Fallen Women: From the author of the bestselling 'The Workhouse Children'

By Lindsey Hutchinson

Since the death of her parents when she was just a girl, orphan Ann Felton has had to struggle to survive. The grimy and gruelling Black Country is no place for a girl all alone and Ann is relieved when she gets works at The Bell public house, and is befriended by the local ladies of the night.

These bawdy, brave women take Ann under their wings, but with poverty gnawing hard at the people of Wednesbury life is a continual struggle. Ann can't bear to think how her friends make their money, but their friendship keeps her safe.

Victoria Beckett and Viscount Richard Wyndham have none of Ann's worries. Both grew up with silver spoons firmly in their mouths, and neither can understand Ann's struggles. But before long Ann will change both their lives forever, and in turn one of them might just save Ann from a fate worse than death...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Dec 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9781788541497

Lindsey Hutchinson

Lindsey Hutchinson is a bestselling saga author whose novels include The Workhouse Children. She was born and raised in Wednesbury, and was always destined to follow in the footsteps of her mother, the multi-million selling Meg Hutchinson.

Book preview

One

Every night for years, Ann Felton waited for her daddy to arrive home from the pit covered in coal dust. Immediately, their little game would begin as he chased her around the room roaring like a lion and Ann squealed her delight. Her mother constantly admonished her husband for dropping filth all over her lovely clean living room, but it was done with love. Only then would Thomas wash away the black dust before sitting at the table with his wife and daughter for their meagre meal. The Feltons didn’t have much – the roof over their head belonged to the pit – but they were happy.

Whilst Ann was at school, her mother, Clementine, helped out on Coopers’ fruit and vegetable stall on the market. Learning her letters and numbers during the daytime, Ann was then taught the value of money by her parents in the evenings as they played games with the few coins they had between them.

Ann was eleven years old when this joy came to an abrupt end. Her mother contracted a severe case of influenza and Ann stayed off school to nurse her.

Bathing Clementine’s forehead, Ann whispered, ‘This will make you more comfortable, Mum.’ She watched as the fever raged and her ministrations barely seemed to make any difference, but she persevered nevertheless.

Thomas Felton brought in the doctor to his wife, but within the week it had turned to pneumonia and by the following week Clementine had passed away.

Ann’s young mind tried desperately to come to terms with the fact she would never see her mum again. Her father sent her back to school, but grief would often tap her on the shoulder and she would dissolve into tears.

Ann was beyond distraught but very soon realised her father was stupefied. Thomas Felton walked round in a daze, hardly acknowledging his daughter’s distress. Ann took care of him as best as she could, but the light had gone from his eyes. He went through the motions, but he was never the same after losing the love of his life.

For two years, Ann and her father lived together; he working in the coal pit and she becoming a little mother. She kept the house clean and cooked the meals, did the shopping and washed their clothes. Father and daughter games were no longer played, for Ann had had to grow up quickly.

At thirteen years old, Ann had found herself thrust into a world of adults when her father died in a cave-in at the pit. She was alone and afraid. Not only had she lost both parents but she had to organise and pay for her father’s funeral. With the little money squirrelled away in various places in their cottage, Ann was forced to arrange the cheapest funeral possible.

Turned out of the cottage which was owned by the colliery boss, Ann lived on the streets scavenging and begging. Her mother’s friends on the market ensured the girl did not starve or accept the ticket into the workhouse, but there was only so much they could do to help. None were in a position to take her in, having large families of their own.

Sleeping in shop doorways, Ann spent many uncomfortable nights before she was moved on by the constable on night patrol.

Huddling in the bakery porch; she could smell the warm aroma of baking bread floating through an open window before the baker gave her unsold bread rolls. He was kindness itself.

Ann struggled to survive the winter months; sleeping in one or another of the churches in an effort to stay warm. The few clothes she had taken with her on having to leave the cottage were rinsed through at night when Ann quietly slipped down a ginnel to use someone’s standpipe at the back of the house. She was careful never to use the same one twice for fear of being discovered.

Ann carried her small carpet bag of clothes to school each day in an effort to keep up her education. It was one afternoon as she was leaving when Mrs Mortimer called her back.

‘Ann, your skirt is torn, my dear. Are you able to repair it?’

Shaking her head, Ann said quietly, ‘No, Miss, I can’t sew and I have no needle or thread.’

Knowing the girl’s circumstances, Mrs Mortimer’s heart went out to the youngster trying to survive on the streets with nothing to her name.

‘Come with me,’ the teacher said, before leading Ann to another classroom.

Here a teacher was showing a handful of girls how to sew together the pieces of an apron. Ann was welcomed and settled in with the tutor helping her to stitch the rent in her skirt.

Ann attended that class every day for the remainder of her school years, becoming a proficient seamstress.

At fifteen, Ann said goodbye to the teachers of the school who had taught her so much, to the cooks who had fed her for free out of the goodness of their hearts, and to the building which had sheltered her from all weathers during the daytime. For the past two years she had begged food and clothes from the market, slept in churches or doorways, and now it was time to find herself a job.

Every day for weeks, she trundled around the town looking for work – to no avail. No one was hiring, and so the begging of scraps of food continued.

Then one day Ann had been extremely fortunate to find herself a job just at the point when she was so low she was tempted to turn herself in at the workhouse gates.

She had been taken on at the Bell Inn as waitress, dish washer and cleaner-cum-dogsbody in return for her meals, and a room at the top of the premises as well as receiving a small wage.

Now Ann was eighteen and stood face to face with her employer in the steamy kitchen.

‘I’m warning you for the last time, Gladys, either you keep your husband in check, or I will leave this place! Then where will you be?’ Ann Felton’s dark eyes blazed with fury.

‘What’s ’e done now?’ the other woman asked with a sigh.

‘You know full well! That man cannot keep his hands to himself, and I’m sick to death of it!’ Pushing her raven black hair off her face with her wet hand, Ann slammed a clean plate onto the draining board of the old brownstone sink.

‘I’ll be ’aving a word then,’ Gladys sighed again.

‘Sooner rather than later, I would suggest,’ Ann said as she continued to wash the dishes. She watched her employer leave the room, dragging her feet as she went.

Shaking her head, Ann knew her warning would cause yet another row between husband and wife, but this time she was adamant – if Len Pritchard touched her once more, she’d be off.

Continuing with her task, she thought about the past three years working in the Bell Inn in the little town of Wednesbury; the town in the heart of the industrial ‘Black Country’ where she was born and raised.

The sound of shouting disrupted her thoughts and Ann closed her eyes and waited. After a moment, silence descended and she returned to washing the dishes.

‘I’ve ’ad a word,’ Gladys Pritchard said as she shuffled into the kitchen once more.

‘I heard. Let’s hope it does some good this time!’ Ann said sharply.

Wiping her hands on a tea cloth, Ann sat at the table and poured the tea Gladys had made. Watching the woman rolling out pastry for a pie, Ann allowed her thoughts to roam once more.

The Pritchards had run the Bell Inn for many years and despite drinking most of the profits they somehow remained in business nevertheless. The place itself was ramshackle, with no money being spent to improve it. Gladys was a hard faced woman with no time for anyone but herself. Len’s frisky ways with women drove her to distraction at times and she constantly berated him for it but stuck by him regardless.

Ann watched the woman as she worked. She must have been a beauty in her time, but hard work and a womanising drunkard for a husband had taken its toll and Gladys now looked a lot older than her years. Her fair hair was turning grey and wispy and her eyes had lost all their lustre. She was overweight and round shouldered; she had given up on looking smart now she spent her life in the kitchen of the Inn.

Both women groaned as Len bustled into the kitchen.

‘You’ve been getting me in trouble with the missus, our Annie,’ he laughed.

‘I’m not your Annie, and the trouble – you brought that on yourself!’ Ann’s words were caustic.

‘I was only playing…’ Len began, his blue eyes twinkling.

‘I don’t care, Len, I’ve warned you so many times and you don’t listen. So, I’ll tell you again – you touch me just one more time and I will pack up and leave!’ Ann banged her cup on the table for emphasis.

‘Now then, don’t be like that,’ Len smiled as he took a step towards her.

‘Len!’ Gladys intervened. She bristled as she glared at him.

‘All right,’ he said, holding up his hands and stepping back. He blew through his teeth as he drew a hand through his prematurely greying hair. ‘I’ll be in the snug,’ he said and left the women in peace.

As a general rule, women didn’t frequent the alehouses in the town, however Len had set aside a small room just for them. The ‘snug’ had become popular very quickly with the ladies of the night. Ann had become friends with these women and they all looked out for each other as well as for her. Gladys, on the other hand, didn’t care for them and what they stood for… or rather what they lay down for. For some, prostitution was the only way to make a coin and the women considered it good honest work, but Gladys didn’t agree.

Ann Felton pondered these thoughts as more dirty plates piled up. With a sigh, she set to again. She would not see her bed for a while yet; it was Len’s custom not to bother adhering to the drinking hours set by the law. He would sit with his cronies long after closing time, drinking and putting the world to rights. Ann would be cleaning the kitchen, so didn’t get to drag her weary body to bed until the early hours of the morning.

The boom of Len’s laughter and the cackle of women issued from the ‘snug’ and Gladys muttered under her breath, ‘That bugger’s at it again!’

Ann grimaced as she continued her task. Len would never change – once a leopard, always a leopard.

The laughter came again and Gladys stormed from the kitchen. A moment later, jeers and catcalls were heard as wife berated husband on his philandering. Returning to the kitchen Gladys yelled over her shoulder, ‘One day, Len Pritchard, I’ll cut that bugger off!’

Ann giggled quietly and Gladys rounded on her.

‘What you laughing at? Get on with them dishes and make sure they’m clean!’

The smile remained on Ann’s face as she scrubbed at some obstinate food stuck to a plate, and her thoughts took her back once more. Left an orphan, she had acquired the job at fifteen years old. Her little room at the top of the building was cosy enough, but it had no lock, so a chair was pushed beneath its handle every night – just in case. She worked hard and long for the pittance she was paid and she had one afternoon off a week. Her life wasn’t as bad as others, however, she mused. After all, there were people in the town who had no work, no home and no money. They walked the streets begging for a handout and some families even slept on the heath beneath tarpaulins, and Ann knew all about the hell of having no roof over her head.

Many of the collieries had closed down, putting the miners out of work and the ‘slag heaps’ which had been left behind were picked over for any coal nuggets that could be found. The ‘breadline’ of unemployed men grew longer each day, with no hope of them finding work. Folk died of starvation and illness, particularly in the winter months. It was a difficult time for the people of Wednesbury and Ann knew that however much she longed for a better life she was one of the lucky ones.

As the evening wore on, Gladys retired to her bed and Ann began to clean the kitchen. Once finished, she sidled through to the bar in the snug.

‘Hey up, ’ere’s my little ray of sunshine,’ Len said as Ann leaned on the counter, feeling weary to the bone.

‘You leave our Annie alone, you dirty old bugger!’ one of the women laughed, but she made sure the landlord understood she was serious.

Eventually the bar emptied, the women leaving to go about their business of standing on the street corners, and Len said he was going to lock up.

‘I’m going out for a walk before bed; I need some fresh air,’ Ann said.

‘Ar all right, I’ll leave a key to the back door in the privy outside. I’m going up to annoy the hell outta Gladys!’ Len grinned and gave her a wink.

Ann shook her head and as she left she heard the door lock behind her. Then she strolled out into the entry that ran at the side of the pub. It was a warm night and the moon shone full and strong, lighting her way along the cobbled streets. Still in her work clothes, Ann didn’t care, there was no one about to see her. The only sound was her boots as she meandered through the quiet town. Walking up the Shambles, Ann glanced at the buildings, their black silhouettes standing proud against the backdrop of the moon’s glow. In the distance, she heard the night soil men carrying out their unsavoury task and a faint smell of their trade drifted on a gentle breeze.

Nearing the marketplace, Ann heard voices and laughter. Wandering up High Street, she saw crowds of people leaving the Theatre Royal. Then she remembered it was the Mayor’s inaugural ball that night. Stopping close to the theatre building, she watched the carriages come and go. She saw the fine dresses and the wealthy people of the town saying their goodnights. Ann leaned against the wall and smiled to herself. The happiness of those going home to their big houses was evident.

Suddenly a piercing voice reached her ears.

‘Daddy! Where is our carriage? I want to go home – NOW!’

Ann’s eyebrows arched as she watched the fair haired young woman throw a temper tantrum right there in the street.

Spoilt brat! she thought, then giggled to herself as she pushed away from the wall to walk back home.

The sound of her quiet laugh and her movement was heard and seen by the young woman now stamping her feet.

‘You there! Were you laughing at me? How dare you!’ the young woman yelled and Ann turned to face her.

Ann drew her lips together in a tight line to stifle another titter and shook her head.

‘Answer me!’ the girl screeched, shrugging off her parents who were trying to calm her. ‘What are you doing there anyway? This is no place for you – go away, ply your trade elsewhere!’

Now Ann’s temper flared. The girl being rude was one thing, but this accusation was quite another. Stepping towards the girl, she said quietly, ‘This is a free country and I can walk where I please. Now, for your information, not that it’s any of your business anyway, I am not a prostitute! I am a kitchen maid. My advice to you is to go home.’ Turning to the man who she assumed was the girl’s father, she went on, ‘Once there, may I suggest you give your daughter the spanking she so richly deserves!’

The sound of single applause turned all eyes to the man standing in the theatre doorway. ‘Well said, Miss…?’

‘Felton, Ann Felton.’

‘Well, Miss Felton, I repeat – well said!’ Reaching out his hand, he continued, ‘My name is Richard Wyndham and I’m very pleased to meet you.’

Shaking his hand, Ann said, ‘Please excuse me, I have to get home now.’

With a last glare at the girl who was standing dumbstruck, Ann turned and walked away with her head held high.

Early the next morning, Ann Felton was in a world of her own as she swept the floor in the bar of the Bell Inn. She was remembering the dreadful behaviour of the girl outside the Theatre Royal the previous night and how her parents had stood by and allowed it to happen. Ann’s parents would never have put up with that and she was mystified by the events, but a small smile came to her face when she recalled Richard Wyndham. He was a handsome man – at least what she could see of him by the light of the moon and the gas lamps outside the theatre. He seemed confident without being arrogant and had an easy way with his speech. He appeared to be a gentleman, unlike the philanderer Len Pritchard.

A hand squeezing her bottom brought her thoughts back to the present in an instant and she rounded on the man responsible. Holding the broom between them like a weapon, she snarled, ‘Len Pritchard, I’ve warned you about doing that!’

The landlord grinned and raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh come on, it was just a joke,’ he said, feigning innocence.

‘Keep your jokes for others, Len; I don’t find them at all funny and neither will Gladys when I tell her!’ Ann stepped away from her tormenter. She watched him walk off, shaking his head.

Taking the broom back to the scullery, Ann thought about her boss. In his fifties, he still considered himself God’s gift to women, although Ann couldn’t see why. Len kept his grey hair short and his clothes clean; he was always immaculately turned out to stand at his bar. He treated this bar like a stage and ‘played’ to his customers frequently. He loved the limelight and could often be heard laughing at his own jokes. He would burst into song at the least excuse, thinking he had the voice of an angel and should be performing at the best theatres in London. But Ann thought, deep down, Len was an unhappy man. He was convinced he was worthy of far more than tending the bar in a crumbling tavern which stood in a dying part of a small town.

As she walked into the kitchen, Gladys poured herself a cup of tea and Ann heard the ever present mutterings of a woman tired of her life.

Gladys dragged a mob cap over her hair. Under her breath came the continuous listing of things to be done. ‘Right. I ’ave to get this mutton cooked, vegetables prepared, pastry made… I wonder what that lazy bugger’s up to? He’s never bloody ’ere when there’s work to be done. Probably stood out front ’aving a smoke!’ Gladys ambled around the kitchen, preparing her work surfaces, and Ann watched as she had every morning for the last three years.

The three of them led a mundane life, with nothing exciting ever happening. Their existence went on – same thing, different day. Ann wondered if this was how she would see out her life. Would she die cleaning this hovel? Would God ever see fit to change her life’s journey? Could she change that path herself someday? Ann could only dream…

Two

Victoria Beckett, the girl with a temper like a tornado, had been named after the reigning Queen in an effort to raise her family’s status in the small town of Wednesbury. She was, however, a brat of the first order, and everyone knew it. All of her eighteen years had been spent demanding this, that and the third thing from her parents. Her mother, Ariadne, had given in to her daughter’s every whim, whilst her father despaired.

William Beckett was the manager of the London City and Midland Bank, which sat in the marketplace and was where he spent many long hours. His wife filled her time shopping and socialising in the desperate hope of finding a suitable husband for their daughter.

The Becketts lived in what Ariadne might term a mansion at the top of Spring Head, the street leading away from the marketplace. ‘The Beeches’ had four bedrooms, a parlour, living room, kitchen, scullery and stables, and servants’ quarters as well as an indoor lavatory. Very few properties enjoyed this luxury – most having their privies in a separate building in the yard – so in this Victorian age it was indeed a sign of wealth.

Queen Victoria had reigned for sixty-one years and was adored by her subjects, so much so that when her husband Prince Albert died in 1861, the whole country mourned his loss alongside her. The Queen was in her dotage now and the people guessed it would not be long before her son Edward VII would accede the throne.

However, her namesake cared nothing for royalty. Victoria Beckett cared only for herself and what she could get out of her parents.

Dressing for breakfast, Victoria relived the day of the Mayor’s ball, when she and her mother had climbed into the cab snapping out the names of the shops they wished to visit. The cab driver had rolled his eyes as he turned the horse in the direction they were to travel.

Although The Beeches was not far from the marketplace, Ariadne could not be seen to be walking; only the poor walked to their destinations. As the carriage had rumbled over the cobblestones of Spring Head, the summer sunshine poured in through its windows. The heat began to make Victoria testy and she had banged on the ceiling of the cab with her parasol yelling for the cabbie to get a move on.

The driver had ignored her call, for as they approached the intersection with Ridding Lane, the carriage had stopped. Taking his time, he’d looked both ways for any other forms of traffic or people crossing and, deciding this would be a good time to light his pipe, he took out his tobacco pouch. Filling his pipe, he struck a match and, cupping it with his hand, he held it to the pipe bowl, drawing hard on its stem.

Victoria had wrinkled her nose as she smelled the smoke from the pipe. Disgusting habit!

Another bang of the parasol had told him his passengers were now very irritable. With his pipe clenched between his teeth, he retrieved the horse’s reins. Checking again that the way was clear, he snapped the reins together with a loud crack. The horse shot forward, dragging the carriage behind it and sending the women inside sprawling on their seats. The first port of call for mother and daughter had been ‘Broadhouse Gowns’.

The Misses Broadhouse, identical twins, ran their dress shop in the marketplace and were renowned for their quirky ways. Never could a conversation be had without one finishing the other’s sentence. For all that, they were the finest dressmakers in the town and commanded custom from the wealthiest families.

Flora and Laura Broadhouse had welcomed Victoria and her mother into the shop.

‘Welcome, it’s nice to…’ Flora began.

‘… see you,’ Laura finished.

Victoria had tutted loudly, rolling her eyes at the women’s odd mode of speech. ‘Is my ball gown ready?’ she demanded to know.

‘Just as…’ Laura began.

‘… you ordered,’ Flora ended.

‘Well?’ Victoria had glared at the twins.

Rushing into the back room, they had soon reappeared with a striking scarlet gown, and snatching the dress, Victoria had quickly retired to try it on. With a sweetheart neckline cut low, it had capped sleeves and was nipped tightly in at the waistline. The voluminous skirt swelled out, the hemline sitting perfectly on top of the girl’s feet. Swishing through to parade before her mother, Victoria had turned around, looking at herself from all angles in the long free-standing mirror. Victoria was delighted.

‘I’m really not sure about the colour, dear,’ Ariadne had said.

‘Oh, Mother! I don’t want to be lost among the white dresses of the other girls at the ball!’ her daughter had huffed.

‘Well, in that gown you certainly won’t be!’

Turning to the Misses Broadhouse, Victoria had snapped, ‘Wrap it, box it and send the bill to Daddy!’ Walking into the back room to disrobe, she had left her mother shaking her head.

In the carriage once more, the women had headed next to collect Victoria’s red shoes in Upper High Street. Then it was on to the hotel at the end of Albert Street. Everyone who was anyone took lunch in the Albert Hotel’s fine dining room. Victoria thought it an excellent place to show off the boxes that held her dress and shoes, flatly refusing to leave them in the cab whilst they ate. She wanted all to be aware of where the women had shopped that morning.

Waltzing into the dining room, Victoria had ignored the maître d’ and marched to the table in the centre of the room. She wanted to be seen and she’d chosen the perfect spot. A waiter appeared in an instant, clutching a menu, with the wine waiter at his heels.

All conversation at surrounding tables had ceased as the Becketts entered the room, and as Victoria cast her eyes around, the mutterings began once more. She smiled, they had all seen her enter and were now trying to ignore her. She knew they had spied her purchases and she felt jubilant as she sat her with nose in the air.

Voices at the doorway drew every pair of eyes as the maître d’ began apologising to the handsome young man by his side. Waving the apology away, the man sat at the table next to the Becketts. As the man scanned the menu, Victoria called over the maître d’ with a click of her fingers.

‘What is all the disturbance about?’ she asked harshly.

‘I’m afraid the gentleman’s table was taken by someone else, madam,’ the man said.

‘Oh, by whom?’ Victoria asked.

‘By you – madam!’ Turning on his heel, the maître d’ had stalked away.

Victoria had noticed the young man at the next table raise his menu, and she thought it had been to hide his smirk.

*

The ball had been held at the grandiose Theatre Royal on High Street, and was to celebrate the new Mayor taking up office. Carriages had rolled up one after the other, dropping their passengers at the front door of the theatre. Crowds of people gathered to chat in the balmy evening before they made their way inside.

Outside the theatre, gentlemen in their tailcoats and top hats leaned on silver-topped canes as their wives admired the ball gowns of their friends. All colours, sizes and styles of dresses were in evidence, the skirts of which swished around the ladies’ legs as they sauntered into the building.

The music from the small orchestra could be heard in the street through the open door, along with laughter from the people filing in.

Victoria Beckett had insisted they be fashionably late and on arrival she had pushed her way through the crowd, closely followed by her parents. William had profusely apologised for his daughter’s behaviour before stepping into the theatre proper. The Master of Ceremonies had announced them by name before moving on to the next guests.

The building held two massive rooms: the theatre itself where plays and music hall attractions were performed, and a huge ballroom. Large chandeliers lit the wooden dance floor and tables and chairs were placed all around it. An anteroom sported a drinks bar, where tables of food were laid out for the patrons.

William immediately went to the table, holding a punch bowl and glasses. Filling two, he had taken them to his wife and daughter before returning to the bar to chat with friends.

Ariadne sat at a table with other women, while Victoria patrolled the perimeter of the dance floor. Smiling and nodding to people she knew, she caught the disgusted looks of older women at the cut and colour of her gown. Smirking, she had moved on.

The Master of Ceremonies’ voice boomed out across the ballroom once more: ‘Lord Richard Wyndham, Viscount of Shrewsbury.’

Looking across the room, Victoria had gasped as she recognised the man just announced. It was the man whose table she had taken at the

Reviews for Fallen Women

[kris_anderson-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Fallen Women by Lindsey Hutchinson has readers journeying to Wednesbury in England’s Black Country. Ann Felton has been on her own since she was thirteen. She lived on the streets, but she attended school each day until she turned fifteen. For the last three years, Ann has been working as a kitchen maid at Bell Inn, the local pub, where she also resides. Len and Gladys Pritchard own the public house, and they created a room called the snug where the local ladies of the evening can relax and enjoy a pint. Those women are Ann’s friends, and they look out for each other. One evening, Ann is out for a walk near the Theatre Royal when she sees Victoria Beckett having a temper tantrum. Ann suggests that her father give her a good spanking which Lord Richard Wyndham finds amusing, but it infuriates Victoria. This one incident is the spark that will ignite the flame that changes the lives of Richard, Victoria and Ann along with her friends. Then someone starts killing the local prostitutes and Ann is worried about her friends’ lives. Who is behind these vicious attacks? I enjoyed reading The Fallen Women. I like the author’s writing style which drew me into the story. She created characters that I liked, and that I was rooting for them to succeed. There are other characters that are the type that readers love to dislike. Ann Felton has worked hard to stay off the streets and earn a respectful living. She wants to help her friends improve their lives and find a different way to earn their money. Ann is a hard worker with a realistic view of life and she has a large, loving heart. I like the strong and colorful female characters (except Victoria) in the book. There is mystery and suspense in The Fallen Women. I like how they add depth to the story and provide shocking twists along with revelations. One woman is bent on revenge and there is a Jack the Ripper type killer in their small city. I like the romance between the unlikely pair of Lord Richard Wyndham and Ann Felton. There is humor sprinkled throughout the story especially when the ladies get together for a pint. There are some historical inaccuracies in The Fallen Women, and I felt the book could have been shortened (just a wee bit too long). I am giving The Fallen Women 4 out of 5 stars (I liked it). The Fallen Women is a multi-faceted story where the author combined romance, strong women, friendships, humor, intrigue, hard work, and a mystery into one engaging story.