A Widow's Vow Read online

  Also by Rachel Brimble

  The Pennington’s Series

  A Shop Girl in Bath

  A Shop Gets the Vote

  A Shop Girl’s Christmas

  A Shop Girl at Sea

  A WIDOW’S VOW

  Rachel Brimble

  AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

  www.ariafiction.com

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Rachel Brimble, 2020

  The moral right of Rachel Brimble to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781838935238

  Aria

  c/o Head of Zeus

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.ariafiction.com

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Become an Aria Addict

  This one is for my friend and most enthusiastic reader, Jackie Todd – you are the best fan a girl could have!

  Love you,

  xx

  One

  City of Bristol – February 1st 1851

  Louisa Hill collapsed onto the chintz sofa in the dockside house she shared with her husband and her loyal friend, Nancy. ‘Well, the windows are clean and the silver polished. We have, indeed, managed a good day’s work. What do you say to a trip to the tea shop?’

  ‘I’d say it’s a miracle you’re allowing yourself a treat.’ Nancy raised her eyebrows as she puffed up a cushion, her auburn curls falling around her temples. ‘You seem to be trying a little too hard to prove yourself to that husband of yours these days, Lou. You do believe he loves you, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’ Louisa stood and smoothed her hands over her apron, uncomfortable with how Nancy’s question poked so unerringly at her insecurities. ‘I just owe him so much. The least I can do in return is keep a nice house for him.’

  ‘Hmm, and an exciting bed whenever he deems to come home.’

  Irritated, Louisa walked to the parlour door and tightly clenched the handle. ‘I’ll never forget what Anthony did when he rescued me and neither should you considering he agreed to take you in, too.’

  ‘I agree, but how long do you intend paying him back? He gets more than enough for what he gives you.’

  Louisa swallowed as guilt that she’d secretly been feeling the same way over the last few weeks pressed down on her. ‘How can you say that?’

  Nancy planted her hands on her hips, her grey eyes blazing with annoyance. ‘Because he’s constantly taking advantage of you, that’s why. It’s one thing to gift you money and give you a roof over your head, but respect should come with that, too.’

  ‘He does respect me.’ She fought against the doubt that hovered around her heart. ‘He treats me just as any man would treat his wife.’

  ‘That’s because you are his wife.’ Nancy glared. ‘Why can’t you remember that? You’re not his whore anymore.’

  Locking gazes with her friend, Louisa had no doubt the fiery, streetwise rebelliousness in Nancy’s eyes was mirrored in her own. No matter how much they battled to maintain the carefully tended, middle-class veneer they each adopted whenever out and about on the pretty squares and streets of Bristol, who she and Nancy had once been never shifted far from their minds.

  Louisa marched into the hallway, her gaze darting over the high-polished side tables, the sparkling mirror and porcelain trinkets lining a high shelf. Every painting was dusted, every square of the runner beaten and brushed until the pile was plush, every tile mopped and buffed until it shone.

  But it didn’t matter how much she scrubbed and cleaned, or how often she argued with Nancy, Louisa never felt she could completely wash away her previous life as a whore. Yet, if Anthony had dismissed Louisa’s previous occupation, shouldn’t she, too? She and Nancy both deserved to shed the skin that had enveloped them through misfortune and circumstances beyond their control.

  Nancy’s footsteps came behind her and Louisa turned, braced for another confrontation.

  Her friend grimaced, her soft grey gaze filled with remorse. ‘I’m sorry. You know I’m only doing my best to look after you, right? I love the bones of you and always will. Fancy housewife, down-in-the-dirt beggar or wh—’

  ‘Queen of Sheba.’

  Nancy grinned. ‘Absolutely.’

  Louisa pulled the only friend, the only person she truly trusted in the whole world, into her arms and squeezed Nancy tight. ‘Let us never fall out completely. I’d be lost without you.’

  ‘Never. Friends for life.’

  A loud and determined knocking at the front door drew them apart and Louisa frowned. ‘That doesn’t sound good.’

  As she approached the door, Louisa brushed her hands over her skirts before smoothing some of her fallen blonde curls into place. She pulled open the door and smiled. ‘Good afternoon, can I help…’

  Further words stuck in Louisa’s throat.

  The constable was in his mid-thirties, his moustache as bushy as the two furry caterpillar-brows above his bulbous eyes. His expression was far from happy. ‘Mrs Anthony Hill?’

  Dread tiptoed up Louisa’s spine at the stern tone of his voice even as Nancy, stalwart as always, slipped her hand into Louisa’s. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Might I come in? I’d prefer that we not speak on the doorstep.’ The constable cleared his throat. ‘Under the circumstances.’

  Louisa’s foreboding gathered strength as she and Nancy stood back to let the constable step inside. She studied his face as she spoke. ‘Nancy? Would you kindly bring some tea into the parlour?’ She lifted her hand and gestured along the hallway. ‘If you’d like to follow me, Constable.’

  ‘Sergeant, madam. Sergeant Robert Williams, at your service.’

  Louisa dipped her head and led the way into the parlour. ‘Please, take a seat.’

  The sergeant sat on the settee as Louisa lowered into Anthony’s favourite wing-backed chair and pulled her trembling hands into her lap. The beige and cream walls seemed to slowly close in, the collective abundance of knick-knacks and framed sepia photographs dotted about the room adding to the suddenly stifling atmosphere. Despite the cheery chirping of the birds outside the open window and the fresh February air whispering through the room, Louisa sensed only bad news had brought the constabulary to her door.

  She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. ‘Can I ask what this unexpected visit is regarding, Sergeant?’

  ‘Let us wait for the tea, shall we? I think it best you have your maid with you.’

  Louisa’s mind reeled with possible explanations of why he was here, each one more alarming than the one before. The seconds ticked by like hours until the clattering of china announced Nancy’s return. She came into the living room, her intelligent gaze momentarily meeting Louisa’s before she placed the tea tray on the low table in front of them.

  ‘Milk and sugar, Sergeant?’ Nancy smiled, but her gaze was watchful and assessing. ‘Although, I’m sure I’m right in saying that you are already sweet—’

  ‘Just pour us each a cup, if you would, Nancy,’ Louisa interrupted, knowing her friend’s nervousness could easily lead to her natural flirtation which, considering the sergeant’s unimpressed expression, would not be
in any way reciprocated. ‘I suspect the sergeant has come to impart bad news, rather than good, so a cup of sustenance will be most welcome.’ She faced the sergeant, thinking she and Nancy would shortly be reaching for the wine decanter rather than the teapot. ‘Please, I’d prefer you not keep us in suspense any longer.’

  He took the cup Nancy offered him and cautiously sipped before slowly pushing it onto the table. Looking from Nancy to Louisa, the sergeant inhaled a long breath before extracting a cream-coloured envelope from his pocket. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that your husband, Mr Anthony Hill, was found hanged in a Bath hotel room this morning.’

  Louisa flinched and then an icy coldness shuddered through her, her fingers trembling harder. ‘I’m sorry?’

  The sergeant cleared his throat, his gaze dipping to the envelope. ‘I’m afraid all I can offer you is this, along with my sincere condolences.’

  A bitter taste coated her mouth as Louisa glanced at Nancy, her eyes wide and her mouth dropping open. ‘I don’t understand. My husband is in London on business. He has no need to be in Bath.’

  ‘Mrs Hill—’

  ‘What is this?’ She snatched the envelope from his hand, hating the way it shook in her fingers.

  Two spots of colour rose in the sergeant’s cheeks. ‘A suicide note, madam, and the deeds and key to a property in Bath.’

  ‘Suicide?’ Louisa closed her eyes, confusion and shock making her breaths sharpen. A sudden and deep sadness threatened to close her throat. Why in the world would Anthony choose to end his life? He would have spoken to her of his desperation. Wouldn’t he? She shook her head. ‘Anthony would never… what do you mean, a property? I don’t understand. This is our home. We have no home in Bath. I think you are mistaken, Sergeant. You must have the wrong address.’

  Yet, possibility pressed down on her making her tremble harder. There had been times she was certain he’d lied to her, times he could not quite meet her eyes when he said he would ensure she was always taken care of… Surely, Anthony would not take his life and leave her alone any more than she would him. He had given her a good life, a better life, and would never abandon her. She had known nothing but Anthony for four years. His care and attention had ensured she did not have to think, plan or scheme for another day in her life.

  Could he really be gone?

  A sharp stab of grief pierced deep into Louisa’s chest; tears burning behind her eyes as her ignorance to Anthony’s state of mind and distress threatened to overcome her.

  ‘Mrs Hill, I assure you I have the right address. I would not be here if we weren’t certain the man found was your husband.’

  Second by painful second, the resilient armour Louisa had relied on for so many years before Anthony had taken her and Nancy in slid into place as though it had never disappeared.

  She ripped open the envelope and a brass key dropped onto her lap. She picked it up, staring at it as though it was an alien creature before snapping her attention to the piece of paper, Anthony’s handwriting unmistakable.

  The house is entirely yours. I’m sorry.

  Tears blurred her vision as she unfolded the other sheets of paper: official deeds to a Bath house she knew nothing about. The words jumped and leapt in front of her eyes, her tongue frozen as Nancy rose from her seat.

  ‘I think it best you leave Mrs Hill to process her shock, Sergeant.’ Nancy spoke as if from behind a thick cloud. ‘Let me show you out.’

  ‘Mrs Hill?’

  Louisa slowly raised her eyes to the sergeant’s.

  His expression was filled with sympathy. ‘I really am sorry.’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ She dropped her gaze to Anthony’s letter and crumpled it in her fist. ‘My husband has written the exact same thing. Good day, Sergeant.’

  He nodded and followed Nancy from the room as Louisa stared towards the parlour windows, numb and lost. Anthony was dead. She and Nancy were alone. Just as they’d each been before. How could she have not suspected more was going on in Anthony’s life than he had told her? Culpability whispered through her. Because she’d not bothered to ask. She had never allowed herself to fully trust him. Always retained just a little self-reliance, albeit internal. It had always only really been her and Nancy against the world. Her and Nancy side by side, come what may.

  Her marriage had been one of convenience, both for her and most likely for Anthony. She closed her eyes. But there had been affection. There had been care. And there had been something that each had gained from the other.

  Until now.

  Two

  City of Bath – February 1851

  The bandaged knuckles of Jacob Jackson’s boxing opponent slammed into his jaw with such force Jacob stumbled backwards, a burst of stars momentarily fuzzing his vision. Unacceptable. It was time to finish this thing – he needed a pint. Adrenaline swept through him on a violent rush and he drew himself to his full six-feet-three-inch height. Tensing his muscles, Jacob revelled in the pop and strain of the tendons across his biceps. With a roar, he landed the other boxer a swift, sharp jab right in the very centre of his face.

  Blood flew and sweat sprayed as the smoky, backstreet pub erupted into a barrage of cheers, jeering and stamping feet.

  Jacob smiled as his opponent swayed to the left, then the right… before slowly falling backwards, his great bulk landing so heavily on the canvas that vibrations passed beneath Jacob’s stockinged feet.

  His manager leapt into the ring and pulled Jacob’s head into the crook of his elbow, his knuckles rubbing over his crown. ‘Yes, Jakey boy! Out with a single punch. Let’s hear your appreciation, people.’ His manager raised Jacob’s hand. ‘Your victor, Jacob “The Man” Jackson.’

  Jacob accepted the congratulations with a nod, his smile dissolving. Fighting was a means to an end. Each punch a reminder of what his life was and always would be. He would never veer from the path determined for him at an age when a boy should not know the difference between a punch and a beating.

  But Jacob did. Always had.

  Violence bred violence. The lesson taught to him in no uncertain terms by his father.

  He shrugged out of his manager’s embrace and ducked between the ropes towards the bar, ignoring the congratulatory slaps to his tense shoulders and the flirtatious smiles of whores and the drinkers’ wives.

  ‘Do you have a pint for me, Maura?’

  ‘Coming right up, my darling.’

  With badly dyed red hair and teeth so few it was a wonder how the woman ate anything more than soup, Maura was the only person Jacob liked, or even tolerated, in the White Hart. Maybe it was something to do with her friendly blue eyes, always filled with humour, and the ready smile she wore for anyone and everyone, that kept him coming to sit at the bar where he’d talk to her night after night until closing. Set far back in a side street of Bath’s busy metropolis, the White Hart was Jacob’s second home.

  The first was a small townhouse by the river, owned by the same man who liked to think he owned Jacob. His manager, Henry Bertrum – a crook, a scoundrel and swindler of the lowliest rank, yet Jacob kept Henry’s company anyway. As long as he stayed with him, Jacob got to fight some of the best boxers on Bath’s circuit, had bed and board and the backing of Doreen, an eccentric housekeeper who he was fonder of than was good for him.

  ‘So…’

  Rolling his eyes, Jacob picked up his pint. ‘What?’ He faced Henry and tried not to squint under the glare of his manager’s garish purple and green suit, his top hat shining like a black beacon. ‘I finished the fight, didn’t I? Now I’d prefer to have the rest of the evening to myself, if you don’t mind.’

  Henry slipped onto a vacant stool. ‘It makes no difference if you won this fight or twenty, you’ve got to up your game if we’re ever going to make our fortune in London.’ He gripped Jacob’s shoulder. ‘London is where the big money is. Don’t you want to be richer than your wildest dreams? Have a woman on each arm, a carriage at your beck and call, the best clothes money can buy?’

  ‘You’re describing your perfect life, not mine.’ Jacob supped his beer and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘I’m happy enough here. I don’t need a woman or fancy clothes, and certainly not a carriage when I’ve got a pair of working legs. You’ve got your cut, now leave a man to his beer, will you?’