A Country Girl

Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)

Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

By the Same Author: (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 1 (#u2542aeb5-000a-597b-ab58-670783b22293)

‘Aye up, the Binghams are coming through the lock,’ Kate Stokes cried provocatively, knowing it would rouse Algernon, her brother, from his sun-induced reverie.

As soon as she’d heard the clip-clop of a horse’s hoofs and attendant voices, Kate had rushed to peer over the garden fence to see who was on the towpath of the canal which ran alongside. There was some personal motive in this, too – it could have been Reggie Hodgetts. Till that moment, she had been stooping down to tend their father’s vegetable patch, creating the illusion that she was a homely girl, which she patently was not. She was, however, extraordinarily pretty but with a tongue like a whip, and her relationship with Algernon was, at best, thorny.

Algernon had seemed unflappable as he leant against the back door of the lock-keeper’s cottage where the siblings lived with their mother and father. His face was sedately and serenely turned upward to receive the warmth of the spring sun. But, on hearing the news that the Binghams were coming through the lock, his heart missed a beat and he was at once stirred into a renewed vigour. The Binghams, you see, had a particularly lovely daughter, and he duly rushed to the fence to join Kate to gain sight of her. Sure enough, he spotted Seth Bingham leading his strong little horse as it pulled their pair of narrowboats towards the lock gates.

Kate flashed a knowing look at her brother. ‘I thought that might get you going.’

‘Why should the Binghams get me going?’ he protested, feigning indifference. ‘You were pretty quick off the mark yourself … to see if it was the Hodgettses, I reckon.’

‘The Hodgettses ain’t due past here till Tuesday.’

‘No, but you sprang up quick enough, just in case it was that scruff Reggie,’ Algernon countered. ‘So you’ll just have to wait till Tuesday, won’t you, before you can go gallivanting off with him?’ He glanced at his sister disdainfully. ‘Reggie Hodgetts ain’t much of a catch, is he?’

‘Mind your own business,’ Kate replied, at once rallying. ‘You’re interested enough in Marigold Bingham, the daughter of a scruffy boatman. I’ve seen you. Every time she comes a-nigh you’re up, ogling after her. You can’t keep your eyes off her.’

Algernon – who answered more readily to Algie – replied calmly, ‘She’s different. She looks nice. She’s got something about her. I’d like to see her without her working clothes on.’

‘Pooh, I bet you would, you dirty sod—’

‘I didn’t mean that. I mean I’d like to see her in her Sunday best—’

‘Huh!’ Kate exclaimed suspiciously. ‘I know what you mean. And you’m already a-courting Harriet Meese … You ought to be ashamed.’

‘Ashamed?’ he protested defensively. ‘Why should I be ashamed? I ain’t promised to Harriet Meese.’

‘You could do worse.’

‘And you could do better,’ Algie replied, as he scanned the towpath opposite for sight of Marigold.

‘Oh, well,’ remarked Kate loftily, ‘We all know Harriet’s face ain’t up to much.’

‘Neither is yours,’ Algie responded with brotherly disparagement. He would never let Kate believe he considered her nice-looking.

Kate reacted by bobbing her tongue at Algie, but he ignored her and watched the progress of the Binghams. Hannah Bingham, Seth’s wife, was at the tiller, steering the horse boat, the leading one of the pair which they used for their work. Hannah, he perceived, was not like the usual boatwomen. For a start, he had an inkling that she was not narrowboat born and bred. She did not wear the traditional bonnet of the boatwomen, which fell in folds over their shoulders and back, like a ruched coal sack, and which was about as appealing. She had large, soulful dark eyes, and was blessed with high cheekbones; a handsome woman still, who must have been a rare beauty in her youth. The Binghams seemed a cut above many of the boat families. Their boats were spruce and shining, and always looked freshly painted with the colourful decorations that were traditional among their kind. They obviously took care. They stood out.

A child was crawling at Hannah’s feet, tethered with a piece of string to prevent him falling into the canal. Various other sons and daughters, all youngsters, watched the proceedings, scattered randomly aboard the second narrowboat which they towed, known as the butty. A lark hopped about in a bamboo cage, set between tubs of plants which stood like sentries on top of the cabin.

‘I can’t see Marigold,’ Algie complained. ‘Is she there?’

‘There …’ Kate pointed impatiently. ‘Opening the sluice. Hidden by the hoss …’

He shifted along the fence and caught sight of Marigold Bingham bending over the mechanism, a windlass in her hand as she deftly opened the sluice that let water into the lock. Her dark, shining hair was pinned up, giving an elegant set to her neck. Algie was glad she never seemed to wear those hideous bonnets either. He waited, his eyes never leaving her until he was blessed with a rewarding glimpse of her lovely face. She walked jauntily back towards the boat swinging her windlass, the breeze pressing her thin dress against her body, outlining her youthful figure and slender legs. She patted the horse as she went, and Algie basked in the sunshine of the smile that was intended for her father.

‘How do, Mr Bingham!’ Algie called amiably, rather to draw Marigold’s attention than Seth’s. ‘And you, Mrs Bingham.’ He touched the peak of an imaginary cap as a mark of respect.

Seth Bingham turned around and addressed himself to Algie, whose face was bearing a matey grin as he peered over the lock-keeper’s garden fence. ‘How do, young Algie. It’s a fine day for it and no mistake.’

‘Mooring up here for the night, Mr Bingham?’

‘Soon as we’m through the lock, if there’s e’er a mooring free,’ the boatman replied. ‘It is Sunday, lad, after all’s said and done.’

‘God’s day of rest, they say.’

Seth scoffed at the notion. ‘For some, mebbe.’

To Algie’s delight, Marigold flashed him a shy smile of acknowledgement. He saw a hint of her mother in her lovely face.

‘How do, Marigold.’

‘Hello, Algie.’ She answered coyly, avoiding his eyes further as she stepped onto the butty.

Their strong little horse took the strain, stamping on the hard surface of the towpath to gain some purchase as it hauled the first narrowboat, the horse boat, slowly into the lock. Steadily, surely, the narrowboat, lying low in the water under the burden of its cargo, began to inch forward away from the side of the canal. Marigold had nimbly jumped aboard and was at the tiller of the butty now, waiting for her turn to enter the lock.

Algie watched, unable to take his eyes off her. She was as statuesque as the figurehead of some naval flagship, but infinitely more lovely. Her back was elegantly erect, her head, which he beheld in profile now, was held high, showing her exquisite nose to wonderful advantage. He reckoned Marigold was about eighteen, though he did not know it for certain. For years he’d kept an assessing, admiring eye on her, catching occasional glimpses as she passed the lock-keeper’s cottage. In the last three years he’d noticed how her looks and demeanour had really blossomed. It was as if he’d been patiently watching the petals of a slow-blooming rose unfurl into flawless beauty. She stood out from the other boatmen’s daughters; always had. In fact, she stood out from all the other daughters of men, boatmen’s or not. She was endowed with a natural grace where others seemed ungainly. If girls like Marigold, who lived and worked on the canals, hadn’t escaped to work in the factories by the time they were eighteen, it was generally because they were wed to a boatman, some by the time they were sixteen. Yet there was never anything or anybody to suggest that Marigold was spoken for. Maybe Seth was too protective of her, realising her worth, saving her for somebody with finer prospects. It would not surprise him.

‘You look a picture today, Marigold,’ Algie called, giving her a wink. ‘In your Sunday best, are you?’

She smiled shyly and shook her head as the butty slid forward. ‘Just me ornery working clothes, Algie,’ she answered in a small but very appealing voice.

‘Then I’d like to see you in your Sunday best. I was just saying to our Kate—’