The Narrowboat Orphans

THE NARROWBOAT ORPHANS DAISY CARTER Copyright © 2023 Daisy Carter All rights reserved. This story is a work of fiction. The characters, names, places, events, and incidents in it are entirely the work of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance or similarity to actual persons, living or dead, events or places is entirely coincidental. No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the author and the publisher. Created with Vellum CONTENTS 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 Epilogue Read More CHAPTER 1 The West Country, England - 1844 The appetising smell of mutton and vegetable stew roused Ruben Hinton from where he had been dozing in the sagging armchair next to the hearth. He yawned and leaned forward to add a couple more pieces of wood to the fire before rattling the poker in the embers to help the flames take hold. A spark flew out with a popping sound, landing on the rag rug, which he hastily flicked back onto the flagstones before it burnt the faded fabric. He needed to cut more wood, and it was tempting to let the fire die down, but the stone cottage could still feel chilly on a spring evening, and the walls would be running with damp again soon enough if he let the fire go out. Little Amy had only just got over another chill which had left her with a shuddering cough which shook her skinny frame. He didn’t want to risk her getting sick again. "Are you going to eat with us tonight, Pa?" Dolly asked. Tendrils of her raven-dark hair fell in unruly curls around her face, where it had escaped from the braid that hung down her back. There was a questioning look in her big brown eyes, and one eyebrow twitched up in a way that sent a pang of loss through Ruben's heart. Dolly was the spitting image of Anne, Ruben's childhood sweetheart and wife. Except now Anne was buried in the graveyard of Middleyard Church. Doctor Skelton had fought valiantly to save her life on a stormy night five years ago, when she had given birth to their last child, Amy. But to no avail. Anne had drawn her last breath just as the sun edged over the eastern hilltops painting the scoured land pink, leaving him a widower, brokenhearted, with four children depending upon him. Ruben ran a hand through his thick brown hair and shook his head. "Just leave me some in a bowl on the range for later, our Dolly. I've got a bit of business I need to see to." He stifled another yawn and thrust his feet into the leather boots, which were still steaming gently in front of the fire from where he had propped them up on the hearth earlier. The soles were worn thin enough to make him wince if he stood on a sharp stone, and he’d been meaning to get them mended at the cobbler's, but he would try and get by for a little bit longer, stuffing some rags and scraps of sheep's wool into them. The weather would soon dry up. Besides, the children's threadbare clothes needed mending, so he would have to spend a few pennies on the services of old Mrs Epperson to keep them looking half-decent until the children were old enough to sew their own clothes, and there wasn’t enough money to do both. He eyed each of his four children, trying to see them as an outsider would. Dolly, at ten years old, was growing fast. The ragged hem of her dress was halfway up her bony shins, but given that she was such a tomboy, she probably didn’t mind. Next to her, Jonty was his only son, three years younger than Dolly. His head was bent in concentration over a sack of pebbles he’d spent the afternoon picking from the fields. Clearing stones for Farmer Baggins earned them a few extra coins at this time of year, and then Jonty used the smaller pebbles in his catapult to keep the crows and pigeons off the newly emerging shoots of his wheat crop. His heart softened as he glanced towards his two youngest children. Gloria, aged six, always took it upon herself to care for little Amy, who was a year younger. She had hitched Amy onto her lap and was haltingly trying to read her a simple story from one of the books the church ladies had lent them. Amy snuggled closer to her, giggling every so often when Gloria embellished the tale to make it more interesting. The three older children doted on Amy ever since they’d noticed that she kept bumping into things, and Doctor Skelton had informed them that her eyesight was very limited, possibly due to the difficult labour which had taken Anne too soon. Glancing around the cramped cottage, he noticed the thin film of dust on the dresser and the muddle of wool in the basket in the corner with some half-darned socks poking out. He was gripped by the usual sense of guilt that he wasn’t doing a good enough job of looking after them. The place needs a woman’s touch to make it feel like home again. It was a familiar thought, but he pushed it away, knowing it might make him feel maudlin. He knew that some of the villagers thought his high-spirited children would benefit from having a stepmother to take them all in hand, but he couldn't bring himself to start looking for another wife. Not yet. “...Pa! Did you hear what I said?” Dolly’s insistent voice pulled him out of his introspection. “Are you