The Burden
A superb novel of possessive love.Laura Franklin bitterly resented the arrival of her younger sister Shirley, an enchanting baby loved by all the family. But Laura's emotions towards her sister changed dramatically one night, when she vowed to protect her with all her strength and love. While Shirley longs for freedom and romance, Laura has to learn that loving can never be a one-sided affair, and the burden of her love for her sister has a dramatic effect on both their lives. A story of consequences when love turns to obsession…Famous for her ingenious crime books and plays, Agatha Christie also wrote about crimes of the heart, six bittersweet and very personal novels, as compelling and memorable as the best of her work.
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HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by Heinemann 1956
Copyright © 1956 Rosalind Hicks Charitable Trust. All rights reserved.
Cover by ninataradesign.com © HarperCollins 2017
Agatha Christie 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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Source ISBN: 9780008131456
Ebook Edition © June 2017 ISBN: 9780007534999
Version: 2018-04-11
‘For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light’
ST MATTHEW, Ch. 11, v.30
‘Lord, Thy most pointed pleasure take
And stab my spirit broad awake;
Or, Lord, if too obdurate I,
Choose Thou, before that spirit die,
A piercing pain, a killing sin,
And to my dead heart run them in!’
R. L. STEVENSON
The church was cold. It was October, too early for the heating to be on. Outside, the sun gave a watery promise of warmth and good cheer, but here within the chill grey stone there was only dampness and a sure foreknowledge of winter.
Laura stood between Nannie, resplendent in crackling collars and cuffs, and Mr Henson, the curate. The vicar was in bed with mild influenza. Mr Henson was young and thin, with an Adam’s apple and a high nasal voice.
Mrs Franklin, looking frail and attractive, leant on her husband’s arm. He himself stood upright and grave. The birth of his second daughter had not consoled him for the loss of Charles. He had wanted a son. And it seemed now, from what the doctor had said, that there would not be a son …
His eyes went from Laura to the infant in Nannie’s arms gurgling happily to itself.
Two daughters … Of course Laura was a nice child, a dear child and, as babies go, the new arrival was a splendid specimen, but a man wanted a son.
Charles—Charles, with his fair hair, his way of throwing back his head and laughing. Such an attractive boy, so handsome, so bright, so intelligent. Really a very unusual boy. It seemed a pity that if one of his children had to die, it hadn’t been Laura …
His eyes suddenly met those of his elder daughter, eyes that seemed large and tragic in her small pale face, and Franklin flushed guiltily—what had he been thinking of?
Suppose the child should guess what had been in his mind. Of course he was devoted to Laura—only—only, she wasn’t, she could never be Charles.
Leaning against her husband, her eyes half closed, Angela Franklin was saying to herself:
‘My boy—my beautiful boy—my darling … I still can’t believe it. Why couldn’t it have been Laura?’
She felt no guilt in that thought as it came to her. More ruthless and more honest than her husband, closer to primeval needs, she admitted the simple fact that her second child, a daughter, had never meant, and could never mean to her what her first-born had. Compared with Charles, Laura was an anti-climax—a quiet disappointing child, well-behaved, giving no trouble, but lacking in—what was it?—personality.
She thought again: ‘Charles—nothing can ever make up to me for losing Charles.’ She felt the pressure of her husband’s hand on her arm, and opened her eyes—she must pay attention to the Service. What a very irritating voice poor Mr Henson had!
Angela looked with half-amused indulgence at the baby in Nannie’s arms—such big solemn words for such a tiny mite.
The baby, who had been sleeping, blinked and opened her eyes. Such dazzling blue eyes—like Charles’s eyes—she made a happy gurgling noise.
Angela thought: ‘Charles’s smile.’ A rush of mother love swept over her. Her baby—her own lovely baby. For the first time Charles’s death receded into the past.
Angela met Laura’s dark sad gaze, and thought with momentary curiosity: ‘I wonder just what that child is thinking?’
Nannie also was conscious of Laura standing quiet and erect beside her.
‘Such a quiet little thing,’ she thought. ‘A bit too quiet for my taste—not natural for any child to be as quiet and well-behaved as she is. There has never been much notice taken of her—maybe not as much as there ought to have been—I wonder now—’
