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The Black Candle is an extraordinary, sweeping, multigenerational saga, told by one of the world's most beloved storytellers, Catherine Cookson. Set in a nineteenthcentury village in the northern England countryside so familiar to Cookson, this heartwarming epic tale is a rich tapestry blending the historical detail, engrossing story, and memorable characters that readers have come to expect of this author.For The Black Candle, Catherine Cookson has created one of her most unforgettable heroines, Bridget Mordaunt, who oversees with a firm but loving hand the candle and blacking factories she inherited as a young girl. Bridget is a woman of innate goodness and character who is the steadfast advocate of less fortunate people such as Joseph Skinner, a factory employee unjustly accused of murder. The most remarkable of all of Catherine Cookson's(continued on back flap) Other Catherine Cookson titles:THE BAILEY CHRONICLESTHE HARROGATE SECRETTHE

PARSON'S DAUGHTERTHE BANNAMAN LEGACYTHE WHIPTHE BLACK VELVET

GOWNTHE MOTH

THEBLACKCANDLE•A NovelCATHERINE COOKSONLARGE PRINT BOOK CLUB

EDITIONSUMMIT BOOKSLondon Toronto Sydney Tokyo Singapore Volume 1This Large Print Edition, prepared especially for Doubleday Book & Music Clubs, Inc., contains the complete, unabridged text of the original Publisher's Edition.SUMMIT BOOKSSimon & Schuster BuildingRockefeller Center1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, New York 10020This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents areeither the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Anyresemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirelycoincidental.Copyright © 1990 by Catherine CooksonAll rights reserved including the right of reproductionin whole or in part in any form. Originally published in Great Britain by Bantam Press, a division ofTransworld Publishers Ltd. SUMMIT BOOKS and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.This Large Print Book carries the seal of approval of N.A.V.H.Manufactured in the United States of AmericaQuality Printing and Binding by: ARCATA GRAPHICS/KINGSPORTPress and Roller Streets Kingsport, TN 37662 U.S.A.

ToDr. Brian Enright,University Librarian,Newcastle-upon-Tyne.My warmest thanks for his helpin my research, particularly thatdealing with the last century.

1PART ONEAs It Was In The Beginning1883

It was a Sunday in late September. The heat from the sun was such that the two young men picking blackberries had undone the top buttons of their Sunday coats, loosened their string ties and let the collars of their bluestriped shirts fall open, but still kept their caps on their heads.The one who looked the elder was thickset; what hair could be seen under the rim of his cap was brown. The other was slim-built and fair; his hair was straight and sticking with sweat to his cheeks, and he now threw a handful of blackberries into the bass-bag that was almost half full of fruit, saying as he did so, "I'm finished. I'm sweltered. Anyway, there must be six pounds in there." And to this the other replied, "I want it full. She always has it full."

"It's Sunday, man.""Is it?""Aye, it is; and I'm off.""Begod! you're not. Now you get your hand in there again."The thickset young man paused and raised his head to where the bramble bush was entangled in the lower branches of one of the sycamore trees that hedged the field and, pressing the brambles aside, he looked to his right towards where the sycamores joined with the woodland from which a horseman was emerging. He had heard the noise of the gallop, but the horse had now fallen into a trot.His brother, standing close by his side now, was also peering through the bramble. Then, some other movement catching his eye, he looked to the left to where, in the distance and skirting the field, was the figure of a woman, or a girl.A dig in the ribs made the elder brother turn and look towards the figure, and recognition slowly dawning on him caused his eyes to narrow and his mouth to drop into a gape; but then, gripping his brother by the shoulder, he pulled him down beside him to the ground, for the horse had not only continued to approach but had stopped within a yard or so from them on the other side of the hedge.When the younger man now mouthed a name his brother doubled his fist in his face; after which they both remained on their hunkers but with their heads poked forward.Through the tangled brambles they could just discern the gaitered legs of the rider as he walked the horse forward, seemingly to where the girl was standing.It was the man's voice that came to them first. He was saying, "Who wrote that note?" But he didn't get an answer for some seconds; then the girl said, "Me. I did.""I didn't know you were so advanced.""I can write a bit, an' read.""Well, you mustn't write me any more notes. You understand? In fact, you mustn't try to get in touch with me again. You're a silly girl." Then the man's voice changed as he said, "No, you're not. You're not a silly girl. You are beautiful, so beautiful, all beautiful." And then there was a slight laugh as he added, 'Except your hands.

Odd about your hands, stained, podgy."

6"Don't touch me!""Now, now.""I said, don't touch me, not ever again. But what am I going to do? Me da will put me out. I've nowhere. I won't go to the workhouse, I won't!""Sh! Sh! You'll not go to the workhouse. And anyway, all this is your own fault. You should never have been made like you are, dear: you ask for it, you know.""I didn't. I didn't. I didn't ask you to touch me. Never wanted it. It was the barn dance, and the beer. I never knew what I was up to.""Oh yes, you did. You knew what you were up to all right.""I didn't, never! But I do now.""You could have been with someone else, my dear.""I haven't. I wasn't. You know I wasn't. I mean, you know I hadn't. And that's what you said, you knew I hadn't.""Well, what do you want me to do? I can do nothing now. Anyway, you've been refusing me lately.""I ... I want it taken away. I have no

money. But I tell you, I won't go into the workhouse, I'll go in the river first!""Don't be silly! girl. Don't be silly!""I'm not silly. You believe me, I'm not silly.""So you want money?""Aye. Well, enough to take it away. I'll . . . I'll take money now; I wouldn't afore. Remember that, I wouldn't afore.""No. No, you wouldn't, would you? That's something in your favour. How much will you need?""I don't know. I'll . . .

I'll have to go away some place, into the city, or some place. I ... I won't go to old Nell's. She takes 'em away all right, oh yes, but she cripples you. I've seen 'em.""Oh, you're well versed in this kind of thing, aren't you?"'No, I ain't. But I know what happens when you ain't married.'There followed a silence, broken only by the snorting of the horse, and during which the two young men looked at each other questioningly but yet knowledgeably, then turned to look again through the bracken and bramble to hear the man saying, 'Well,

8that should see you through. And I won't be seeing you again?''No, you won't be seem' me again.

Never!'There followed another silence, until the man's voice, this time with a note of regret in it, came to them, saying, 'That's a pity. Yes, Lily, that's a pity. But . . . well, goodbye now.'The men behind the hedge could see the man bend forward to do something with his stirrup before throwing his leg into the air. They saw the horse being turned and then they heard it galloping away. And when the younger one went to speak, again he was silenced, this time by a wagging finger.Neither of them could see the girl, but they knew her to be still there because part of her shadow was visible on the grass. And then they were both startled when a hand came groping through from the other side, and they almost fell on their backs from their hunkered positions when they saw the hand feeling around the soil near the root of the tree.

They saw the fingers, brown-stained and hardly discernible from the earth, scratching into it, then stop and disappear for a moment, to come back again with a

piece of shale or rock, and scrape with this until a hole about six inches deep was made. They watched fascinated and almost breathless as a small leather pouch was pressed into it before being covered by the earth. The hand was withdrawn again but only for a moment. They watched it now placing two pieces of stick, apparently to mark the hole; then it was withdrawn, the brambles were pressed back into place, and a long, low sigh came to their ears.They allowed a full minute to pass before slowly getting to their feet and looking over the hedge, to see the figure skirting the field again.That was Lily Whitmore. Did you see who he was?''Aye, I saw who he was.''And she's got her belly full. God! wait till this gets . . .'So quickly did the hands come on his throat that the younger man fell back into the bushes, only to be pulled forward again and shaken. And now he was gasping, 'You gone mad, our Joe?''Not as mad as you'll find me if you dare

10open your slack mouth about this do. D'you hear me?''Leave go of me.''I'll leave go of you when I'm finished. Now listen to me. You say one bloody word about what's happened over that hedge and you won't know what horse's kicked you. But the first one'll be Andy Davison. You mind Andy Davison? He did six months for you. He did six months that you should have been doin' in Durham because when you were on the run you planted the stuff in his cree. By God! If I'd known as much then as I know now, you would have gone along the line. Well, Andy's still waitin' to find out who did the dirty on him. An' if you live to survive what he'll do to you, then you'll wish he had done the job properly, I can tell you that.

Now that's only one thing, for then there's me ma and the insurance money. If she knew about that, you'd be out through the door with a broken skull, as much as she's all for you. And that's not forgettin' Farmer Atkinson's barn.'1 ... I didn't do that. Well, I mean . , .''You egged daft Davey on to do it, didn't 11you? And where is he now? In the loony-bin. Why I haven't split on you afore, God alone knows. But I'm tellin' you this time, just one word, just one little whisper in the factory, or anywhere about, and you're for it. You'd have been for it years ago if I hadn't been thinking of Ma.''Aye, an' Lily Whitmore, You've always been sweet on her.''Well, I'm goin' to tell you somethin': I'm goin' to be more sweet on her; I'm goin' to marry her.''Huh! Marry her? Me ma wouldn't stand for that.''I'm not worried about what Ma's goin' to stand for in the future. I won't be there; you'll be head of the house and lookin' after her.''Just because of that?' Fred Skinner pointed down towards the hidden bag, but his brother Joe did not reply directly; he said, 'I don't know what's in there. Whether there's ten or fifty, it would be all the same to me; but we'll find out, shall we? 'Cos I'd only have to leave it there for a matter of minutes and you'd be back, wouldn't you?'Joe pulled the little bag from the earth,IL

12but he didn't open it, he put it straight into his pocket, which brought forth from his brother, and in a tone of disbelief, 'You're not goin' to see how much is there?''No; because it doesn't belong to me. But see that bag there--he pointed down to the blackberries--'you can take that back to Ma, and if you want to open your big mouth you can tell her I've gone a courtinV'What! You mean to take her on then?

You're kiddin'.''You should know me by now, Fred, I never kid; I leave all that to you.''You'll be the laughin' stock.''Aye, I'll be the laughin' stock if it gets out it isn't mine. But it isn't goin' to get out that it isn't mine, is it, Fred? You understand me? If you don't, I've been wastin' me breath this last five minutes. And you know what I said then; and just as I don't kid I don't break promises.'After staring at his brother Fred Skinner stooped and grabbed up the basket, and he had taken two steps backwards before he said, "You think you're a bloody great guy, don't you? There's been no holdin' you since you got that leg-up in the factory."

Joe answered quietly, 'You've got a tidy way to go; get home.'"Aye. And you, you've got a tidy way to go an' all. They're right what they're sayin': you're aimin' for manager; but you've got no learnin', even with your night classes, 'cos you're still only about half a step from where you started.'When Joe took in a long deep breath Fred turned sharply away and walked down the root-encrusted path. His hand in his pocket now gripping the little bag, Joe stood watching his brother until he disappeared, the while thinking: No learnin'. Well, he'd show him. Aye, he would. He'd have learnin'.As if the thought had acted as a spur, he turned about and ran along by the hedge to where the sycamores met the wood.Here, the boles of the trees were comparatively clear, which enabled him to pass through to the path on which the horse had emerged only minutes before, and he paused and looked across the field, considering: If he ran would he catch up with her before she reached home? Would she have gone straight home, though? But where else would she go? One place surely she wouldn't go, and that 14was anywhere near Ponder's Lane, because, being a Sunday and the weather like it was, the lane and the fields beyond would be thick with courting couples and those out to make a start on it, just as the dry-stone walls would be with the lads sitting on them watching the parade of giggling lasses, supposedly going flower-picking. And they did pick flowers, cowslips early on, then buttercups and daisies. The fields around Low Fell and Birtley were stripped on a Sunday. Bairns would take bunches home, but the lasses mostly would scatter theirs or, later, lie on them. That many of them should have been at chapel or church might have been noticeable in the number of empty pews; but not so in the Catholic church.

There, they would be packed with the Irish. It wasn't so much fear of God but the fear of the priest with that lot. Lily was Irish; well, at least her stepfather was.He started to run. What would he say when he got to the house? I want to see Lily? And what would her reaction be? Surprise? If only he could catch up with her before she reached home.Five minutes later he saw her. She was 15standing against the wall of the factory, the Mordaunt Black Polish factory where she worked, where they both worked, and which building, with others, bordered the built-up area of Gateshead Fell.At this end was the unsavoury but sweetly named district of Honeybee Place, four long rows of houses, each named after birds: robin, hawk, finch, and lark, even though the only birds to be seen in this quarter were the gregarious sparrows, except where, in a house, you might find a caged linnet, goldfinch or bullfinch, or, out in the fields beyond, you might startle a lark to rise and then stand watching in wonder as it soared in its singing.On weekdays this particular area would be swarming with dark-coated and shawled figures, a beehive indeed as horse-driven lorries were loaded with the produce of the factory. Now there was only this young girl.She had been leaning, head bent, against the wall, but on the approach of footsteps she straightened up quickly, then stopped when she recognized the man coming towards her.'Hello, Lily,'