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While I Was Waiting
Georgia Hill
‘A lovely, romantic and historical read’ – Linda’s Book BagJune 1963, Clematis Cottage, Stoke St. Mary, HerefordshireI am really not sure why I am writing this. A foolish whim by a foolish old lady and it will probably sit in a box unread and decay much like its writer when Death makes his careless decision.But perhaps someone will find it. Someone will care enough to read and somehow I know that will happen.April 2000, Clematis Cottage, Stoke St. Mary, HerefordshireTired of her life in London, freelance illustrator Rachel buys the beautiful but dilapidated Clematis Cottage and sets about creating the home of her dreams. But tucked away behind the water tank in the attic and left to gather dust for decades is an old biscuit tin containing letters, postcards and a diary. So much more than old scraps of paper, these are precious memories that tell the story of Henrietta Trenchard-Lewis, the love she lost in the Great War and the girl who was left behind.
While I Was Waiting
GEORGIA HILL
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HarperImpulse an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers
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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2015
Copyright © Georgia Hill 2015
Cover images © iStock (soldier); Shutterstock.com
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015
Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
Georgia Hill asserts the moral right
to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for 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.
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and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.
Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 9780008123253
Version 2015-07-02
For Geoff. I’m so glad I waited.
Contents
Cover (#u888b6cc9-afaf-5cee-9b12-1daa45fb96b5)
Title Page (#ue4b1b7f7-30db-5a99-9605-db7593593666)
Copyright (#u742a477a-71c2-56bf-9923-f5f86f735aec)
Dedication (#u18d7e656-ae87-537f-a732-3e5f4af69ff3)
Prologue (#uacb2f412-2fe6-51cb-95b5-017707036848)
Chapter 1 (#ue33cef98-2e60-504c-9c22-960243fabc97)
Chapter 2 (#u50a10d5e-d12f-5fa3-80d6-1af37e2ce420)
Chapter 3 (#u18fedafa-d2ea-5d89-a6f7-fb0b410f7b05)
Chapter 4 (#u46fc7f58-6646-51b5-9b88-361b2ea41505)
Chapter 5 (#uee82cba8-77d1-5cbf-bdfb-9fea044ddecc)
Chapter 6 (#ud883fb51-d34b-5633-9f42-d708115efa19)
Chapter 7 (#udb5d3a97-6278-5778-a790-64d6bad08cd6)
Chapter 8 (#u12fdcd7b-64c7-5ab2-be0a-48e58074cfc4)
Chapter 9 (#u88e5eec4-e3f5-5db9-9df4-5d3679f2f232)
Chapter 10 (#ub20ce082-5643-58ab-b63d-822d38e4f76a)
Chapter 11 (#u59928dca-113d-5e1b-9f92-f2d6c5b7cb3c)
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)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Georgia Hill (#litres_trial_promo)
About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ufc1fb4fc-bf00-50b7-8358-f0a3935224c7)
June 1963, Clematis Cottage, Stoke St Mary, Herefordshire
I am really not sure why I am writing this. A foolish whim by a foolish old lady and it will probably sit in a box unread and decay much like its writer when Death makes his careless decision. But perhaps someone will find it. Someone will care enough to read it and somehow I know this is what will happen.
Hetty snorted and slammed down her fountain pen. Pompous stuff! She could hear Richard saying the very same thing. He had always hated any whiff of pretension. She smiled. Richard and Edward. The aunts. Papa. Dear Peter. She hadn’t allowed herself to think of them all for such a long time – had been too busy tagging on to other people’s lives. She sat back to ease her stiff shoulders. Gazing at the view from the window in the sitting room, where she had placed her desk, she realised she had always been squeezed into other people’s lives.
‘A veritable cuckoo,’ she said out loud to the emptiness. ‘I’ve never, until now, had the luxury of being myself, of having my own life, as I want it.’ She glanced around the sitting room of her little cottage. ‘And I’ve never had a home of my own until I moved here.’
It was all the fault of that pesky young curate at the village church. He was the one who had suggested that she write up her life. He seemed to think she’d had an eventful one – she’d certainly lived through a time of great change, of great tragedy.
She picked up the pen again.
I was a young girl when I went to the big house…
