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First published in Great Britain in ebook format by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Copyright © Lynne Francis 2017
Cover design © Alison Groom 2017
Cover image © Shutterstock.com
Lynne Francis 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 authorâs imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © March 2018 ISBN: 9780008244286
Version: 2018-01-09
Alice felt the hem of her skirt getting wetter and heavier as she brushed through the bracken. This summer had been damp and it had rained hard last night. The fern fronds continued to grow and unfurl across the path, no matter how many of them passed to and from the mill each day. She hated the feel of the sodden wool against her legs. It would bother her all morning until it dried: the smell of the wet cloth, the chafing. She sighed. Sheâd be working in the weaving shed this morning. It would feel cold at first with the door open, and no easy way to dry off.
Alice clutched her shawl tighter around her shoulders and hooked the basket into the crook of her arm. She lifted it clear of the foliage, which was still heavy with rain. Her work clogs bounced in the bottom of the basket, along with her lantern, and a crust of bread loosely wrapped in rough cloth. Her mother had pressed the bread into Aliceâs hand with a brusque, âOn your way. Youâll not get through the day without it. Weâll manage.â Then sheâd limped her way painfully to the grate to set the kettle on the hob. Aliceâs brothers and sisters would have to make do with tea and porridge until tomorrow.
Tomorrow: Alice shuddered. It was the day that they lined up in front of Williams, the overlooker, as he counted the florins, shillings and pennies into their hands. She thought about how Williams used to look meaningfully at her as he dispensed the coins. Heâd close her palm around them, letting his fingers linger just that moment too long. Sheâd been aware of his eyes following her as she moved around the mill or bent to her machine in the weaverâs shed. Heâd made a point of singling her out for praise for her work, so that the other girls had noticed and teased her, making her anxious. Betty Ackroyd had drawn Alice to one side. âAlice, you need to watch yourself with Williams,â sheâd warned. âHeâs got an eye for the young girls here. He donât take no for an answer.â
Despite Bettyâs warning, Alice had been unperturbed when, as she collected her lantern one evening to start the long journey home, Williams had summonsed her.
âAlice, in here a moment,â heâd said, holding open the door to the office. Sheâd stepped into the warm glow of the room, startled when the door snapped shut behind her and she found herself pinned against it. Sheâd tried to shut out what came next â rough bristles against her cheek and neck, panting, heat, hands fumbling at her buttons, tugging at her skirt.