The Gentle Wind's Caress Read Online Free Page A

How could anyone send such a thing to her? A card lay underneath one rose but she didn’t pick it up. Forcing a smile, she turned to Hughie. ‘It must be someone’s joke. They aren’t from Mr Farrell. It’s nothing to worry about. Why don’t you go in and see if you can charm of cup of tea from Cook, while I throw this away.’
    Once Hughie had left, she carefully tugged the card from beneath the disfigured flowers and read it.
    You will never marry anyone but me…N
    She dropped the box in horror. Spilt like a bottle of ink, the flowers tumbled out at her feet.

Chapter Three
    Isabelle’s stomach lurched as wildly as the cart did every time its wheels rolled into a rut. She hid her shaking hands by folding them tightly in her lap. Her new husband, Len Farrell, slapped the reins hard on the poor, skinny beast between the shafts.
    Isabelle took a trembling breath. Spirit fumes emanated from Len as though he had bathed in gin. His coat, although not new, looked decent that morning when she first saw him in church, but now dark tell tale signs of spilt food and drink mottled it. She had vague memories of the ceremony and the small tea party afterwards. Their conversation, albeit somewhat stilted and under the watchful gaze of Matron and Mr Beale, remained on safe ground with him telling her about the moors and wildlife near his farm.
    She allowed her gaze to shift up to his face and she bit her lip in alarm. This man was her husband. How had it happened so quickly? Four weeks after burying Sally she had married a stranger.
    Despite her apprehension and, if she was honest, fear, of what she had just committed to, she couldn’t but help to feel relieved at escaping the Peacock’s Workhouse. The last four weeks had been nothing but torture. Neville managed to torment and harass her at every opportunity until she felt too ill to care anymore. All that kept her going was the thought that soon she would be married and away from him. Neville hated the thought of her marrying anyone but him. However, it was his violence that drove her into the hasty marriage with Farrell. If he’d left her alone, she could’ve taken her time, been more selective.
    She sighed. Oh well, what’s done is done.
    The cartwheel fell into a hole, jerking her back to the present. She forced herself to relax. Yes, she had married a stranger, but what had been the alternative? Living on the streets would have been much worse and she had to think of Hughie’s future too.
    Isabelle raised her chin and concentrated on her surroundings. They’d left Halifax immediately after the wedding tea and driven straight to Hebden Bridge, where Len stopped to purchase goods, which for some reason, he grumbled about. Now, they drove up the steep, winding Heptonstall Road and her new husband had barely spoken to them. She couldn’t blame him really. Obviously, the situation wasn’t easy for him either. She expected that men become equally nervous as women when they married.
    Craning to look past Hughie, Isabelle marvelled at the magnificent scenery of the valley below. The grey stone terrace houses of Hebden Bridge hugged the slopes as though they had been hewn from the valley sides. The silver ribbon of the River Calder coiled through the town like a lazy snake. Beside it, caught in glimpses between trees and buildings, lay the Rochdale Canal.
    Familiar names in a new and unfamiliar life.
    The muted noise of the small village of Heptonstall greeted them like a soft caress on the wind. The narrow, quiet streets reflected the lateness of the day; many would be inside enjoying their tea. Isabelle took eager interest in the Old Church and Weaver’s Square, and counted seven public houses, but all too soon they left the stone thoroughfare of Towngate and headed northwest on Smithwell Lane and out of the village. She would have to investigate the village properly at a later date.
    Isabelle stifled a yawn, she had been awake since before dawn. The day’s toll flagged