LITMIR.BIZ

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      Copyright

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

       Chapter 8

       Chapter 9

       Chapter 10

       Chapter 11

       Chapter 12

       Chapter 13

       Chapter 14

       Chapter 15

       Chapter 16

       Chapter 17

       Chapter 18

       Chapter 19

       Chapter 20

       Chapter 21

       Chapter 22

       Chapter 23

       Keep Reading …

       About the Author

       Also by Cathy Sharp

       About the Publisher

       PROLOGUE

      Snow was falling, coating trees, bushes and fields with a thick covering of soft, cold whiteness. From the landing window of what had once been an impressive family home and was now the local workhouse, a young girl of perhaps eleven summers watched the heart-wrenching scene as the young mother begged for help in the drive below and tears stung the child’s eyes. She had heard the story of how she herself was found on the steps of the rectory on such a night. Had her mother also begged for entry here and been turned away to die in the bitter cold?

      ‘Give me back my child,’ the young woman below wept as she was thrust out of the huge wrought-iron gates of the workhouse. ‘I know my babe lived, for I heard her cries!’

      ‘She died an instant after drawing breath,’ was the reply from the hard-faced warden, who had ordered her ejected from the property. ‘Your child died, Jane! Accept it as the will of God and be gone. If you dare to come here again I shall have you whipped.’ Dressed in black, her thin features showed no hint of sympathy or concern as she ordered the servants to shut and lock those formidable gates.

      ‘You are a wicked, evil woman!’ the wretched mother cried. ‘I know not my name, but it was not Jane – and I swear that my child lives. I feel it in here.’ She placed her hands to her left breast, tears running down her pale cheeks. It was but a few days since she’d given birth in great pain, her strength almost gone, but even so she knew she had heard a strong cry from a living child and the words of the midwife who had birthed the babe and from somewhere she’d summoned the will to live. ‘I know my child did not die and I know she was healthy for I heard them say that she was beautiful!’

      ‘The babe is dead to you,’ the spiteful voice said. ‘You are a whore and you do not deserve a child. If you ply your trade once more no doubt you will bear another …’

      The gates shut with a clanging sound that was like a death knell to the unhappy woman who pressed herself against them, desperately looking at the grey walls and stout door. She’d struggled here in a raging storm to give birth in safety. Would to God that she had given birth under a hedgerow for her child might then be here in her arms!

      It had begun to snow harder now and the wind was cold, biting through her ragged gown and thin shawl. Her feet were bare and felt frozen as she stubbornly stood staring at the door of the workhouse, which remained firmly shut. They had stolen her babe! Jane might not know her true name, for when she’d arrived at the isolated workhouse – ill, close to starving and near to giving birth – all her memories had gone. She knew not where she had been, nor where she was trying to go. Her own name, as well as that of her child’s father, had vanished from her mind with all the rest.

      The women who cared for the sick in the workhouse infirmary had named her Jane. She had heard them talking when they thought she was dying. For some reason they were triumphant that the babe was healthy and spoke of someone being pleased that she was such a beautiful girl – but Jane had not died and when she finally began to look about her and ask for her child, they told her the babe had been all but stillborn.

      Jane knew it was a lie. She would never believe that her babe had died soon after it drew breath, but if she stood here from now to kingdom come she knew they would not tell her what had happened to her child. Tears ran silently down her cheeks as she turned away. Night was closing fast and the snow was beginning to lie thickly. She was a mile from the nearest village and she knew that even if she reached it no one would help her; they would merely send her here. She was a vagrant. Nothing. No one. If she died this night it mattered not, but if she lived she would return and somehow she would have justice for what had been done here.

      As she lingered at the gates, a young girl came rushing from the rear of the house. Jane knew her, for this girl had helped her in the

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