The Last Daughter

by Nicola Cornick

  Praise for Nicola Cornick

  ‘Her books are fabulous.’

  Julia Quinn, author of Bridgerton

  ‘Nicola Cornick is the mistress of keeping you up way beyond lights out because you just can’t put it down. Brilliant!’

  Katie Fforde

  ‘A treasure trove of historical insight, casting a new light on a compelling mystery that binds the present to the distant past.’

  Fiona Valpy

  ‘Nicola’s writing is so vivid and beautiful and perfectly pitched, her plotting addictive.’

  Jenny Ashcroft

  ‘A compelling story that moves seamlessly from 15th Century Ravensworth Castle to the present day ruins of Minster Lovell Hall… I was hooked from the first word.’

  Linda Finlay

  ‘Nicola Cornick has an amazing gift for intertwining old legends, mystical artefacts and historical riddles and turning them into the most incredible books. Add to that her skill at creating characters you can’t help but empathise with, and the superb writing, and you have something truly special.’

  Christina Courtenay

  ‘An engaging, beautifully crafted romance that weaves together several intriguing mysteries, both ancient and modern, and questions the very essence of time itself.’

  Alison Weir

  ‘Unwraps two of history’s most compelling medieval enigmas… An engrossing mystery.’

  Anne O’Brien

  NICOLA CORNICK is an international bestselling and award-winning novelist who has written over thirty historical novels in a career spanning twenty years. Her books sell in over twenty-five countries, have been translated into many languages and been published in multiple formats.

  Nicola studied History at the University of London and Ruskin College Oxford, and worked in academia for a number of years, before becoming a full-time author. She volunteers as a guide and researcher for the National Trust at the 17th century Ashdown House and gives talks and seminars on a number of historical and writing-related topics. She has spoken at the London Book Fair and at literary festivals including Oxford and Sharjah. She is a former Wiltshire Libraries Writer in Residence and trustee of Wantage Literary Festival. In her spare time, she is a guide dog puppy walker.

  Also by Nicola Cornick

  The Forgotten Sister

  The Woman in the Lake

  The Phantom Tree

  House of Shadows

  Copyright

  An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021

  Copyright © Nicola Cornick 2021

  Nicola Cornick 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.

  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, downloaded, 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 © June 2021 ISBN: 9780008278533

  Version 2021-06-28

  Note to Readers

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  Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008278526

  Dedication

  For Debs, and everyone who feels the

  enchantment of Minster Lovell

  Epigraph

  ‘Time is a storm in which we are all lost.’

  WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise

  About the Author

  Booklist

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Note to Readers

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Serena

  Chapter 2: Anne

  Chapter 3: Serena

  Chapter 4: Anne

  Chapter 5: Serena

  Chapter 6: Anne

  Chapter 7: Serena

  Chapter 8: Anne

  Chapter 9: Serena

  Chapter 10: Anne

  Chapter 11: Serena

  Chapter 12: Anne

  Chapter 13: Serena

  Chapter 14: Anne

  Chapter 15: Serena

  Chapter 16: Anne

  Chapter 17: Serena

  Chapter 18: Anne

  Chapter 19: Serena

  Chapter 20: Anne

  Chapter 21: Serena

  Chapter 22: Anne

  Acknowledgements

  Extract

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Minster Lovell Hall, Oxfordshire, Winter, Sometime in the 13th Century

  Snow spattered the windows of the Old Hall, carried on the sharp north wind that spun it into fierce spirals before battering it against the diamond mullions. The wind howled down the chimney and the snow fell on the hot embers of the fire with a hiss and burned away in an instant. No one noticed. There had been a wedding at Minster Lovell that day and the hall was hot, the guests drowsy with wine and good food, the atmosphere merry. Mistletoe boughs hung from the rafters and meat congealed on the plates. The minstrel sang a soft song of love whilst the bridegroom toyed with his empty goblet and contemplated his marriage bed. Then a shout went up for games and charades, for hoodsman’s blind or shove ha’penny or hide and seek.

  The suggestion prompted a burst of clapping mingled with the groans of the drunkards. The room was split between those who wanted to play and those whose senses were too fuddled. The groom’s uncle and the dogs were all snoring, unashamedly asleep. There were no guests on the bride’s side; she was a beautiful, orphaned heiress, and no one knew where John Lovell had found her. Some whispered that she was really a harlot who had ensnared him, others that she was a witch who had used sorcery to capture his heart. John Lovell laughed at the folly of the whisperers and seemed well pleased with his good fortune. He was a baron, noble but poor; the only item of worth in the entire house was said to be the Lovell lodestar, a sacred stone that the family had held in trust since the earliest of times. All the food, the wine, the jewelled goblets they drank from and the golden platters crammed with meat had been provided by the bride as part of her dowry. Gossip about her was surely mere jealousy.

  ‘Let’s play hide and seek.’ Ginevra, the bride, cast her new husband a coquettish look from beneath her dark lashes. ‘I shall hide and you may come and seek me out.’

  A roar went up at her words. There were whistles and catcalls. The wedding guests knew how that would end. No doubt Lord Lovell would find his bride hiding in their bed and then the game would instantly be forgotten in favour of another, more pleasurable one. A mood of faintly debauched anticipation began to seep into the room with the wine tossed back and the singing growing louder.

  Gi
nevra stood, smiling, enjoying the attention of the crowd. For a moment she waited, poised, like a deer on the edge of flight, and then she ran, followed by the cheers and hunting calls of the wedding guests.

  John Lovell stood too, flushed and a little unsteady, barely able to restrain his pursuit until his bride had had time to hide. He listened to the patter of her slippers die away and then with a shot he was off, eager for the conquest. He tripped over furniture, searched behind curtains and clattered up the stairs. Excitement and the thrill of the chase sustained him for the first ten minutes and determination not to be bested for the next ten but after a half-hour he rolled back into the great hall, out of breath, a little sullen, his lust frustrated. All the other guests were quaffing more ale and eating more pie. They seemed surprised to see him. Quiet fell over the hall like a shroud. The drunks sobered abruptly.

  ‘Ginevra!’ John Lovell bellowed, torn between indulgence and injured pride. ‘You win the game! Come out!’

  There was a moment when the wind seemed to die away and the sudden hush in the house grew to become a complete and terrifying silence. It was a silence that seemed alive, reaching out from another time to steal them away.

  ‘Ginevra!’ John Lovell called again, but this time his voice shook as doubt and fear tightened its grip on him. He marched to the front door, men crowding at his shoulder, and flung it wide. Nothing but blank snow met their gaze, no footprints, no sign of life, nothing but December’s cold moon shining on the empty land.

  ‘The lodestar!’ Suddenly John Lovell turned and ran back down the cross passage to the library. Here his father, a most learned man, had kept those manuscripts and documents so cherished by the monks of the early Minster church that had stood on the site centuries before. Here was the heart of Minster Lovell, the lodestar, a holy relic locked away in its gold and enamelled box. No one in living memory had seen the stone; no one had dared to look, for it was said to possess miraculous power beyond man’s wildest imaginings.

  The room was as still and cold as the rest of the house; colder, for it felt as though the very soul of winter had set within those walls. The ancient oaken chest, bound within iron bands, that had held the golden box safely locked within, lay open and empty. The lodestar had gone.

  John Lovell slammed the lid of the chest down in fury. His shout of anguish echoed through the house and seemed to seep into the very stones.

  The Lovell lodestar was lost, the bridegroom deceived, the thief bride had vanished.

  Chapter 1

  Serena

  Santa Barbara, California, Present Day

  Serena stretched out on the sun lounger, relishing the sensation of the last heat of the day against her skin. Above her, a sky of a cloudless azure blue was starting to fade to pale violet in the west. Below her, a long way below, the white sails of the yachts clustered in the harbour. From the kitchen came the scent of garlic and herbs as Polly prepared supper and beside her on the penthouse balcony was a frosted glass of white wine whose icy coolness contrasted deliciously with the heat radiating from the tiled floor.

  Polly came out with the bottle, a chef’s apron over her chic black-and-white swimming costume. She smiled indulgently when she saw her niece, book discarded on the lounger beside her, sunglasses removed and face tilted up to capture the last rays of the setting sun.

  ‘Supper will be ten minutes.’ She waved the bottle. ‘Would you like a top-up?’

  Serena opened her eyes and smiled. ‘I’ll have some with my meal, thanks.’ She groped for her sandals. ‘Can I help? Make a salad or something?’

  ‘It’s already done.’ Polly put the bottle down on the little black steel table at Serena’s side and sat in the fat, cushioned chair opposite. ‘You stay here a while longer. You look so much better, hon. You look… happy.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ Serena ignored the tiny shadow that crossed her mind at Polly’s words. ‘This is an amazing place, Aunt Pol.’

  Polly’s face eased into another smile. ‘Better than Bristol?’

  ‘Better than anywhere.’ Serena yawned, stretched. ‘Thank you so much for inviting me.’

  ‘You’ve been working hard,’ Polly said. ‘You deserve a break.’

  ‘I can’t remember when I last took a holiday,’ Serena admitted. ‘If you hadn’t encouraged me…’

  ‘Nagged you, you mean.’ Polly sounded rueful. ‘I know it’s full-on running your own business but sometimes people function better after a rest and you do drive yourself hard.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Serena stretched luxuriously again. ‘You’re a wise woman, Aunt Pol.’

  Polly picked up her wine glass. Her gaze was fixed on the distant horizon where the sea seemed to slip into infinity.

  ‘It’s lovely to have you here,’ she said. ‘It reminds me of when you and Caitlin were children, and we all went to Oxfordshire for your school holidays and spent time together at Minster Lovell—’ She stopped abruptly, the warmth falling away from her expression. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why I said that. It’s nothing like those times.’

  Suddenly the sun seemed to have lost all its heat. Serena reached for her wrap, shivering.

  ‘I do understand what you mean,’ she said slowly. ‘It feels… easy… like those old holidays did. There were no shadows, no ghosts looking over our shoulders.’

  Polly hesitated and Serena knew what she was thinking. She never normally talked about the past or her sister, Caitlin. Her aunt was wondering why this time was different – and whether it was safe to pursue the conversation. Everyone was very careful around Serena on the subject of her twin. She had experienced so much trauma when Caitlin had disappeared eleven years before that she had suffered from dissociative amnesia. No one wanted to open up those scars again but as a result they tiptoed around the subject and Serena knew she colluded with them. She’d built a wall of silence around Caitlin that became more difficult to break down every day.

  ‘I never think of Caitlin as a ghost,’ Polly said, surprising her. ‘She was too alive, too vivid. I mean—’ She caught herself, glancing at Serena again. ‘She probably still is. We don’t know she’s dead. Hell.’ She took a big gulp of wine. ‘I really don’t know why I started this.’

  There was a silence. Far below, there was a splash of water and the faint cries of children’s voices. Far above, an aeroplane arrowed into the blue.

  ‘I think about Caitlin every day, you know,’ Serena said. She met her aunt’s eyes. ‘Every single day I remember her, and I wonder. I wonder if she’s alive and if so, where she is and what she’s doing, and why she wouldn’t want to contact us, and a million other things. And then I think she must be dead because how could she leave us all like that without a word and never get in touch with us again? How – why – would she be so cruel? That’s not the Caitlin we knew.’ She pulled the wrap tighter about her. ‘I have the same conversation with myself over and over, and I never find any answers.’

  ‘I’m sorry, hon,’ Polly said. She leaned forward and touched Serena’s arm. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I’ve spoiled the moment.’

  ‘No, you haven’t.’ Serena smiled at her although she could feel tears pricking her eyes. ‘We should talk about Caitlin more. We did at the start.’

  When her sister had first disappeared, the family had drawn together, closer than close, a bulwark against the horror of the outside world. Eleven years on, though, things had changed. The case was cold. Serena’s lost memories of the night her twin had vanished had never been recovered. Her parents, diminished somehow by years of stress and loss, only spoke about the superficial – their latest bowls club successes, the dinner they had enjoyed the previous week. Serena’s grandfather had slipped into dementia. Only Polly, who possessed the same bright spark and indomitable spirit that had lit Caitlin, remained the same. Serena knew that time passed and people changed. It was natural. Sometimes, though, she felt that for all the changes in her own life, a part of her was still trapped in the moment of Caitlin
’s disappearance, unable to recover those memories and in some ways unable to move on.

  The buzzer on the oven sounded and they both jumped.

  ‘Come on in,’ Polly said, getting to her feet with what Serena could only think was relief. ‘The chicken should be ready now.’

  Serena picked up her glass and followed her aunt inside, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the cool darkness. Polly, originally from England as she was, had worked in real estate in California for the past twenty years and her sense of style was enviable. The penthouse had 360-degree views and exuded modernity with neutral shades, lots of wood and chrome, and bold splashes of colour in paintings and soft furnishings. When Serena had first arrived, she had been almost afraid to move in case she ruffled the pristine surface of the apartment, so different from the chaotic mix of her own flat back in Bristol. It was odd; she was so organised in her working life and yet her living space overflowed with books, magazines, clothes, stuffed toys, all sorts of bits and pieces. It was some excuse that she had so little space, using the spare room as an office and squashing everything else into her living room and bedroom but somehow there was an impermanence to it as well.

  Jonah, her ex, had told her bluntly when he had left that her whole life was rootless and that it was her choice to be like that. ‘You don’t commit to anything,’ he had said, as he had shoved the last of his shirts into his bag, already halfway out of the door and miles away mentally, ‘whether it’s people or places or jobs. You complain about feeling lonely but you won’t let people close to you. I’ve tried, Serena. But you were always determined to push me away.’ He’d stared at her for a moment then, his dark hair ruffled, glasses askew in the way she had once found so endearing. ‘It’s not me,’ he said. ‘It really is you.’ And he was gone, to move in with his colleague Maddie, as it turned out, because Maddie was apparently so much more fun to be with and was prepared to commit to him.