This epic novel, which spans six generations of mothers and daughters, begins in 1815, during Britain's war with Napoleon, and ends after World War II. These life stories, knitted together into an ongoing family saga, show the vast changes to English society. These women were witnesses, participants, and survivors through the Regency Period, the Victorian Age, the Industrial Revolution, and on into the twentieth century, with its world wars and social reforms. At the heart of the novel are the lives, loves, and social causes of six strong women-Violet, a kitchen maid; Amanda, her illegitimate daughter who marries an aristocrat; Felicity, a pianist who dreams of marrying a duke; Norma, the battered wife of a wealthy scoundrel; Prudence, a women's suffragist and social reformer; and Christine, a World War II photojournalist. As different as each of these women is from the others, they all remain true to the motto coined by Violet, who wished a better future for her daughter: "Grasp every opportunity that life offers you"

A Daughter's Inheritance

A NovelBy Geraldine Boyce

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Geraldine Boyce
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-7092-3

Contents

Part One Violet.........................1Part Two Amanda.........................39Part Three Felicity.....................151Part Four Norma.........................215Part Five Prudence......................265Part Six Christine......................303

Chapter One

Violet

Violet Bailey stood behind a large chopping table laden with huge slabs of beef. She picked up a meat cleaver to divide them into more manageable portions before she began to cut them up with a sharp butcher's knife into the appropriate size for the day's stew. She had been doing this task since she was twelve, when she had left Mr. Grayson's class where she had learned to read, write, and add, in order to help her mother in the kitchen at the Craven Arms. Now fourteen, she still seemed too small to do this heavy work. The table came up almost to her developing breasts, but her solid short body seemed to give a balance to the quickness of her movements while she worked.

As the church clock struck nine she cocked her ear for the first sounds of the army unit approaching with replacements for the changing of the guard at the harbor gate. The inn was located on Snargate Street, closer in to the town of Dover than the Grand Shaft, above which were the First Foot Guards barracks on the Western Heights. When Violet heard the drums, she wiped her hands on her apron and pulled it off quickly. As she ran out, her long brown hair flowed behind, then rested on the well-filled heavy tan cotton dress, a hand-me-down from her older sister, Ellen, who had grown too tall for it.

"Don't go! You've got too much to do," Mrs. Bailey called out after her. She turned to the two scullery maids. "That girl will be the death of me, and she'll be out again when they return this afternoon."

"She has an eye for the young officer leading the guards," one of the maids said.

"She'll have little chance of an officer noticing her," the other said.

As the guards turned the corner of the street, Violet saw Lieutenant Oliver Hinton, and her heart warmed at the sight of him. She had noticed him as soon as he had arrived in town, and she knew she already loved him.

As he marched by ahead of his men, eyes straight ahead, Violet saw him glance quickly upward. She followed his eyes to where the eighteen-year-old Ellen was standing at her bedroom window. She felt a swift pang of envy. It isn't fair, she thought. Ellen's tall, with golden tresses and a face of an angel, and besides, she's already engaged to be married to Arthur Mandle. In comparison, Violet felt shabby in the much-washed, faded work-dress. She returned forlornly to the kitchen.

"Hurry up and finish chopping," her mother said. "I've got to get more stew started. We've many mouths to feed before the afternoon ferry leaves."

Mrs. Bailey watched her work and soon all the beef was cut. I shouldn't be hard on her, the mother thought. She's a good worker. In truth she's better than Ellen, who spends much of her time admiring her own reflection instead of making the beds. It'll be good when Ellen marries; then her husband will have to clothe, feed, and buy her trinkets, and I'll be able to hire a new maid who'll do twice the work.

It was the summer of 1815, when the Duke of Wellington's armies were waiting to do battle with those of Napoleon Bonaparte, for England and France were at war. Many British soldiers had already arrived in Belgium. Now officers' ladies were following them to attend numerous parties which were being given in Brussels while waiting for the battles to begin. Their carriages delivered them to the Ship Hotel for their noonday meal and a rest, while their coachmen returned to the Craven Arms. With travelers constantly crossing the English Channel to and from Calais, and the army guarding the docks, Dover was crowded and busy.

Compared to other hotels in town, the Craven Arms was considered small and lowly, having only four double bedrooms for guests and two six-bedded dormitories (one for women, the other for men) on each of the first and second floors. The three bedrooms on the third floor housed the family of five: the innkeepers, Mr. and Mrs. Bailey; their son, Noah; and their daughters, Ellen and Violet.

It was a hot day and the generously proportioned Mrs. Bailey perspired profusely as she quickly seared meat in a large pan on top of an open fire. On her right a spit turned, roasting three legs each of lamb and pork. On the other side of the fireplace was a large oven, baking the day's supply of bread. After the oven cooled down she replaced the bread with large dishes of rice pudding, which would slowly cook all day, coming out of the oven with browned skins on top for the evening meal. These joined her currant duffs and marmalade and golden syrup suet puddings, for which she was famous. Some might question the cooking of a heavy meal on such a hot day, but Mrs. Bailey knew her customers—couriers, carriage drivers, footmen, and salesmen going to the Continent to ply British goods. They all preferred her hot meals so that they could soak their bread in her rich gravies.

The inn's clients did not seem to mind the half-mile walk from the docks where they embarked or disembarked. They considered the inn good value for its clean rooms, good food, fine ales, and buxom serving maids. It was also a stagecoach stop en route to London, with horses for hire, which Noah tended, while Mr. Bailey managed the business and poured ale and porter from morning until closing time. Mrs. Bailey was in charge of the kitchen.

Many an evening Lieutenant Hinton came into the tavern with other young officers. One night a serving maid called through the open kitchen door, "One of the officers wants a dish of beef stew."

Mrs. Bailey, busy at the stove, called over her shoulder, "Violet, get a tray ready. Spoon some into a bowl for him, slice some bread, and take it in."

The Lieutenant was sitting at a table waiting for it. "Ah here's the famous beef stew. Set it here." Violet set the plate down in front of him. Then, laughing, he swung around and grabbed her.

"You're a pretty morsel," he said, pulling her onto his knee. Violet, surprised, looked at him. He was so handsome, with his dark brown curly hair, a face that narrowed into a pointed chin, and a dark face, which might have been naturally that color or might have been browned by parading in Dover's sunshine and ocean sea breezes. She knew it was not proper to remain there and she tried to pull away, but he held her tighter. She again struggled to rise as his friends joined in his laughter.

"Look! She's blushing. She must be a virgin. That makes her even more of a treat."

A Major walked over and said, "Leave her alone, Hinton. She's too young for you."

The Lieutenant let her go, and without a word he turned and began to eat his stew.

"What's a virgin?" Violet asked when she returned to the kitchen.

"You shouldn't be asking questions like that," her mother scolded.

The scullery maid looked at her and said. "A virgin's a girl untouched by a man."

Well then, I'm not a virgin, Violet thought, because I've been touched by a man, and she hummed happily to herself as she worked.

Rumors, overheard by Mr. Bailey at night, changed daily, but it was more likely only days rather than weeks before the...