Love Among the Daughters [Paperback]

This historical novel, set in Russia and England, is based on real events, beginning with the assassination of Tsar Paul in 1801. The story starts with the smallest possible thing, a sigh in an overheated ballroom in St.Petersburg. All the tragic events that follow are a consequence of that sigh - betrayal, haunting, witchcraft, death, exile, and a terrible four-thousand walk to freedom and love.

Like all those who love reading I can never pass a second-hand bookshop or charity shop without rushing in to have a look. Three years ago I found a thick volume, obviously old, with its green and gold spine torn and its pages loose. It was volume II of Siberia and the Exile System by George Kennan. Published in 1891 it was the account of an American journalist who travelled by sledge across Russia to report on the conditions of the prisoners in Siberia. I was able to borrow volume I from Cambridge University. Later I found A Princess of Siberia by Christine Sutherland. These two books, with their tales of cruelty and courage, were the inspiration of my novel Love Among the Daughters.

I did not start writing until I was thirty. After submitting a play to the BBC I was invited to write historical plays for their Schools History programmes. I found I loved doing the research and this is always a good starting point for my writing. I also wrote plays for Townswomen's Guilds and later had five books for children published. One was chosen one of the best books for children that year and translated into Dutch. Another book, The Kettlewitch, has been set to music and performed in the Purcell Room on the South Bank and elsewhere. I write all the time and also teach creative writing locally and at Marlborough College Summer School. Before it closed I taught at Millfield School Summer School.

As I find it difficult to let my characters go I am now thinking of a sequel to Love Among the Daughters. The title is taken from The Song of Solomon.

Chapter Nineteen. Russia 1841.
"A leper! I am a leper!"

The little crowd around Sergei shrank back, their ruddy faces suddenly ashen with terror. The stout official who had demanded Sergei's papers raised his stick, wanting to strike but afraid to get close. "How dare you linger here, with your filthy disease. Be gone, or I'll set the dogs on you!" he shouted.

As Sergei rose to leave the frightened villagers fled. Only one young woman returned briefly to leave a small bundle for him on a stone. Inside was a meat pasty, still warm from the oven. As Sergei resumed his journey he blessed her for her charity. Starving, he stuffed the pie into his mouth and swallowed without chewing. Attracted by the smell of the meat a mangy brown and white mongrel pattered behind him. When he had put several miles between himself and the village Sergei sat down again, stroked the dog's rough fur and let him eat the crumbs. He wagged his tail and licked Sergei's hand.

"Poor fellow, you are hungry too. I'll call you Nikita after my grandfather and we will travel the road together."

Not long afterwards another traveller on the great Siberian road caught up with Sergei. The ragged army greatcoat he wore was too large for him and the black patch over his left eye gave him a sinister appearance. To Sergei's annoyance he settled himself on a nearby tree stump and burst out laughing. "Leper my arse! Mikhail knew you were shamming. Still, you scared those village idiots good and proper. You're learning, my friend. We'll do well together."

Sergei thought he had seen him before. The man laughed again and tore off the eye-patch. "Irkutsk, remember?"

Of course, he was the one-legged beggar, Mikhail,only now he was one-eyed. Sergei did not trust him and did not want to travel with anyone except the dog.

"How did you know I didn't really have leprosy?"

"There's s colony of 'em near Selenginsk. Mikhail stayed there a bit, the monks fed him," the man told him with a smirk. "What fools those monks are, risking their own lives looking after that diseased lot." He touched his face, grinning. "You shoul've seen 'em, Mikhail had to laugh. No noses, some of 'em."

Sergei shuddered, for the skin on the man's face already showed the white patches of a leper.

"I have become a monster, I feel no pity for anyone but myelf," he thought, knowing he would leave Mikhail at the first opportunity. As soon as the sun went down he offered to make a fire and under the pretence of gathering sticks he hurried away deep into the forest.

It began to snow. That night he spent huddled inside a hollow tree, the dog Nikita curled up on his chest for warmth. The next day he reached a village where he begged for bread for them both. Of Mikhail there was no sign.

Together he and the dog trudged on, mile after mile westward, begging, stealing from villages whose names he never knew. Mostly he kept to the fields and forests like the hunted fugitive he was. Light-headed with hunger, he talked to Nikita, telling him his life story .

"So you see, Nikita,I must survive to see my daughter," he told him.

"I understand," Nikita replied sympathetically, wagging his tail. "Have faith. Every step you take is one step nearer home."