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The Factory Girl
Nancy Carson
Henzey Kite can’t believe it when Billy Watts walks into her life. A cut above the local boys – strong, charming and wildly ambitious – he won’t settle for anything less than the wealth of high society.But with wealth comes sacrifice. All Henzey wishes for is a home and a family, while Billy has his sights set at the top.When the Great Depression destroys the Black Country, their love crumbles with it. The dark core of Billy’s obsession for success is revealed, while poor Henzey’s young heart is shattered.How will she overcome such heartache…and who will help her?
The Factory Girl
NANCY CARSON
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Copyright (#u17c38a03-e62d-54f8-aa05-d0145043335a)
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HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015
Previously published as The Love Match by Hodder and Stoughton 2002
Copyright © Nancy Carson 2015
Cover images © azsoslumakarna/ istockphoto 2015
Cover design © Lizzie Gardner
Nancy Carson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © May 2015 ISBN: 9780008134822
Version: 2016-02-22
Contents
Cover (#u952e122e-af9c-55de-aa7b-3851de183e0a)
Title Page (#u79d633ac-278f-578f-bb7f-a8629360ec7a)
Copyright (#uac9c4c25-c7ea-5bfc-86b5-d1f7a4a5e271)
Chapter 1 (#u5f208279-9433-51bc-835e-ddc4e47f8546)
Chapter 2 (#u573e89a9-5834-5b39-bc65-37b0c31067b0)
Chapter 3 (#u972f0f38-6ce8-56c5-ac79-fae05e429de3)
Chapter 4 (#u893053c4-b68f-53ad-9abe-c6a4f7594820)
Chapter 5 (#ue7e58967-74d0-5614-9ee8-bc15f18ced2a)
Chapter 6 (#uaeba3323-9bec-5b1c-8d2e-b6a430c044f8)
Chapter 7 (#u996d3df4-9e4d-5d8f-87f9-05ae9f3da008)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Be swept away by THE BLACK COUNTRY CHRONICLES (#litres_trial_promo)
Avon Social Media Ad (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#u17c38a03-e62d-54f8-aa05-d0145043335a)
The moment Henzey Kite’s clear blue eyes alighted on him she regretted it. Never in her young life had she seen a man so immaculate, so handsome, so desirable. His eyes, when he smiled, made her legs wobble like aspic. He oozed a calm self-assurance and a dangerous allure that compelled her heart and soul to sing out to him as wilfully as a nightingale calls its mate through bluebell woods. But he heard not her heart’s call. In any case, he was unattainable – as unattainable as the moon. Yet having seen him, no one else would do; and therein lay her regret.
The girl at his side matched him perfectly. She was strikingly beautiful. Henzey had spotted her once before, a week ago, on the evening she had first met Andrew. She was called Nellie, and she was Andrew’s sister; but Andrew had not introduced them. Everything about Nellie was exquisite, especially her dark hair, which was impeccably styled and framed her lovely face. Her skin was flawless, her clothes fitted to a stitch and her figure was inspiring. Yet everything about her was sublimely understated to the point of rendering her demure. Men would die for Nellie Dewsbury. She stood out like a fine cut diamond in a tray of gaudy baubles.
And Henzey wanted to be just like her.
Realising that she was staring at them both, Henzey turned away to appraise the fine set of framed water-colours that hung on the wall behind her. She must find time to do more water-colours; it would make a change from the pen and ink and charcoal drawings she’d been doing lately. Just fancy, if she were in a position to paint him and capture his calm self-assurance! The thought sent a warm flush of blood through her veins. But then she would spend her time just looking at him, ogling him, and doubtless get little painting done.
Standing unaccompanied, holding a glass of lemonade Andrew had brought her earlier, she noted how many people in that elegant drawing room were in fancy dress. One young man arrived dressed like Rudolph Valentino as The Sheik, another like Al Jolson in The Jazz Singer, and one masqueraded as an ancient pharaoh, obviously influenced by the recent excavations of Tutankhamun’s tomb. Couples began dancing to the strident sounds of a jazz band emanating from a gramophone standing in a corner. Henzey looked doubtfully at the highly-polished wood block floor, which was at the mercy of so many skidding, twisting, leather-soled shoes.
Sipping her drink, Henzey was aware that the party was growing noisier. All around her, people were shrieking with laughter. Clipped accents proliferated, sounding as foreign to her as the strange, rolling American cadences she’d heard in the talkies. She’d often imagined that people who spoke ‘posh’ would be stand-offish, so she was surprised at how friendly they were, towards each other at any rate. They were totally uninhibited, prepared to do things to make fools of themselves that she would never contemplate. Three young men took everybody’s attention when they held an impromptu competition between themselves to see who could dance ragtime best to a scratchy version of ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’. A diminutive young thing in a long, blue dress elected herself both partner and judge for each. Henzey watched their tomfoolery and laughed.
‘Who’s this raven-haired girl here?’ she overheard somebody behind her say. ‘The one with the Egyptian bob. She’s absolutely too divine.’
His chum replied, ‘Sorry, old man. Never seen her before.’
She turned to see who had spoken, naturally believing they must be referring to Nellie. When it was obvious that the two young men were discussing herself, Henzey smiled, flattered. Blushing, she cast her eyes down.
‘Wouldn’t mind having a tilt at her. Love her dress.’
The dress had been bought specially for the party; black, with a low waist, short and straight. Save for the low back, it gave her a boyish appearance; the height of fashion. A matching headband and a row of long, black beads afforded the finishing touch. She looked beautiful, and respectable enough to be visiting the home of a wealthy family, her mother had affirmed with pride.
‘See how it falls over the cheeks of her backside? She’s an absolute peach.’
‘Faint heart ne’er won a fair lady,’ said the first. ‘Introduce yourself, man…Go on, before somebody else snaps her up. Sweep her off her feet.’
Henzey wished fervently that Andrew would return to her side. But the young man’s approach was thwarted nonetheless: a tall, willowy girl had been edging towards her, and overheard the boys’ comments. She was wearing an expensive-looking sleeveless, white pyjama suit with a green snake embroidered on the front, poised to strike. She carried a long black cigarette holder in one hand and a half-empty champagne flute in the other. Her head was wrapped in an unusual cloche hat, styled like a turban.
‘At the risk of ultimately dying a spinster,’ she articulated close to Henzey’s ear, as if to impart a great secret, ‘I would go so far as to say that some of these young men have a tendency to over-rate their own merit.’
‘Oh?’ Henzey replied with an interested smile.
‘You must have heard what they said just now?…They must believe they are some sort of rare species. Frankly, I blame their mothers. They’ve doubtless drummed into them that they’re worth their weight in gold. Such sentiments should have been directed at their elder brothers, surely? Those spared by the war.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Henzey could hear Andrew’s voice booming boisterously on the other side of the room, and she was trying to listen to him at the same time. ‘I didn’t quite catch what you said.’
‘I said, these boys have such high opinions of themselves.’
‘Oh, some of them, maybe,’ nodded Henzey. ‘One of my friends made me laugh the other day. She reckons all they’re interested in is getting their hands up your frock. I wouldn’t know, myself. I’ve only ever had a couple of boyfriends, and I certainly wouldn’t let anybody do that.’
The girl was already laughing. ‘I say! I wouldn’t have put it quite like that personally, but your synopsis has a ring of truth. You a local gel?’
‘Born and bred. My name’s Henzey Kite. I’m with Andrew, and he’s getting more drunk by the minute, by the looks of him.’
‘Margot Hartford-Giles.’ She offered her hand, and they shook. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Henzey. So you’re with Andrew?’
‘If I ever get to see him again. My sister Alice is here as well somewhere, with Andrew’s friend, George. Do you know George?’
‘Know George? George is my brother, though that’s not something I should be crowing about. So, that little girl I saw him plying with drink is your sister, eh? She looks very young.’
‘She is. I’m supposed to keep my eye on her.’
‘It’s George you should keep an eye on, my dear – Andrew too. They’re like all the rest. They believe they’re a species of rare bird that should be kept in a gilded cage and have their feathers perpetually preened. If only they could rid themselves of this pitiful delusion.’
‘If only they could see themselves, some of them.’
Margot drew herself closer to Henzey’s ear and lowered her voice. ‘Frankly, you wouldn’t believe some of the things my friends say about men.’
‘But they’re not all as bad as you say, are they, Margot?’ She risked another glance at him with the fascinating allure, in time to see him leaving the drawing-room with the equally fascinating Nellie. ‘My brother’s all right,’ she continued, her eyes following them. ‘He’s fifteen and never had a girlfriend. He’s good to our mom, though, and kind to his horse…’
‘Oh, does he ride?’
‘Ride? Oh, no. He’s a milkman. The horse pulls his float.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Margot turned her head to conceal her amusement.
‘Mind you,’ Henzey continued, uninhibited by their cultural distance, ‘sometimes he tries to make everybody think as he’s better at everything than me and our Alice and our Maxine, but his brain ain’t quick enough. He thinks too slow.’
‘Like all men.’
‘He’s all right really, though.’
‘But it proves my point, Henzey.’
Margot took a gulp of champagne and Henzey swigged her lemonade. Increasingly, it seemed as if she was not part of her surroundings; a peculiar sensation, as if she were in a dream and observing, but detached from the party.
‘They’re all different, I suppose,’ Henzey said chattily, and smiled.
‘Oh, they fall into all sorts of categories. Do you know – in London, those on the social scene go out to dances practically every night of the season? Not any dance, mark you. Only very carefully selected ones. They owe it to themselves, you see, to be seen only at the right places. They get to know everybody on the social circuit, get to know everything about them – how much money they have, whom they hope to marry, even whom they’ve slept with.’
‘Slept with? You don’t mean…?’
‘Oh, please, don’t be shocked. That sort of thing’s par for the course these days, my dear. Whilst they’ll sleep with absolutely anybody, these socialites only fall in love with heiresses. But at least they are polite, which these days has to be admired. Immaculately dressed too. Most wear pristine white gloves so as not to mark your best silk dress with sweaty hands. Very commendable, what? Even their socks are beyond criticism, I’m told.
