Abbeyford Inheritance

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• Margaret Dickinson
  
• Author's Note
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  

Born in Gainsborough, Lincolnshire, Margaret Dickinson moved to the coast at the age of seven and so began her love for the sea and the Lincolnshire landscape.

Her ambition to be a writer began early and she had her first novel published at the age of twenty-five. This was followed by twenty-seven further titles including
Plough the Furrow
,
Sow the Seed
and
Reap the Harvest
, which make up her Lincolnshire Fleethaven trilogy.

Many of her novels are set in the heart of her home county, but in
Tangled Threads
and
Twisted Strands
the stories include not only Lincolnshire but also the framework knitting and lace industries of Nottingham.

Her 2012 and 2013 novels,
Jenny's War
and
The Clippie Girls
, were both top twenty bestsellers and her 2014 novel,
Fairfield Hall
, went to number nine on the
Sunday Times
bestseller list.

My writing career falls into two ‘eras'. I had my first novel published at the age of twenty-five, and between 1968 and 1984 I had a total of nine novels published by Robert Hale Ltd. These were a mixture of light, historical romance, an action-suspense and one thriller, originally published under a pseudonym. Because of family commitments I then had a seven-year gap, but began writing again in the early nineties. Then occurred that little piece of luck that we all need at some time in our lives: I found a wonderful agent, Darley Anderson, and on his advice began to write saga fiction; stories with a strong woman as the main character and with a vivid and realistic background as the setting. Darley found me a happy home with Pan Macmillan, for whom I have now written twenty-one novels since 1994. Older, and with a maturity those seven ‘ fallow' years brought me, I recognize that I am now writing with greater depth and daring.

But I am by no means ashamed of those early works: they have been my early learning curve – and I am still learning! Originally, the first nine novels were published in hardback and subsequently in Large Print, but have never previously been issued in paperback or, of course, in ebook. So, I am thrilled that Macmillan, under their Bello imprint, has decided to reissue all nine titles.

Abbeyford
,
Abbeyford Inheritance
and
Abbeyford Remembered
form a trilogy with a chequered history, which took four years to complete. It began life as a long, rambling 150,000 word novel,
Adelina
. On advice, this was cut drastically to about 60,000 words but it still failed to find a publisher. I started a sequel,
Carrie
, and this seemed to work much better. It was then suggested that this book should be submitted instead of
Adelina
, but to me that would have been wasting the first part of the story. I decided to put the two novels together and to write an earlier piece to start it all off, thereby forming one long novel again, but in three separate parts. This was then sent out to publishers and found acceptance. But – wait for it – the publishers wanted it split into three separate books. So, all three were published in 1981 by Robert Hale Ltd. as
Sarah
,
Adelina
and
Carrie
. At a later date, these were reissued by Severn House Publishers, again in hardback, under new titles and became
The Abbeyford Trilogy
.

New York Harbour, 1815
Adelina Cole rubbed away the grime on the window with her fingers and peered into the tavern. She could see her father sitting in the far corner with three of his so-called friends, drinking and gambling as usual.

She sighed and shivered as a gust of wind blew along the wooden verandah. Pulling the torn shawl closer around her shoulders, Adelina glanced fearfully towards the harbour. She could see the forest of ships' masts lining the piers, swaying more than normal. The black sky overhead warned of a gathering storm. Adelina bit her lip. She did not know which frightened her the most – the threatening thunderstorm or the inmates of the waterfront tavern!

But, to get to the room where she and her father lived above the bar, she would have to go in. If only Sam, the owner, did not see her and insist that she serve his customers as payment of rent arrears.

She leaned her head against the rough wood and closed her eyes, momentarily overcome by the weariness of the daily struggle – hour by hour – to survive.

She opened her eyes again and they focused upon her father. Even from this distance she could see the hand in which he held his cards shaking. His eyes were bloodshot and bleary, blinking rapidly, and he stretched his face from time to time as if he could not see clearly. Nor could he, she thought, not without a little impatience, for one eye was half-closed and surrounded by purple bruising from last night's fight.

Every night it was the same. The drink, the gambling – and then the quarrels. Drunken, ugly brawls and always Thomas Cole, weak and sick and vulnerable, came out of them bruised and beaten. Adelina was frightened. Not for herself, but for him. Frightened that one night, one drink too many or one punch too hard, would really harm him.

Life was hard on the New York waterfront and lives were cheap. There'd be no one to care – except his daughter.

Adelina fingered the silver locket about her neck. It was the only thing left in their harsh life that reminded her of earlier, happier days. She had worn the locket for the past four months, ever since she had found it.

One night while helping her father on to the shake-down on the floor of their room, as she had removed his jacket – struggling with his helpless, sprawling limbs – she had felt something hard sewn into the lining of his coat. When she had examined it closely, she found the stitching, though ill-formed and untidy, was tight and strong as if concealing more worth than the whole threadbare coat itself. As she had fingered the small, hard object, her eyes had lingered upon the prostrate form of her father, his head lolling to one side, his mouth wide open, snoring in uneven, rasping bursts. Adelina had sighed and shaken her head sadly. What an ugly sight he had become, and yet he was so pathetic.

It had taken her three days to prise the truth from her father, to persuade him to cut open the stitching and show her the object. His shaking fingers dropped the heart-shaped silver locket into her hands. “ It was your mother's, she always wore it.” He sniffed. “ It's the only thing I have left of hers.” He paused, then said reluctantly, “I suppose you'd better have it.”

Adelina thought cynically that it would be safer in her possession, so she did not persuade him to keep it. Silently she fastened the tarnished chain about her neck. Then she opened the locket and twisted it to look at the tiny pictures within.

“Who are they? Not – not you and Mama?”

“No – her people. Her parents.” He jabbed a grubby finger at the locket. “ My Lord and Lady Royston, they are.”

“Who?” Adelina's green eyes widened.

“Robert Elcombe, the Earl of Royston, of Abbeyford – a little village near Manchester in the Old Country.” Thomas Cole's bleary eyes watered at the memory of far-off days. “He's her father. Her mother's dead – died before I even knew her.”

“And – and her father?”

He shrugged and then flopped back on the shake-down and closed his eyes. “How the hell should I know!” he muttered.

Within seconds he was snoring loudly, whilst Adelina still gazed at the faces in the locket.

Now as she stood peering in through the dirty window, fingering the locket, her thoughts were interrupted as the swing doors flew open and a man came hurtling through the air to land in a sprawling heap almost at her feet. Another figure sprang through the doors and leapt on top of the man on the ground and began smashing his fists into his face. Such drunken fights were commonplace and Adelina was untroubled by it. She saw the disturbance only as a means by which she might succeed in slipping through the saloon and up the stairs unobserved.

She was about halfway to the stairs when she felt someone grip her arm and, turning, found young Sammy's blue eyes gazing up at her.

If there was anyone in this awful place who was a friend to her then it was the tavern owner's young, ill-treated son, Sammy. The fourteen-year-old boy looked only eleven, his tattered clothes hanging loosely on his thin body. He worked hard but received nothing for his efforts but abuse and his father's fist. Right now his eye was beginning to colour from yet another vicious cuff.

“What is it, Sammy?” Adelina asked him gently.

“Your Pa's sure gettin' himself in deep trouble, Miss Adelina. He ain't no match for those card-sharps.”

Adelina sighed and glanced through the haze of smoke towards her father. She hesitated between reaching the safety of their one room and rescuing her befuddled father from the men who would cheat him out of the ragged shirt on his back.

She hesitated a moment too long.

“Aha, Miss Adelina.” Big Sam was approaching. A fat, cruel-looking man, his only aim in life was to make money with no scruples as to how he made it. His right arm swept in an arc and knocked young Sammy off his feet, but he did not even glance down at his son.

“Leave the boy alone,” Adelina faced the big man angrily, but he only laughed.

“Ah, you're sure lovely when you're angry.” His grip fastened upon her arm and he pushed his ugly face close to hers. “You'll serve my customers their drinks, miss, and make like you kinda want to, or,” he jerked his thumb towards her father in the corner, “I'll see him in the jail.”

Big Sam's threat was no idle one, for he'd put her father in jail twice before for debt and kept her working for him to pay off twice the amount which was owed.

As always, his threat brought her rebellion under control, but strengthened her iron resolve to escape from this man's clutches, even if she had to drag her father bodily with her. She would not – could not – desert Thomas Cole, for in her heart there were still the memories of better times.