Nightingale Read online

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  By the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  About the Author

  Books Available From Bold Strokes Books

  Synopsis

  When Charlie Porter meets Hazaar Alim her first year of university, she's instantly smitten. Hazaar has it all: beauty, talent, and brains. What she doesn't realize is that Hazaar's future has already been decided, and Charlie has no place in it.

  Hazaar desperately wants to break with her traditions and stay with Charlie, but when forced to choose, she chooses her family over love. When she realizes the choice she made is the worst one possible, it's too late.

  Years later, while working in Pakistan as a diplomat and negotiator, Charlie receives a phone call from a woman who says her British sister-in-law is to be killed for the family's honor and asks if someone can save her.

  Charlie and Hazaar are on a collision course with destiny. If they make it out alive, can they believe in their love once again?

  Nightingale

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  Nightingale

  © 2014 By Andrea Bramhall. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-102-4

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: May 2014

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editors: Victoria Oldham and Cindy Cresap

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  By the Author

  Ladyfish

  Clean Slate

  Nightingale

  Acknowledgments

  Nightingale is a work of fiction. But behind the fiction is a reality that is lived by millions of women and girls across the world, every single day. Not because of religion, but because of ignorance, illiteracy, and the abuse of religion by those in power, no matter who they are or where they are in the world. Education is the key to reducing this imbalance, but it is a gift taken lightly by the few and beyond the reach of so many—despite all they would suffer for it. At the age of fifteen, Malala Yousafzai was shot in the head by the Taliban because she refused to stay home from school. She survived and spoke at the UN on her sixteenth birthday. She told delegates of how her injury and her struggle made her stronger and more determined to gain her education and help her country toward peace in any way she could. If only there were a few more like Malala, maybe then stories like Nightingale would belong only in the realm of fiction.

  There is a tireless group working behind the scenes at Bold Strokes Books, and without them this book wouldn’t be what it is. Rad, Vic, Cindy, Sheri, and Sandy are but a few who make the magic of books look so much easier than it really is. Thank you for your help and your expertise and yet another fabulous book cover.

  My merry band of beta readers, Louise, Amy, Kim, and Dawn. Thank you really isn’t enough. Your help and encouragement are appreciated more than I can ever tell you. And thank you to Nicki Hastie, for naming Steph MacKenzie at the Bold Strokes Books UK festival in Nottingham in 2013.

  To the love of my life, always…Galaxy chocolate…LOL, just kidding, of course I meant Louise.

  And also to the woman who taught me the most about acceptance and tolerance. My Auntie Wendy. Your acceptance and your lack of judgment in all things have been one of the biggest influences of my life and I hope—I truly hope—you see that within these pages.

  Chapter One

  Pakistan, today

  Charlie took a deep breath. The aroma of sun-scorched earth, spices, and small farm animals filled the air. Goats bleated their greetings to anyone who passed, and chickens pecked at the ground. It never ceased to amaze her. She was less than an hour from Islamabad—a bustling metropolis—and yet she felt she had stepped into a different world. The small Pakistani village was home to no more than a hundred people on the edge of the Peshawar plain where the desert encroached on one side and the mountains loomed on the other, and Charlie had the feeling that the village had stolen the land it was sitting on. Everything had a temporary feel to it, as though mountains or desert would soon reclaim it and cast the villagers out in search of another place to settle.

  She climbed out of the Jeep in front of her destination and pulled the scarf closer to her face. She hated wearing it because of the way her sweat seeped into the fabric in the heat of the fast-fading sun. But as much as she hated it, she knew it was a small price to pay to be able to accomplish her work.

  The house was made of thick clay walls. It had a straw roof, and a rickety fence enclosed a dusty, rocky yard with a chicken coop in the corner. It was typical of the village, and she knew that inside there would be no plumbing, no electricity, and the only heating in the surprisingly chilly Pakistani winter would come from a fire in the hearth. She knocked on the door and waited. She could hear voices inside, a child sniffling, and the soft shuffle of slippered feet across the floor. The hinges creaked as the door swung open and a bearded man appeared.

  “Yes?” His English was thickly accented, and he looked at her curiously. It had been a long time since Charlie had questioned why people never addressed her in Arabic, since her blue eyes and blond hair visible under the headscarf were a definite giveaway to her Western roots.

  “Mr. Malik, I’m Charlie Porter. We’ve spoken on the phone several times over the past few weeks.”

  “The woman from the embassy?” A frown marred his face, the deep-set eyes turned wary, and the crinkles at the corners deepened. The white linen tunic of his traditional clothing stood out starkly against the roughhewn wooden door, and the loose-fitting pants rustled as he moved.

  Charlie prepared herself. “Yes.”r />
  “I have nothing to say to you.” He began to close the door, and she quickly held out her hand to halt its progress.

  “Sir, I have a proposition for you. Would you allow me to speak with you? Please.” Charlie looked him in the eye as he stopped pushing, determined to make him listen. She knew that this was the final resolution for this case, and a child’s future rested in her hands.

  “You want to take my daughter from me.” His voice was gruff, scratchy almost.

  “No, sir, I want to make your life a little easier.” She held up a newspaper folded into quarters and a paragraph was circled in red. “I can give you the fresh start your family wants you to have.” The circled piece was a notification of his new wife’s pregnancy. It had been placed in the newspaper by Mr. Malik’s father and father-in-law, and it was obvious not only how proud they were of the impending birth, but also that the child of his first failed marriage, to an English woman they hadn’t approved of, was something of an inconvenience for the family—a reminder of his failure and a block to them all moving on. She was sure that both families must be putting him under enormous pressure to do something about the little girl. She hoped that the option she was offering him was somewhat more palatable than it had been before.

  “She is my daughter. She should be with me.”

  “A little girl needs her mother too.”

  “She has a mother.” He started to raise his voice, then caught himself. “I have remarried. She has a good mother.”

  “I understand that.” Charlie hated the way she had to appease the man, playing to his ego to get what she needed from him. But this wasn’t her first negotiation, and she knew how to play the game. As a child, she had been fascinated by the game of chess. She’d read about the strategies, and the defences, opening gambits, and sacrifices. She loved the nuances and the variations, and she loved the dichotomy of the aggression and subtlety that incorporated the game. And the patience she had learned had always been one of her greatest assets. She put every lesson she’d learned into play now. “I also understand that it must be difficult for her.”

  “My wife is a proper Muslim woman. She will do her duty.”

  “I’m sure she will. But wouldn’t it be easier for you both to be able to start your new family with just the two of you, instead of having the reminder of your failed marriage living beneath your roof?” Charlie loathed the way she had to make the little girl sound like an inconvenience for her father. She hoped that the child was far enough away or unable to understand English after three years in Pakistan.

  “She is my daughter.” His voice cracked, and Charlie knew she was making headway.

  “I know. But wouldn’t your wife appreciate you thinking of her needs at this time? Her first baby, your first baby together, is due soon.”

  “My wife will do as I tell her. She is a good Muslim woman.”

  “Mr. Malik, do you know much about the cuckoo bird?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The cuckoo bird, Mr. Malik. Do you know anything about it?”

  “What does that have to do with this?”

  “If you would indulge me a moment.” She waited for some sign of acknowledgment before she continued. “The cuckoo bird doesn’t make a nest of its own. It’s a parasite in the bird world. It lays eggs in the nest of another bird and leaves the host to raise the chick. The cuckoo chick grows so fast it will often kill the host bird’s chicks by pushing them out of the nest or squashing the eggs.” Charlie watched to make sure that he was following her. “The host bird will continue to feed and raise the cuckoo chick until it flies from the nest, and it will do so to the detriment of her own chicks.”

  Mr. Malik leaned back from the door and stared off to his right, seemingly into space.

  Charlie smiled. “The cuckoo chick isn’t evil. It’s not even wrong. It’s merely trying to survive.” She could see the effect her words were having on the man. His shoulders slumped and his brow furrowed as he seemed to consider everything she was saying. Perhaps everything his family had been saying too. “It’s the nature of the bird. It cannot help that it’s in the wrong place.”

  He slowly raised his eyes to meet her hers. She could see the glimmer of tears, and she knew he’d made his decision. “She will be taken care of properly?”

  “You have my word.”

  “It will be best for everyone.”

  “Of course.” Charlie felt the thrill of victory surge through her, the adrenaline making her hands shake as she pushed the newspaper into her bag. She tempered her excitement, not wanting to say or do anything that would make him backtrack on his decision. All she wanted was for him to hand over the little girl and for the two of them to leave, get back to the British Embassy, and get the child back to her mother.

  “Horia.” He shouted into the house and turned his back on her. He spoke in Urdu before pushing the door open wide. He had his hand on the little girl’s back as he pushed her toward the door. Charlie knew from the file that she was five years old and had been in Pakistan for three years. Her clothes were well kept, if a little dirt-smeared at the end of the day. She looked healthy, whole, but not very happy.

  “What did you tell her?” Charlie held her hand out to the child and waited for her to take it.

  “I told her that she was to go with you. That is all.”

  Charlie nodded and bit back the angry retort she wanted to yell at him and reminded herself that it wasn’t her place to judge. She was here to reunite a mother and her daughter, not decide who was the better parent—the one who hadn’t stopped searching for Horia, or the parent who had taken her as a way to punish her mother. And, conceivably, based on the tears in his eyes, because he actually wanted her as well. It saddened her how common it was that children were used as weapons by their parents. The damage done to them in the process was immeasurable.

  She waved and beckoned the child to her. The girl’s eyes were wide open, and fat tears clung to her lashes as she tugged on the thin cotton shirt she wore. Mr. Malik pushed her out the door toward Charlie, muttering after her. The child’s lower lip trembled, and the first tears ran down her cheeks. Charlie lifted the child into her arms, settling her against her hip, and reached into her bag again with her free hand.

  “I need you to sign this document, Mr. Malik.” She waved a sheaf of papers at him.

  “What is it?” He took hold of the pages without glancing at the content.

  “It gives me custody of Horia and will enable me to get her a passport. It says that you give up your legal responsibilities and rights over her.” Charlie held out a pen to him. “I need you to sign it.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  Charlie shrugged. “You’ll make it difficult for me, but not impossible.” She played down the difficulties she would face if he didn’t sign, knowing it would be damn near impossible to get the child a new British passport quickly without his signature, especially as she was leaving without any legal documents for the child. The girl’s mother had already explained that he had burned the child’s original passport and birth certificate, which meant things were far more complicated.

  He looked at the little girl, then down at the papers in his hand. Charlie could hear a soft voice behind him, but she couldn’t make out what was being said. It seemed whatever it was helped her cause, though, because he grunted and held the papers against the wall as he signed them.

  Charlie stuffed them into her bag when he handed them back to her and walked as quickly as she could to the Jeep. She slid the child across the bench seat and climbed in after her. A woman’s cry from behind her made Charlie wind down the window.

  The woman had her hair covered and was holding the scarf over the lower half of her face. Only her eyes were visible, and tears gathered, growing fat behind rapidly blinking lids. She reached through the open window and held a stuffed bear out to the little girl and wiped the tears from her cheeks. She whispered softly to her words that Charlie couldn’t understand, but
the little girl nodded and stuck her thumb into her mouth as she cuddled the bear tightly against her chest.

  “She good girl. You take care good?”

  Charlie smiled. “I promise.”

  The woman nodded and waddled back to the house, her heavily pregnant body obviously struggling.

  Charlie pressed on the accelerator and gripped the steering wheel tighter as she drove over the hard, rocky ground. She glanced in her rearview mirror, pleased and saddened in the same instant that the little girl’s father had already closed the door. She was happy the fight was over and that mother and daughter were to be reunited, but the feeling of disillusionment was always strong when a parent so readily gave up their child.

  “My name’s Charlie, and I’m going to take you back to your mother.”

  The little girl trembled but didn’t say anything, her little arms wrapped tightly around the stuffed bear. Charlie shook her head and tried to block out the surge of sorrow that always accompanied moments such as this. As many times as she saw it happen, it never ceased to amaze her how much pain people were willing to inflict upon others. Especially those they were supposed to care for.