By Dilly Court
Whilst seventeen-year-old Belinda Phillips falls in love with a good-looking Anglo-Indian officer, she understands that he's a guy she will be able to by no means desire to marry. while he's suggested lacking, believed killed in motion, Belinda discovers that she is pregnant. dealing with shame and damage, she has no alternative except to just accept an prepared marriage with a middle-aged widower, realizing she needs to preserve the key of her kid's start for ever. Reluctantly she sends her liked daughter to a foster mom in Cripplegate, little realising she has entrusted Cassy's care to Biddy Henchard, a girl who runs a infamous child farm in a space choked with poverty and illness. regardless of her bad upbringing, Cassy survives the previous woman's merciless forget. the entire whereas she desires of a mom she hasn't ever identified, hoping she is going to come and store her from her dreadful destiny. but if Biddy dies abruptly, ten-year-old Cassy reveals herself destitute and with little desire of ever discovering the mummy she so longs for...
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Extra resources for A Mother's Secret
She pulled up a chair, dusting the seat with the hem of her skirt. ’ Mahdu sank down onto the hard wooden seat. She picked up her skirts as a rat scuttled across the floor to disappear into a hole in the skirting board, and she shuddered. ‘This is wrong, Cassandra. ’ Cassy had been draining the tea leaves and was about to refresh them with water from the kettle but she paused, staring at Mahdu and hardly daring to hope. ’ ‘Not today, larla. You must understand that it is not up to me. ’ Cassy swallowed hard.
Bailey took her by the hand as they negotiated the slippery stone steps that were treacherous even in summer, worn down in the middle by the passage of feet over two hundred years or more. Three Herring Court was a narrow street lined with run-down buildings that had had many uses over the centuries but now housed small businesses: a printer of religious tracts, a walking stick maker, a milliner who eked out a meagre living by taking in gentlemen lodgers, a pie maker of dubious repute, a candle maker whose small shop filled the street with the smell of hot wax and tallow, and an oriental gentleman who professed to practise Chinese herbal medicine but everyone knew he ran an illicit opium den.
The small voice in his head advocating restraint and insisting on retreat was ignored as he drank in her beauty like a man dying of thirst. Her peignoir had slipped off one shoulder and he cupped her breast in his hand, uttering a low moan of pleasure. He bent his head to kiss the nipple that had hardened with desire, but he drew away almost instantly, covering her nakedness with a swift movement. Conscience had won over animal instinct and he was bitterly ashamed of his behaviour. ‘I’m sorry, my love.