Amazing Grace

By Brenda Jane Davies

She's searching for the man of her dreams, but when Grace finds Johnny, she must first save his life and then trust him with her heart or her happiness will be forever out of reach.

 

Free-spirited, strong-willed, and capable, the bonesetter's daughter, Grace, hopes to find a man who doesn't want to change her. But the man of her dreams is just that, a dream because none in the small village of St Merryn excites her. Until she meets Johnny.

 

The eldest in a wretched, poverty-stricken family, Johnny believes no woman will ever think he's worthy because he has nothing to offer but his body and his heart.

 

A fateful accident brings the two together, but with danger lurking at every turn and Johnny's life hanging in the balance, they must find the strength to admit what they both want if they are to seal their love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brenda Davies
• Release date: Sep 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201399153

Book preview

Chapter 1

Isaw him again last night. He held me in his arms and told me, ‘I cannot be poor, for I am loved by you.’ Each night he tells something different, this faceless man who haunts my dreams but in waking I can never find. Unless. Could he be the man stretched out beside me?

I stroke his bare arm and almost laugh. Anyone able to hear my thoughts would, by now, be thinking very badly of me. And I do have an almost naked man at my mercy. But it is, of course, entirely innocent, as usual.

My father stands opposite me, a scrubbed oak table between us. On the table lies this man, Jack, a piece of cloth clamped between his teeth. My father pins one of Jack’s arms and his chest to the table and my mother places herself by his feet, which she grips with both hands so he can’t move.

There is little natural light inside this cramped cottage during the day, even less this evening, so I have placed two flickering candles on the fireside lintel behind me. Their yellow light throws distorted shadows on the far wall. But I don’t need light, I can do this by touch.

The man’s left arm is nearest me. It juts at an odd angle where the bone has broken, just below his elbow, but thankfully the skin is intact. We have few medicines to treat infections, amputation being a last resort.

‘Right, Jack, this will be over soon. Take deep breaths.’

I run my hand over his sweaty brow, and he fixes his bulging eyes on me.

‘More brandy first. Please.’

I glance at my father, who nods once. The brandy is golden in the buttery light as I slosh liquid into a tumbler. Cradling Jack’s head, I lift the drink to his lips and watch his Adam’s apple bob as he gulps it down.

I try not to stare at his bare chest while I wait for the drink to course through his body. I’ve seen men’s bodies before. His is nothing new. I’ve touched them many times to treat and heal. But lately, I’ve been wondering what it would be like to run my fingers through chest hair in passion and lust. It must be my age. I’m nineteen and I long for marriage and children and keep imagining making love to the faceless man of my dreams. But that man isn’t Jack because he doesn’t stir me, few do. Perhaps I’m too choosy because no one exactly wants me either. I’m plain to look at, too tall, too curvy. I’m not a woman to coddle or protect being fiercely independent. Most men are afraid of me.

I say again, ‘Deep breaths, nice and slow.’

He tilts his head so he can stare at his arm and watch what I’m doing, but I take his chin and firmly angle his face towards my father. It’s best if he doesn’t look. Then I crack my knuckles, inhale through my nose, and exhale through my mouth to ready myself. I’m calm. I’m in charge and this is just how I like it.

With one of my hands above his elbow and the other around his wrist, I pull and stretch his muscles downwards to free the bone. He thrashes and moans, but my parents hold him steady. Keeping a hold on his wrist, my free hand probes beneath his layers of fat and muscle until I locate one end of the broken bone. The break is not clean; the edges are jagged. This will be a challenge, but I like a challenge.

He screams and yells when I squeeze and push the other end of the bone into place, but at least the arm now looks straight. I can only do my best to marry up the ragged ends by prodding and nudging. It isn’t easy, and only time will tell if I’ve got it right. When I release his wrist, my breath escapes and my shoulders relax.

My mother passes me two wooden splints and wet strips of material to bind his arm. The cloth will tighten as it dries.

‘Do you want to be sick?’ He’s as pale as whey and gulping down the urge to throw up.

‘I’m alright now, just... got me there a bit.’

Hands on hips, I admire my work and tell him, ‘We’re done but take it easy.’ I drape a sling around his neck and ease his arm inside. ‘Wear this for at least two weeks.’

‘How long for the splints?’

‘I’ll look at them in four weeks, but probably six weeks to be sure.’

‘Well, thank you, Grace, thank you all. Hope I wasn’t too bad a patient.’

‘We’ve had much worse.’ It always surprises me that men never take the pain like women. At least that’s my experience.

‘Here’s a pouch of ground willow bark. Make this into a tea and drink it for the pain.’ My mother passes it over.

We leave his cottage so he can rest and sleep. I walk home wedged between my parents, holding on to an arm each, as I’ve always done since I was a child. The night is mild but thick clouds conceal the stars and the moon, so my father carries his lantern in his free hand and my mother has his battered leather medicine bag in hers. We aim for his puddles of golden light and pick our way out of the village of St. Merryn. Past a crooked row of shops, all closed at this time of night, and turn to walk down a row of whitewashed cottages that line each side of the square. We cross a narrow lane that leads out of the village to the crossroads and the gibbet, step over a gulley where washerwomen throw their dirty water, and edge past the village pump because the surrounding ground is nothing but a wet bog. This end of the village opens onto Greenoak Woods where my mother and I collect mushrooms and herbs to treat the sick.

‘You did well tonight, Gracie.’

My father is the only person to call me that. To everyone else, I’m plain Grace, or the bonesetter’s daughter.

‘But you always do well.’

‘I’ve had the best teachers.’ And I have. My father is the village bonesetter and my mother the herbalist and midwife and before that my grandmother. They’ve taught me all I know.

We follow the edge of the woods, where the trees press together like watchful shadows, and veer towards the headland, guided by the salty tang of sea air, treading across springy grass where heather and bracken snare my skirt until tugged free. My foot finds an animal burrow dug into the earth and I stumble in the gloom. My father holds me firm. When we pass a gnarled tree, bent by strong Atlantic winds, I know we are at the rutted track that leads around the headland from Treyarnon Bay, all the way to Constantine Bay and home. To my left is the sound of water as it sucks and slithers about the base of the cliff. The smell of seaweed is strong, and far off the churr of a nightjar drifts towards me in the breeze that sighs amongst the bracken.

Our cottage is a welcoming sight, with candles left in the windows to guide us and the remains of our supper spread out across the kitchen table. We’d just upped and left to answer the cry for help. It’s always been this way; this is the only existence I’ve ever known, and I love it. Nothing could tear me away from this cottage or this village.

My mother plops down at the table to eat again and my father joins her. I try to sidle upstairs to my room.

‘Come and finish your meal,’ my mother says.

‘I’m not hungry now, just tired.’ That’s not true, but I’m trying not to eat so much. I can pinch the fat gathering around my middle and if I’m like this at nineteen what hope do I have when I’m older? I don’t tell my mother my thoughts. She is content with her size and is always telling me nothing wrong with a bit of fat.

My father pushes out a chair with his foot. I shake my head at him but take it, secretly glad I won’t be going to bed hungry, and finish the food on my plate. The rabbit pie is cold now but still delicious.

While my parents talk, I gaze about this downstairs room and smile at the familiarity. At the cupboards in the dark corners that hold our sacks of flour, pilchard pot, stash of candles and paraffin oil. Our oak table takes up most of this room, but there is space at the far end, beside the windows that open out onto Constantine Bay, for easy chairs. This is where we sit whenever one of us has time to sit. My favourite place in the cottage with my favourite view.

There is a narrow door at the back of this room. It looks like it should lead to a storage space because the doorway is so small, but it opens onto a wooden staircase. Two bedchambers are upstairs, separated by a poky landing. My bed fits under the eaves of the room on the right. At night when I sleep, the old cottage beams groan and creak, and through the window the waves on the beach wash against the shore and I imagine I’m on a boat, rocking gently out to sea.

But this time, when I lie in bed at night, I picture Jack’s bare chest