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  Jane was late.

  ‘The invite said 7.30 p.m.,’ scolded Katie as she took her sister’s coat. She noticed that Jane had ignored the dress code too. She was wearing black as though she was at a funeral. Katie shoved her towards the kitchen, where the party –like all parties –was thriving. ‘Ta-dah.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What’s different about this party?’ prompted Katie.

  Jane looked around the kitchen. It was heaving. There were a lot of men, which was a bit odd; normally at parties the women stayed in the kitchen and the men hung around the iPlayer.

  She hazarded a guess. ‘Decent food?’

  ‘Men!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘These are all single men. I asked my guests to bring a single man rather than a bottle. I asked them all to play cupid for you.’ Katie beamed. ‘Most of them know about your broken engagement and everything, so they were really sympathetic.’

  Jane starred at her sister in horror. How could she have been so cruel? So thoughtless? The humiliation was intense; a hot blush was already forming on Jane’s neck. Valentine’s had always been ghastly when Jane was privately fighting her demons –the lack of a picture perfect scenario: flowers and hearts, hubby and kiddies –but it had been bearable. Now, Katie had outed her and the mortification was overwhelming.

  Jane turned, grabbed her coat and ran. She didn’t notice that she’d dropped her glove. She had to get out of the stifling house full of pitying and patronising couples.

  Jane nearly slipped on the icy path. She stopped at the gate; fighting angry tears, she had never felt so alone.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Oh God, that was the last thing she needed. Someone had followed her out of the house. Jane pretended she couldn’t hear him calling to her and she began to walk along the street.

  The man jogged to catch up. ‘You dropped a glove,’ he called.

  Normally, Jane loved her soft, beige buckskin gloves. Right now, she hated them.

  ‘Thank you.’ She refused to meet his eye.

  ‘I saw your dramatic exit. Very Cinderella.’

  ‘I don’t believe in fairy tales,’ she said stiffly. ‘Not even on Valentine’s Day.’

  ‘Nor do I. Especially not on Valentine’s Day. I hate it. The sickest day of the year.’

  Jane looked up startled. It was refreshing, although somewhat surprising, to find someone else who was equally vitriolic about the day. She’d always found that there was a deep and dark silence surrounding the gloomy reality of the day. Single women simply dared not roll their eyes at the torturous nylon basques that seeped from every shop window, even though it seemed that the sole purpose of such garments was to humiliate flat chested and saggy bummed women, aka normal women.

  ‘Do you know what I most hate about it?’ he asked.

  ‘The pink, plastic “I Love You” stamps for toast and similar plethora of tack that are no doubt mass-produced by children working in illegal conditions?’ Jane wondered whether she sounded bitter and defeatist.

  ‘Ha! No, although that is offensive. It’s my birthday too.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘Wish I was.’

  Jane took the glove.

  ‘So why do you hate it then? I’d have thought it being your birthday made it tolerable. At least you’re guaranteed cards.’

  He smiled wanly but didn’t answer her question. ‘I’ll walk with you, if you’re going to the tube station.’

  Jane stole a glance. The guy didn’t look like a psycho. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Err, embarrassing thing is, nowhere. So I’ve got time to squander. It’s my birthday and Valentine’s Day and yet I have some time to kill until my sister-in-law and brother emerge from the party. Then I’m staying with them for the weekend. I think they thought that if they took me along to the party, then all their duties towards me, in terms of celebrating my birthday, were null and void. It’s always such a disappointing day.’ the man grinned as he made this awful admission.

  Jane noticed he had nice eyes. Particularly attractive when he grinned.

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘What were you hurrying from?’

  ‘All of it.’

  ‘I see.’ They both fell silent. It was a comfortable silence. Jane realised she was enjoying the peaceful company of her fellow anti-romantic.

  He sighed deeply; his hot breath clouded the cold night air. ‘I know you think you are having a bad night but somewhere in that house, something truly awful is happening.’

  ‘What?’ Jane asked.

  ‘I was talking to this teenager. Her mother has set up this whole party to try to off-load some maiden aunt.’

  Jane gasped. ‘How terrible.’

  ‘Isn’t it? I told the girl her mother shouldn’t be so interfering and pushy. Just because it’s Valentine’s Day doesn’t mean the maiden aunt is suddenly going to find love or even want it. It’s such an imposition.’

  Jane nodded, mute with shock and embarrassment. She couldn’t let this cute guy know that she was the spinster aunt. Because he was, well, a cute guy. He had full lips and lovely curly hair. And a cynical side that she appreciated.

  ‘What did the teenager say?’ Jane knew that the forthright Isobel would have expressed an opinion.

  He grinned at the memory of the bolshie teenager dressing him down. ‘She said I was a miserable devil. She said her mother was only trying to help and that she did believe things were different on Valentine’s Day; that there is a little more magic everywhere and, of course, the aunt wanted to find love.’

  ‘Teenagers,’ said Jane with a tut. ‘So damned optimistic.’

  They both fell silent again.

  ‘Look, would you like to go for a drink? No bubbles though, anything but that.’

  Jane considered it. Maybe. She quite liked him. She liked his sensible attitude to Valentine’s Day. She was so fed up of people insisting that it was a romantic, enchanted time. It’s just another date on the calendar. And it was his birthday, after all. No one wanted to be alone on their birthday.

  ‘I’m Jane.’ She held out her hand, he shook it.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Jane.’

  Jane waited for him to volunteer his name. He didn’t.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘OK, well, this is it, I suppose. Crunch time. So it’s my birthday today, right.’

  ‘Yes, you said.’

  ‘I’m Valentino Lovelass.’ Jane snorted with laughter. ‘What’s funny?’ he asked with mock incredulity.

  ‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ Jane was practically choking on her laughter. ‘Are you joking?’ she asked eventually.

  ‘I never joke. I’m eminently sensible and practical. I’m always serious.’ There was a glint in his eyes that belied the fact that he was always serious so Jane insisted he produce his driving licence to prove he wasn’t making up a ridiculous alias.

  ‘I do at least understand why you hate Valentine’s Day,’ she said as they set off towards the pub.

  ‘And my parents too, don’t underestimate how much I hate them,’ he joked.

  ‘Oh get over it.’ Jane laughed. Teasingly she added, ‘It’s not like they destroyed your belief in Santa Claus at an early age.’

  ‘True, that would be really bad. Very bad indeed.’

  Katie and Isobel were watching from Isobel’s bedroom window. Katie winked at her daughter. ‘Perfect,’ she sighed.

  ‘You are a regular cupid, Mum. Congratulations. You do know his name though, right?’

  ‘Oh yes. And how I’m going to enjoy hearing my sister introduce him!’

  A Sensible Proposal

  Anna Jacobs

  Anna Jacobs

  Award-winning author ANNA JACOBS writes both historical and modern romantic novels about families and relationships. She’s had over sixty novels published, with more in the pipeline, and she’s the sixth most borrowed author of adult fiction in the UK. She and her husband live half the year in Australia a
nd half in the UK.

  This story is a spin-off from her Swan River Saga series, set in Lancashire and Western Australia in the 1860s. If you’d like to read more about the group of young women sent to Australia as maids, try her three novels Farewell to Lancashire, Beyond the Sunset and Destiny’s Path and the spin-off series The Traders (starting with The Trader’s Wife).

  You can find out more about her books, each of which has a separate page on her website, where you can read the first chapters and find about what gave her the ideas for the various stories on her website: http://www.annajacobs.com

  A Sensible Proposal

  1

  1863, Lancashire

  Sarah Boswick had been hungry for so long she couldn’t remember her last full meal. She stood quietly in the queue, not expecting more from the soup kitchen at the church than a bowl of thin soup and a chunk of stale bread. It would be her only food of the day.

  None of the mill workers had realised that the war between the states in America would affect Lancashire so badly, cutting off supplies of cotton and therefore putting people out of work. Sarah’s husband had been delighted to think of all the slaves being freed. He’d been such an idealist, poor Daniel. He’d died a year ago, weakened by lack of food, and she still missed him.

  The line of women shuffled forward and someone poked Sarah to make her move with them.

  When a gentleman with silver hair stopped nearby, Sarah didn’t at first realise he was speaking to her.

  Mrs Foster, one of the supervisors, said sharply, ‘You, Boswick! Step out of the line and answer the gentleman. He’s spoken to you twice already. Where are your manners?’

  Sarah moved quickly, not allowing herself the luxury of resenting the scolding –it didn’t pay to cross the supervisors, not if you wanted to eat here regularly. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid my thoughts were miles away.’

  ‘It’s partly my fault. I should have waited to be introduced to you before I spoke. I’m Simon Marville, from the town of Swindon in the south, and I’m here because my church has raised some money for the relief fund in this area.’

  She tried to pay attention but the smell of food nearby was intoxicating. Sometimes gentlemen or ladies came to the north to stare at the poor starving cotton operatives. It was annoying to be treated like a wild animal on display and it did little good that she could see. There would still be no work for those in Lancashire after the visitors had gone back to their comfortable lives.

  ‘Could we talk for a few minutes, Miss Boswick?’

  ‘Mrs I’m a widow.’ Sarah couldn’t help looking towards the food and as she did, her stomach growled.

  ‘Have you eaten today?’ he asked, still in that same gentle tone.

  ‘No, sir. The only food I’ll eat today is what’s offered here at the soup kitchen.’ She saw Mrs Foster looking at her and added quickly, ‘For which I’m very grateful.’

  He turned to the supervisor. ‘Do you think we could have some food brought for this poor woman, ma’am? It’ll be hard for her to concentrate on what I’m saying if she hasn’t eaten anything yet.’

  ‘Of course. If you sit down over there, I’ll bring some across for you both.’

  ‘None for me, thank you. Save it for those who need it so desperately.’ He led the way to the table indicated, pulling out a chair for Sarah.

  At least this visitor was treating her courteously, she thought as she sat down.

  He took his own seat and was about to speak again when Mrs Foster brought her a big bowl of soup and two pieces of bread.

  Sarah’s mouth watered at the sight of the larger bowl and extra bread. Clearly the lady patronesses were out to impress. She looked at him, wondering whether to start eating.

  He waved one hand as if giving her permission and she could hold back no longer. She didn’t gobble down the food, because that would make her ill, but chewed slowly, spooning up soup in between each dry mouthful of bread. As she finished the first slice, she looked round and whispered, ‘Would you mind if I put this other piece of bread in my pocket, sir? I have a neighbour whose child isn’t thriving.’

  ‘No, of course not. Though you look as if you need it yourself. You’re very thin.’

  ‘I’m managing but it’s harder on the little ones.’

  When she’d finished, he asked, ‘How long have you been hungering?’

  ‘Since my husband died last year, before that even.’

  ‘May I ask what happened to him?’

  ‘Daniel came down with a fever and hadn’t the strength to resist it. He was low in spirits, took it very badly not to be able to earn a living.’

  Mr Marville’s expression was so genuinely sympathetic, Sarah felt tears rise in her eyes. She tried to change the subject. ‘What do you wish to talk about, sir?’

  ‘You, my dear. I’d like to find out more about your life.’

  That puzzled her. What had the ladies been telling him?

  ‘I’ve been charged with helping select a group of cotton lasses to go to Australia, where there is plenty of work for those willing to become maidservants. The supervisor has suggested you. What do you think?’

  She gaped at him. ‘Go to Australia? Me?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know where Australia is?’

  ‘On the other side of the world. I saw it on the globe at school. But I don’t know much else about it. I’ll have to see if there’s a book in the library.’ It had saved her sanity, the new free library had. If you could lose yourself in a book, you could forget the gnawing hunger for a while.

  ‘A ship going to the Swan River Colony will be leaving in two weeks. How long will it take you to decide whether to go?’

  She looked round and laughed, though it came out more like a croak. ‘I don’t need any time at all, sir. If there’s work there, I’ll be happy to go because there’s nothing for me here, not now.’ Only Daniel’s grave, and beside him in the coffin a tiny baby who had not lived even one day.

  ‘How long will you need to get ready, pack your things?’

  She looked down at herself and grimaced. ‘I have very little beyond the clothes on my back. I regret that. I’d keep myself cleaner if I could.’

  ‘A complete set of clothes can be supplied.’

  ‘I’d be very grateful.’

  He hesitated and asked again, ‘Are you quite sure?’

  She wasn’t sure of anything but to do something was surely better than doing nothing. ‘I shan’t change my mind, sir.’

  ‘Then you may as well travel south with me when I return. I’m sure Mrs Foster will provide you with clothes for the journey and we have other clothes in my church.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Poor box clothes. She knew what those were like but beggars couldn’t afford vanity.

  ‘Do you have any family here, anyone you should consult?’

  ‘No, sir. I’m an orphan.’ She’d only had Daniel. At the moment she was sharing a room with five other young women to save money. The others would be jealous of this chance she’d been given, so the sooner she could leave the better.

  When Mr Marville had gone, she took her platter to the clearing up table and went to thank Mrs Foster for recommending her.

  The other woman nodded then reached for a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. ‘You’ll need better food to face such a long journey. There’s more bread here and a boiled egg. Eat it all yourself.’ She held on to the cloth. ‘Promise you’ll not give this to anyone else like that bread in your pocket.’

  She blushed in embarrassment. ‘I promise. Um, could I ask why you recommended me?’

  ‘Because you’re still trying to help others, sharing what little food you have. You deserve this chance.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Tears welled in Sarah’s eyes at these unexpected words of kindness.

  ‘Come back at four o’clock and we’ll go through the clothing in the church poor box to see what else we can find for you.’

  She’d look a mess, Sarah thought, but at least she’d be decently clad. And w
arm. She’d been so cold during the winter.

  2

  Ellis Doyle stood by the rails, his back to Ireland, staring out across the water towards England. He and his wife had planned to go to Australia, and now it seemed the only place far enough away to escape the anger of his employer, an arrogant, spiteful man.

  After the funeral he’d overheard Mr Colereigh gloating to his wife that Doyle would make a fine new husband for Mary Riley and get the expense of her and her children off the parish –well, he’d better marry her if he wanted to keep his job.

  Mary was a slovenly woman with a nasty temper and three whining children of her own. Ellis wasn’t having his sons raised by such as her, nor did he want her in his bed.

  He and Shona had made such plans for their boys and saved their money so carefully. As he saw her splintered wooden coffin lowered into the ground, he’d sworn that somehow he’d still make her dreams come true.

  Ellis had heard good things about Australia. A man had come back to the next village to take his family out there to live. Ellis had spent hours talking to him.

  He watched the massive buildings of Liverpool show on the horizon in the chill grey light of dawn, then went to wake Kevin and Rory, who were huddled together on a hard wooden bench below decks. ‘We’re nearly there and it’s light already. Come and look at Liverpool, boys.’