Classic Bestsellers from Josephine Cox: Bumper Collection. Josephine Cox

she had been dreading.

      John looked her in the eye. ‘Is it Emily’s child?’

      ‘Oh, lad!’ She had not wanted to be the one to tell him.

      John persisted, ‘Is it her child, Lizzie?’

      She nodded. ‘I’m sorry, son. Yes, the child is Emily’s.’

      Anger flooded her heart. This was not the homecoming she had wanted for her beloved nephew. Emily had betrayed him, and she for one could not forgive that.

      John had another question. ‘Who’s the father?’

      Lizzie shook her head. ‘You’ll have to ask Emily that.’

      ‘No, Lizzie. I’m asking you.’

      The woman took a moment to consider her answer. ‘His name’s Danny Williams. You may not remember him. He’s the milkman round here these days. Some time ago, his ma died, then his father fell ill and had to retire. Danny came home from soldiering agin the Boers to take the business on.’

      John recalled the two men at the cottage; the young one and an older man, probably his father. Quickly describing the two men, he asked, ‘Would it be them?’

      Lizzie nodded. ‘Aye, son. It would.’

      ‘Are they wed – him and Emily?’ The words choked in his throat as he waited anxiously for the answer. ‘Have I lost her altogether?’

      Lizzie fought with her conscience. She knew he loved Emily enough to take on the child Emily had conceived by another man. She did not want that for him. It wouldn’t be fair, and besides, what kind of woman was Emily, if at the drop of a hat she could turn to some other man while John was away working for their future? Emily had done a bad thing. Who was to say she wouldn’t do it again, even after she and John were wed?

      She thought of how when she herself took John on as a little lad of five, she had vowed to always do the best for him. Up to now, she had not really been tested. But this was her trial, and she would deal with it the way she thought fit. She saw herself as his mother, just as much as if she had given birth to him herself. She loved him, more than she had ever loved anyone in her whole life.

      Her mind was made up. There was no way on earth she would stand by and see him used by a woman who had already shown herself to be wanton. There could be no worthwhile future ahead with a wife like that.

      His voice penetrated her thoughts. ‘Auntie! I want the truth. Is Emily wed to him?’

      She looked up, tears hovering but not falling. She had to do this for his sake. ‘Yes, son,’ she lied. ‘Emily is wed to the child’s father. That’s how it is.’

      Now, as she saw the torment in his face, she silently prayed that the Good Lord would forgive her. Yet, driven by motherly love and a need to protect him, she truly believed she had done the right thing for John. If at some time in the future, she was called on to pay for her sins, then so be it.

      In that cosy little parlour, the silence thickened until the soft ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to echo the sound of their own hearts.

      Each was torn by what had been said; Lizzie because she had lied against her nature, and John, because he had heard the one thing that he had never expected to hear … that Emily had grown tired of waiting and had wed someone else. Moreover, they had a child. That had been his dream, to have her as his wife and to raise a family. Emily had been his life. And now she had given herself to someone else. No wonder she had not replied to his letters. Dear God! How quickly she had forgotten him.

      But he would never forget her, nor would he stop loving her. She was his first and last love, and that would never change, however long he might live.

      Quietly, Lizzie got out of her chair, and going into the tiny scullery, she put on the kettle and proceeded to make them a pot of tea. Whenever she was tired or troubled, she always made tea: it had always soothed and comforted before. Yet this was not like before. This was John and Emily, and the end of their future – and, God help her, she was partly responsible for that.

      A few minutes later she returned to find him stood by the window, his dark blue eyes staring out across the landscape, his mind deep in thought. ‘Drink this, son.’ She pressed the mug of hot liquid into his hands, then when he took it, she asked hopefully, ‘Will you not have a bite to eat?’

      He turned to look down on her. ‘This can’t have been easy for you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

      She gave a bitter laugh. Sorry! If only he knew, she thought. If only he knew how she had deliberately lied. ‘I’m sorry too,’ she answered truthfully. ‘Sorry it had to turn out this way.’

      He nodded, took a gulp of his tea, and when the liquid choked in his throat, he placed the mug on the windowsill.

      ‘Will you stay?’ Lizzie was behind him.

      Continuing to stare out of the window, he replied, ‘Just for tonight. Then I’ll be gone … back to the sea.’ He had waited and prayed for the day to come when he would return to these parts, and Emily. But in just a few short minutes, everything he had ever wanted was snatched away. How could he stay now? It would be torture, to be so close to her, and yet so far away.

      Lizzie understood. ‘I had an idea you’d be going back.’ Part of her wanted to plead with him to stay. Part of her knew he couldn’t. And all she could think of was how she had deceived him. ‘I’ll need to get your bed aired,’ she said. ‘Meantime, son, you should try and eat. There’s cheese and ham in the larder. Oh, and a deep apple pie I made first thing this morning.’ How odd it seemed, to be talking about such things as ham and apple pie, when their whole world had been turned upside down.

      ‘Maybe later,’ he told her. ‘Just now I think I’ll go for a walk alongside the brook.’ That same brook where he and Emily had walked so many times in the past. That same brook where they had confessed their love for each other.

      ‘Aye, lad. Mebbe your appetite will be sharper by the time you get back.’

      Upstairs, Lizzie threw open the bedroom window, and hanging the blankets out over the sill, she let the breeze lift and play with them. She then took the sheets and gave them a sound shaking out the window, her quiet gaze following John as he went away towards the far fields and the brook beyond.

      Struck with guilt at what she had done to the young lovers, she paused in her task, eyes welling up with emotion and heart full. She stood there until he was out of sight. Then she stood a moment longer, before returning to the bed. Taking hold of the two handles on the mattress, she hoisted it up and then heaved it over, after which her back ached and her arms felt as though they had been wrenched out of their sockets.

      Waiting a minute to recover her breath, she went back to the window, where she collected the bedding and threw it over the iron bedframe at the foot of the bed.

      That done, she set about making a fire in the tiny grate. The kindling and coal were always kept in a bucket by the pretty tiled hearth.

      When the fire was flaring she sat beside it for what seemed an age. Then she made up the bed, tucking in the sheets and tweaking the counterpane until all was smooth and tidy. She laid the big bolster across the top, and placed a sprig of dried lavender on it, to make the linen smell sweet.

      Closing the window, she scoured the countryside for a sight of John. But he was nowhere to be seen. Don’t go back there, she willed him silently. Stay away from her, son. She’ll only bring you heartache.

      John avoided Potts End. Instead he kept on walking, across the fields and on towards the canal, where for a time he sat with his back to a tree, watching the barges chug up and down the waterway. His emotions were in turmoil, and yet there was a strange calm about him. Images dipped in and out of his mind. Images of the child, and the man, and the joy on Emily’s face.

      She seemed so happy, he thought. And wasn’t that what he had always wanted – for his Emily to be happy?

      A