite side of the room she caught a full-length glimpse of herself. The sunlight streaming in from behind outlined her slenderness through her nightgown of thin white cotton, and rimmed her hair like a halo; yet no saintliness did she see in that reflection. Her face was in shadow, so she moved forward and studied her features more intently. Her eyes were intensely blue, but still wet with her tears. Her lips were full and, according to him, delightfully kissable. But he was not there to kiss her. Those lips had not enjoyed the intimacy of loving caresses for many long months, and she sorely missed the intimacy.
Although she was lonely, she appreciated the sensation of sleeping alone in this, her bedroom. There was a time when she would never have expected to leave the marital bed, but events had ultimately dictated it. It was now her private domain, her own fortress. Within its confines she could shut out the rest of this cold and cheerless house, which she shared with her cold and cheerless husband. She no longer felt any part of it, nor of him. Within this fortress she savoured her privacy; it protected her. It protected her especially from any unwelcome invasions from her husband. It safeguarded her things; those on the washstand, her potions, lotions and brushes on the dressing table, her chemise draped over a chair, other flimsy essentials lying on the ottoman.
This fortress was spacious, but dauntingly, hideously furnished. It occupied a corner of the first storey and in each outward-facing wall was a window, curtained with ancient pink and blue draperies that had faded long ago. One window overlooked the front garden and the gravel drive twisting through it, which led to the main road connecting Brierley Hill with Dudley. Despite being set well back from the highway you could still hear the clatter and huffing of steam trams, and the rattle of carts’ wheels as they trundled by.
