Truly, Madly, Deeply. Romantic Novelist's Association

Day doesn’t mean the maiden aunt is suddenly going to find love or even want it. It’s such an imposition.’

      Jane nodded, mute with shock and embarrassment. She couldn’t let this cute guy know that she was the spinster aunt. Because he was, well, a cute guy. He had full lips and lovely curly hair. And a cynical side that she appreciated.

      ‘What did the teenager say?’ Jane knew that the forthright Isobel would have expressed an opinion.

      He grinned at the memory of the bolshie teenager dressing him down. ‘She said I was a miserable devil. She said her mother was only trying to help and that she did believe things were different on Valentine’s Day; that there is a little more magic everywhere and, of course, the aunt wanted to find love.’

      ‘Teenagers,’ said Jane with a tut. ‘So damned optimistic.’

      They both fell silent again.

      ‘Look, would you like to go for a drink? No bubbles though, anything but that.’

      Jane considered it. Maybe. She quite liked him. She liked his sensible attitude to Valentine’s Day. She was so fed up of people insisting that it was a romantic, enchanted time. It’s just another date on the calendar. And it was his birthday, after all. No one wanted to be alone on their birthday.

      ‘I’m Jane.’ She held out her hand, he shook it.

      ‘Pleased to meet you, Jane.’

      Jane waited for him to volunteer his name. He didn’t.

      ‘And you are?’

      ‘OK, well, this is it, I suppose. Crunch time. So it’s my birthday today, right.’

      ‘Yes, you said.’

      ‘I’m Valentino Lovelass.’ Jane snorted with laughter. ‘What’s funny?’ he asked with mock incredulity.

      ‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ Jane was practically choking on her laughter. ‘Are you joking?’ she asked eventually.

      ‘I never joke. I’m eminently sensible and practical. I’m always serious.’ There was a glint in his eyes that belied the fact that he was always serious so Jane insisted he produce his driving licence to prove he wasn’t making up a ridiculous alias.

      ‘I do at least understand why you hate Valentine’s Day,’ she said as they set off towards the pub.

      ‘And my parents too, don’t underestimate how much I hate them,’ he joked.

      ‘Oh get over it.’ Jane laughed. Teasingly she added, ‘It’s not like they destroyed your belief in Santa Claus at an early age.’

      ‘True, that would be really bad. Very bad indeed.’

      Katie and Isobel were watching from Isobel’s bedroom window. Katie winked at her daughter. ‘Perfect,’ she sighed.

      ‘You are a regular cupid, Mum. Congratulations. You do know his name though, right?’

      ‘Oh yes. And how I’m going to enjoy hearing my sister introduce him!’

A Sensible Proposal

      Anna Jacobs

      Award-winning author ANNA JACOBS writes both historical and modern romantic novels about families and relationships. She’s had over sixty novels published, with more in the pipeline, and she’s the sixth most borrowed author of adult fiction in the UK. She and her husband live half the year in Australia and half in the UK.

      This story is a spin-off from her Swan River Saga series, set in Lancashire and Western Australia in the 1860s. If you’d like to read more about the group of young women sent to Australia as maids, try her three novels Farewell to Lancashire, Beyond the Sunset and Destiny’s Path and the spin-off series The Traders (starting with The Trader’s Wife).

      You can find out more about her books, each of which has a separate page on her website, where you can read the first chapters and find about what gave her the ideas for the various stories on her website: http://www.annajacobs.com

A Sensible Proposal 1

       1863, Lancashire

      Sarah Boswick had been hungry for so long she couldn’t remember her last full meal. She stood quietly in the queue, not expecting more from the soup kitchen at the church than a bowl of thin soup and a chunk of stale bread. It would be her only food of the day.

      None of the mill workers had realised that the war between the states in America would affect Lancashire so badly, cutting off supplies of cotton and therefore putting people out of work. Sarah’s husband had been delighted to think of all the slaves being freed. He’d been such an idealist, poor Daniel. He’d died a year ago, weakened by lack of food, and she still missed him.

      The line of women shuffled forward and someone poked Sarah to make her move with them.

      When a gentleman with silver hair stopped nearby, Sarah didn’t at first realise he was speaking to her.

      Mrs Foster, one of the supervisors, said sharply, ‘You, Boswick! Step out of the line and answer the gentleman. He’s spoken to you twice already. Where are your manners?’

      Sarah moved quickly, not allowing herself the luxury of resenting the scolding –it didn’t pay to cross the supervisors, not if you wanted to eat here regularly. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid my thoughts were miles away.’

      ‘It’s partly my fault. I should have waited to be introduced to you before I spoke. I’m Simon Marville, from the town of Swindon in the south, and I’m here because my church has raised some money for the relief fund in this area.’

      She tried to pay attention but the smell of food nearby was intoxicating. Sometimes gentlemen or ladies came to the north to stare at the poor starving cotton operatives. It was annoying to be treated like a wild animal on display and it did little good that she could see. There would still be no work for those in Lancashire after the visitors had gone back to their comfortable lives.

      ‘Could we talk for a few minutes, Miss Boswick?’

      ‘Mrs I’m a widow.’ Sarah couldn’t help looking towards the food and as she did, her stomach growled.

      ‘Have you eaten today?’ he asked, still in that same gentle tone.

      ‘No, sir. The only food I’ll eat today is what’s offered here at the soup kitchen.’ She saw Mrs Foster looking at her and added quickly, ‘For which I’m very grateful.’

      He turned to the supervisor. ‘Do you think we could have some food brought for this poor woman, ma’am? It’ll be hard for her to concentrate on what I’m saying if she hasn’t eaten anything yet.’

      ‘Of course. If you sit down over there, I’ll bring some across for you both.’

      ‘None for me, thank you. Save it for those who need it so desperately.’ He led the way to the table indicated, pulling out a chair for Sarah.

      At least this visitor was treating her courteously, she thought as she sat down.

      He took his own seat and was about to speak again when Mrs Foster brought her a big bowl of soup and two pieces of bread.

      Sarah’s mouth watered at the sight of the larger bowl and extra bread. Clearly the lady patronesses were out to impress. She looked at him, wondering