No Wings to Fly
| No Wings to Fly | |
| Jess Foley | |
| Random House (2010) | |
| Tags: | Sagas, Fiction |
Synopsis
One woman's struggle against great odds, with a heart tragically divided.Having spent her childhood with a cold, unfeeling stepmother, Lily Clair's life is changed for ever when she is sent as general maid to old friends of her family. Soon into the dull routine comes Joel, handsome son of a wealthy entrepreneur, and for Lily, young and vulnerable, their meeting is a revelation.Riding high on the crest of her new-found happiness she cannot be prepared for the violent attack that comes in the night, or for its devastating, life-changing consequences. But live with the consequences she must as, with a heart torn, she deals with one hand of fate after another.Building to an unforgettable climax set against a plague-ravaged rural England, Lily Clair's story is one of love, passion, betrayal, tragedy and longing. In her search for happiness, she is a woman you will never forget ...
Also by Jess Foley
So Long At The Fair
Too Close To The Sun
Saddle The Wind
Wait For The Dawn
Jess Foley
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Version 1.0
Epub ISBN: 9781446429921
Published by Arrow Books in 2006
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Copyright © Jess Foley 2006
Jess Foley has asserted the right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
First published in the United Kingdom in 2006 by Century
Arrow Books
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The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 0 09 946646 8 (from Jan 2007)
ISBN 0 09 946646 5
For Jenny and John
Chapter One
‘Well, you certainly don’t think the matter’s going to end here, do you? Because I can assure you it’s not.’
Lily could hear her stepmother’s words through the open casement, hissing, sharp and staccato on the summer air, but she could not see her from her seat on the lowest bough of the apple tree. Lily had taken a bite from the ripe pear in her hand, and the juice had run down her wrist. Now, though, for the moment, the pear was forgotten as she concentrated on trying to hear the exchange coming from the room. She could not go closer in order to hear better and get a better view; she dared not give her presence away and anger her stepmother still further. She could, however, see her brother’s form through the glass, albeit dim and shadowed in the shade-darkened room. She could not make out his expression, or indeed any feature of his face. All she could hear was the murmur of his voice when he spoke, mumbled and indistinct. Her stepmother’s words, however, were clearly audible.
‘Your father’s going to learn about this the minute he gets in,’ she said. ‘Make no mistake about that. Because if you think we’ve got money to burn, to waste on new clothes for you, when you can’t look after what you have, then you’ve got another think coming. Look at your jacket torn.’
Another murmur from Tom, though once again not loud or distinct enough for Lily to catch the words. She had seen him just a few minutes earlier, sneaking into the house, trying to get by without their stepmother seeing him. He
had not been sharp enough, though, and had been caught and brought up halfway across the kitchen.
‘And what about your cap?’ Mrs Clair’s voice again. ‘Where d’you suppose your cap is now?’
Tom’s faint voice came, mumbling, brief, and then the woman’s:
‘Is it, indeed? Well, you won’t get it back now. It’s gone for good, you can bet on that. What are you looking for – to get dismissed from school? Go back next month without a jacket, without a cap and they’ll send you packing. It’ll be the ragged school for you. That old Mr Neville, that miserable so-and-so, isn’t likely to give your cap back. What were you doing in his yard anyway?’
Another mumble from Tom, followed by Mrs Clair’s harsh tone.
‘Well, then, you’ll have lost the ball too, and serves you right. And what were you doing playing and wasting time when you were told to come straight home from the farm?’
Lily shifted slightly on the apple bough, straining to hear, but she still could not catch Tom’s murmured reply.
When Mrs Clair’s voice came again, it sounded closer to the window. ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice ringing out, obviously directed at Lily, ‘and if you out there have had your ears full, perhaps you’d like to get something done. I know you’re there.’ She appeared at the casement then, overlooking the rear yard with its strip of lawn and the apple tree rising up out of it. Quickly, Lily scrambled down from her perch.
‘And don’t run away just because you’ve been caught.’
At the words Lily came to a halt beside the tree, looking at her stepmother.
Going solely by the strength of Mrs Clair’s voice, one might have expected a large person, but she was below average height, and lean to the point of thinness. She
looked a little harassed today, but that was nothing new. Her light brown hair, thinning a little, was coming adrift from the pins. At thirty-five, the prettiness that had once been hers was fading.
‘Sitting out there with your ears flapping,’ she said. ‘Just because you’ve finished at the Mellers’ doesn’t mean you’re done for the day. Your father’ll be in soon, and there’s water to be drawn and vegetables to bring in, so I suggest you get busy. Or you’ll find yourself in trouble too. I’ve enough to do with your brother.’
‘Yes, Mother.’ At once Lily turned and started across the yard to the well.
‘And what are you eating?’
Lily turned back to face her. ‘A pear.’
‘Where’d you get it?’
‘Mrs Meller gave it to me.’
‘Oh, I suppose she thinks I don’t feed you enough, is that it? Well, throw it away; otherwise you won’t want any dinner.’
Lily did as she was told. She would have liked to take a final bite, but she knew better, and drawing back her hand, she threw the half-eaten fruit into the straggling bit of shrubbery beside the lawn. As she did so, her stepmother turned her back on the window and moved out of sight.
After Lily had drawn a pail of water she stood for some moments beside the well, leaning against the upright. She was a girl of just above medium height. She had dark brown hair, and dark eyes, but a very fair skin, and in her regular features was the promise of a nascent beauty. Of late, her coltish form had begun to soften. She had turned fifteen just a month before, on July the second.
She sighed, absently wiping her juice-stained hand over her pinafore. On the early August breeze she heard the chimes from the church clock striking the hour of five. Her father would be in before too long. From where she stood
beside the well she could look to the right and see almost to the end of the long garden path, and the area at its foot that passed for an orchard. She turned her attention to the house again. It was a small, 25-year-old dwelling that had been built in the second year of Victoria’s reign. It had red brick walls and a tiled roof, and stood four-square on its little plot in Hawthorne Lane, a lane that went nowhere where horse-drawn vehicles were concerned, for the way ended in a stile, beyond which green meadows stretched away towards the next village.
Her eyes and ears focused on the window, Lily could no longer see or hear anything that passed inside the kitchen, though she could well imagine the tongue-lashing that Tom was still receiving. The worst of it was, it would not end with their stepmother’s anger – an anger that often seemed to spring from nowhere, and with the least provocation; the end would come when their father returned from the factory.
‘Lily?’
Mrs Clair had appeared at the window again. Lily straightened. ‘Yes, Mother?’
‘I’d be grateful if you’d finish drawing the water,’ Mrs Clair said, her voice full of irritation, ‘and sometime today would be as well. Dora’s got to have her wash, in case you’d forgotten, and there’s the vegetables to be got ready.’
‘Yes, Mother – coming right away.’
Later, Lily was setting the table for the evening meal – the main meal of the day. She, her brother, stepmother and small half-sister were in the kitchen, the room where the whole family congregated. Mrs Clair was sitting sewing in the light from the window, a little nest of stockings in her lap. Near her feet her daughter, Dora, a placid five-year-old – now washed by Lily, and wearing her nightdress ready for bed – sat cooing over her doll. Tom was sitting on a
three-legged stool beneath the long-case clock, nervously shifting and stretching a piece of string between his fingers. Tension was evident in every sinew of his body.
On the soft summer air footsteps sounded in the yard and after a few moments they heard Mr Clair open the back door and enter the scullery. At the sound of her father’s steps, Lily looked across at her brother. Their stepmother did likewise, in the same moment hissing in a whisper, ‘Yes, my lad, you might well look concerned.’
Seeing the apprehension in Tom’s eyes, it was all Lily could do not to move to him, but she remained standing by the table, waiting.
Tom was five years younger than Lily. Small for his age, he was two or three inches shorter than she. In spite of his small, lean stature, though, he had a particular beauty – Lily had always thought so – with his finely shaped head, well-formed features and thick, dark brown hair. Now, beneath his perplexed brow, his hazel eyes looked wide with anxiety, and he shifted on the stool as if he might rise and run from the room. Reading his discomfiture, Mrs Clair said sharply to him, ‘You stay where you are, my boy. You’re not to move until you’re given permission.’