“You will find your heart’s desire,” a soft voice promised as the mist lifted. “From disaster will come triumph.”
Shaking his head and feeling foolish, Parker resumed his walk. “No wine with dinner, and I’m still blotto,” he said. “Something in the plum pudding, maybe, as well as pounds of suet.”
* * *
Darren cursed the full moon. The entire bridge was bathed in its eerie glow, just when Daffyd and Gwilym needed a cloudy night to carry out their mission.
He didn’t envy them their task in the wind that seemed to be gaining strength. Daffyd’s prediction of a gale looked to be a possibility. “You wouldn’t catch me clambering along the iron struts to place the dynamite,” he said to himself. His role in life was to organize, plan, raise funds.
He narrowed his eyes when a mist crept over the bridge. How that was possible in such a wind was beyond him. Something to do with the tides, he supposed. At least the fog obscured the bridge, lessening the chances someone might catch sight of the men laying the charges.
He fingered the stiff cardboard in his pocket. An official ticket for a seat on the grandstand at the opening. What better alibi could he have if things went wrong?
He dismissed the unpleasant possibility of failure. He’d planned meticulously. Nothing would go wrong. He couldn’t wait to see the faces of the dignitaries on the viewing platform when the bridge collapsed into the river.
BOXING DAY
As in previous years, going back for as long as she could remember, Samantha’s father was up bright and early Boxing Day morning in time to catch the 7am train to Gloucester. “Can’t miss the first race,” he declared.
“Those poor horses,” her tender-hearted mother fretted.
“Don’t feel sorry for them, my dove,” he replied, cupping her face in his hands and plonking a kiss on her lips. “Thoroughbred nags are treated like royalty and they love to run.”
“Go on with you,” her blushing mother admonished.
Samantha supposed it was wishful thinking to hope she would enjoy a deep bond with her future husband like the one her parents shared. She and Grace were blessed to have such loving parents.
“Good luck,” her sister added with a yawn.
“Yes, Daddy,” Samantha said. “Place your bets wisely.”
Her father frowned. “Now, you sound like Brock.”
She stared at the door after he left, her stomach in knots. Was Brock’s dour nature already changing her outlook on life? Was it too late to break off the engagement? It would cause a scandal but…
“Come along, girls,” her mother chivvied. “Breakfast first, then we’ll get started on parceling everything up. You know how Cook is. She’ll want to be off home with her box as soon as possible.”
“I often wish I was a fly on the wall when her family opens the box,” Grace said. “I hope they like what we give them.”
“Oh, yes,” her mother replied. “She’s always most appreciative. They don’t have much, you know, especially now her husband is out of work with the completion of the bridge.”
Samantha took her place at the breakfast table, wondering what it must be like to beappreciativeof cast-offs from one’s employer. The Hindleys weren’t rich, but her father’s job provided a comfortable living. She shuddered at the thought that might all come to an end with the opening of the new bridge. Few people would take her father’s ferry when they could cross the Severn in half the time by train.
“I’m adding my red shoes to the pile for the box,” Grace declared, slicing the top off her boiled egg. “My feet must be growing they pinch so.”
Samantha had never worn second-hand shoes. Marriage to Brock would ensure she never had to.
* * *
Parker handed the box of items he no longer needed to the woman who came in twice a week to clean his suite of rooms and do his laundry. “There you are, Mrs. Beaton,” he said with a smile. “I’m grateful you take care of me so well.”
The buxom little woman bobbed a curtsey as if in the presence of royalty. “Fanks ever so much, Mr. Cullen. You’re generous to a fault.”
Her gratitude, he knew, was genuine, and it struck him, as it did every year, how easy it was to bring someone a little bit of happiness. He no longer needed the bits and bobs he’d put in this year’s box, but the widowed Mrs. Beaton had growing lads who would appreciate them. And the five quid he’d included would be well spent. “Off you go now,” he said. “There’s nothing to do today. I spent yesterday with my uncle, so…”
“The bridge builder?” she asked, her wide eyes full of admiration.
“Well, he doesn’t actually build the bridges, just designs them.”