Teardrops in the Moon

by Crosse, Tania

  Tania Crosse

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Family Trees

  Prologue

  Chapters

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  By The Same Author

  Copyright

  Dedication

  In memory of

  Dorothy Lumley

  Agent and friend

  1949-2013

  And, as ever, for my husband, for always being at my side.

  PROLOGUE

  The man hesitated briefly at the top of the gangway, his shifty eyes scanning Plymouth’s quayside. No sign of any police officers then. So, none of the American authorities in any of the places he was a wanted criminal – New York, Boston, Chicago – had discovered that he had embarked from Manhattan on a passenger ship bound for England and wired ahead for his arrest, for he was sure the British police would have cooperated.

  One side of the fellow’s mouth curved into a smirk. He hadn’t spent a lifetime of crime without learning a trick or two. When he had sailed from this very spot over twenty years ago, he had evaded the local constabulary even though every man jack of them had been after him. Then as now, he had travelled under a false name with forged documents, even fooling the immigration authorities on New York’s Ellis Island. In fact, he had never used his proper name since and certainly didn’t intend to do so now he was home. The law had too long a memory, and he had left England for the same reason he had left America: it was too dangerous for him to stay.

  He could have gone far away in that boundless continent of course, perhaps to San Francisco, although the massive earthquake there two years previously was somewhat off-putting. He’d heard though, of a small but thriving mining town called Silverton up in the Colorado Mountains. Apparently there were over forty brothels along what was known as Notorious Blair Street, so there’d surely be a way for someone like him to set up a rival business!

  The thought was appealing, but the thing was, he was getting too old to start again in a completely strange place. Into his fifties now, he’d had enough of armed robbery, protection rackets and gangland feuds and murders. He just wanted a quiet life, existing nicely from his ill-gotten gains. He was tired of constantly looking over his shoulder, carrying a pistol about his person, afraid to walk down a dark street at night in case he found a knife stuck in his ribs. And the only place he felt he could achieve that peace was back home in Devon.

  Now though, as he moved down the gangway with his fellow passengers, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe he hadn’t outwitted the authorities after all. Perhaps there were plain-clothes officers waiting for him just yards away. Or worse still, envoys from rival New York gangs lurking behind the barrels and other merchandise stacked on the quayside. His eyes swivelled furtively as he crossed the cobbles, suitcase in one hand, turning up the collar of his coat with the other. No one appeared to be following him even when he used a shop window as a mirror to check behind him. But as he caught his own reflection in the glass, he began to relax. His own mother wouldn’t have recognized him; he wondered disinterestedly if she was still alive.

  The port hadn’t changed. The backstreets and alleyways were exactly the same, a labyrinth where you could easily lose a pursuing copper. He hoped his old fence was still there. He had converted as much of his money as he could into jewellery, sewn into the lining of his coat together with the stolen diamonds. He should be able to live comfortably for the rest of his days; perhaps he had something to thank that stuck-up bitch, Rose Chadwick, for after all. Preferred that bloody convict to him, she had, the devil who’d escaped from Dartmoor prison and hidden in the stable. Well he’d got his own back by telling the authorities, hadn’t he, and been paid handsomely for his troubles. But when that fool of a husband of hers had died – curious business that – the first thing she had done was to give him the sack!

  Well, maybe it had been for the best. If it weren’t for her, he might still have been an impoverished stable-hand. So, although the idea of getting even with her still appealed, he ought to let bygones be bygones. She’d be about the same age as him. Could even be dead by now. Provided his fence was still there and he could convert his haul into cash, he would be happy just to enjoy the fruits of his crimes for the rest of his life.

  He pushed open the door to the pawnshop. It was like stepping back in time. Not a thing had changed, the same scratched counter, the same crammed shelves, same dank, musty smell. And the man dressed in what he swore were the same moth-eaten, filthy clothes, got to his feet. He was more stooped, his hair now grey and wispy, but it was him all right.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked gruffly.

  The traveller’s lips stretched into a sly smile as he removed his hat and placed it on the counter. Then he wallowed in the shopkeeper’s dumbfounded surprise as he peeled off the false eyebrows and beard, and finally the wig.

  ‘Remember me?’ he purred.

  The old chap’s jaw snapped shut and his bloodshot eyes bolted from his head. ‘Bloody hell, Ned Cornish as I does live and breathe.’

  Marianne Warrington had sensed all morning that something was going to happen. There had been an excitement about her elder sister, Kate, that only Marianne recognized, a tilt of her beautiful, dark head, a flash of her intense, violet-blue eyes. It made Marianne feel uneasy, as all their lives the two sisters had confided everything to each other. Absolutely everything. So why was this different?

  The whole family – Marianne, Kate, their elder brother, Hal, and their parents, Seth and Rose Warrington – had all climbed into the wagonette. They were driving from Fencott Place, their own remote home on Dartmoor, to visit some long-standing friends. The Pencarrows lived on another part of the moor at a somewhat grandly named farmhouse, Rosebank Hall. They were yeoman farmers who also rented out a handful of smaller farms nearby.

  As a young man, Richard Pencarrow had taken himself off to France following a vicious argument with his father. He had settled in the north-east of the country, but his happiness had been short-lived when his young French wife had died, leaving him to bring up their little daughter, Chantal, alone. Events in the Franco-Prussian War had forced Richard to return to the family home where he had met his second wife, Beth, and they had produced four children: Hannah, Joshua, Philip and Madeleine. Only Hannah had been born when Rose had made Richard and Beth’s acquaintance under the most harrowing of circumstances, but as the two families became such firm friends over the years, it was inevitable that the children all grew very close as well – although less so with Chantal who was that much older and was now married with a son, Michael.

  And so, when later that morning, the Warrington family had arrived at Rosebank Hall, there were all the usual greetings and chatting as everyone who knew each other so intimately, met up once again. Marianne had waited, wondering and uncertain about Kate’s secretive mood, and now, as Kate went to stand by Philip Pencarrow, she sensed that the time had come.

  She watched as the young man glanced nervously
about him.

  ‘Can I have . . .’ he began, but his voice was no more than a croak that nobody except the two sisters heard. He sucked in his breath in an effort to summon up his courage, but when Kate smiled up at him, it seemed to Marianne that his confidence rallied.

  ‘While we’re all together, can I have your attention, please?’ Philip tried again. This time, the convivial conversation between the members of the two families gathered on the lawn gradually ceased, and all eyes turned expectantly to the young couple. It made Philip look even more apprehensive, but he seemed determined to continue. ‘Kate and I have an announcement to make,’ he went on more boldly now. ‘We’re to be married.’

  It was only a few seconds before a ripple of happy exclamations echoed among the excited faces.

  ‘Congratulations!’

  ‘Oh, that’s wonderful news!’

  It appeared to Marianne though, that the smile was nailed on Philip’s face as everyone came up to hug him and his new fiancée. There was something else, she was sure, that he wasn’t saying. Something he was ashamed of.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to ask my permission first?’

  Marianne could see that her father, Seth Warrington, was attempting to sound stern, but his dancing hazel eyes gave him away.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Dad!’ Kate grinned exuberantly. ‘We’re not in the Victorian era any more. It’s 1906, not 1850! Besides, I knew you’d say yes. Especially as I’m expecting Philip’s child.’

  ‘What!’

  A sudden, shocked silence extinguished the cacophony of jubilant voices. Stunned, Marianne remained speechless, as wordless glances were exchanged and Philip looked as if he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him.

  ‘Good God, Philip.’

  It was his father, Richard, who spoke first. Age had not bent his tall, broad back and he still topped both his sons by a good inch. A hard-working hill-farmer all his life, in his sixty-seventh year he was just as strong and active as in his youth. Marianne knew he was as steadfast and loving a father as her own. But she also knew he was likely to react like a flash of lightning to the news. She was not mistaken.

  ‘I thought we’d brought you up better than that,’ Richard growled, his eyebrows swooping darkly. ‘Chantal and Hannah both waited years to marry the men they loved, and—’

  ‘I can’t help what my sisters did,’ Philip broke in, colour spreading into his cheeks. ‘And I have waited years, too! I think I’ve loved Kate all my life, so waiting until she’s nineteen has been a long time.’

  Marianne saw his desperate expression seek the petite woman standing at his father’s side. She guessed he was expecting his gentle, caring mother to understand, but he must still have been relieved to see Beth squeeze her husband’s arm.

  ‘What’s done is done, Richard,’ she said softly. ‘And we’ve thought for some time that they’d marry and have children sooner or later, didn’t we?’

  ‘Pity it wasn’t in that order,’ Richard grumbled. But as he gazed down into his wife’s melting, amber eyes that still did something to his heart even after all the years they had been together, his anger obviously wavered. ‘I suppose if they see the vicar and get married as soon as possible—’

  ‘That’s right.’ Kate and Marianne’s mother, Rose Warrington, stepped forward, positively glowing with delight. The only difference between mother and daughters was that Rose bore faint laugh-lines about her eyes and her raven hair was threaded with silver here and there. ‘And since when did we ever give a fig about scandal?’ she went on, turning mischievously to her husband. ‘If Seth and I don’t mind as Kate’s parents, then you really shouldn’t worry, Richard, dear.’

  ‘And Philip wasn’t entirely to blame,’ Kate added in her usual self-assured, matter-of-fact tone. ‘I was there, too. And we do love each other utterly.’

  ‘Just as well,’ Richard came back. ‘And where do you propose to live when you’re married?’

  ‘Here at the farm. If you’ll have us,’ Philip replied hesitantly. ‘Or we could rebuild the cottage. I know you and Josh will need me here more than ever now we have Moor Top back on our hands. Or we could live at Moor Top ourselves.’

  By the look on his face, Richard was admitting to himself that he was impressed. Marianne knew that Moor Top was the second of the Pencarrows’ tenanted farms that had recently been vacated, but it was somewhat of a white elephant. Isolated and exposed, it was farming at its most gruelling, and unlike his brother Josh, Philip was not a born farmer. As for the cottage, it had been in ruins since an explosion there nearly thirty years previously. And yet Philip was willing to sacrifice his home comforts at Rosebank Hall for the sake of his love for Kate.

  ‘Well, I won’t have you living at Moor Top,’ Richard answered fiercely. ‘You know your mother and I were forced to live there once and . . . well, it has too many bad memories. And as for rebuilding the cottage, I’m not sure it’d be worth the effort. But you and Kate are welcome to live here with us, aren’t they, Beth?’ he asked, addressing his wife who nodded back with a beaming smile. ‘Kate’s part of the family already, so it won’t be that different, will it? So. . . .’ He held out his hand to his son who clasped it in grateful relief, and there were hugs and merry chatter all round.

  No one seemed to notice that Marianne was the only person not to join in the felicitations, standing back while everyone else milled about the happy couple. Marianne remained apart, biting her lip. She was two years her sister’s junior, but she and Kate might have been twins in both looks and personality. The only passion Kate did not share with her was her love of horses, even though the family ran a successful stud-farm at their own isolated home. It never seemed to matter, though. In every other way, Kate was Marianne’s soul-mate. They had always shared everything, every whispered secret, every midnight feast, every madcap, reckless escapade.

  But now. . . .

  Marianne felt betrayed. Not by Kate because this sister she worshipped was part of herself and could never be anything but loved. But by the fact that something had come between them. Growing up, love of a member of the opposite sex, and now a baby, for heaven’s sake.

  Marianne turned her back on the little crowd and gazed out across the valley. The lawn at the front of Rosebank Hall overlooked the pretty combe above the village of Peter Tavy on the western fringe of the moor. It was a beautiful spot. Whenever Marianne stood there, she fancied she could reach out and touch Great Combe Tor, the high outcrop of granite on the far side. She couldn’t of course, and neither could much of the infinite, high moorland be seen from that point. And that was where Marianne longed to be now, galloping across the heather and wild grasses on one of the family’s fine horses, the wind in her hair driving out all care.

  She felt lost, as if half of her had suddenly fallen away. How would she manage to be herself again without Kate constantly by her side? She did not blame Philip. He was a kind, caring fellow, like another brother almost, so how could he now become her brother-in-law and take on a completely different role in her life? The change was unimaginable. Unacceptable.

  Marianne felt her heart rip. When had her sister and Philip become lovers? When had they found the opportunity to perform that mysterious, wonderful and yet frightening act that led to babies being born? She could never imagine she would want to engage in such a thing, even if she were madly in love with someone and it was, so her mother had explained, the culmination of the sanctity of marriage.

  Except that Kate had not waited to be married first. Making love might be the natural thing to do, but the idea filled Marianne with disgust. Kate had toppled from her pedestal, leaving Marianne floundering in a sea of bewilderment. You had to be careful when you were pregnant, not climb trees or scramble to the crest of sheer, towering rock-faces, run and jump across rivers and bogs. And when the baby came, it would be no better. Beth would be only too happy to mind it for a few hours; she was th
e village midwife, after all. But Kate would always be anxious to get back to it, and never again would she and Marianne enjoy that sense of abandonment together. Oh, it was intolerable, and Marianne suddenly felt tears collecting in her eyes.

  The tap on her shoulder startled her from her misery. She turned, and there was Kate, her face radiant with joy. It was like looking in a mirror, they were so alike, and yet not any more. Kate was no longer who she had always been, and part of Marianne died.

  ‘Oh, don’t cry!’ Kate exclaimed in horrified concern. ‘Aren’t you pleased for me?’

  ‘Of course I am!’ Marianne lied. ‘These are tears of happiness.’

  ‘Are they? Oh, thank you—’

  ‘It’s just that, I don’t know—’

  ‘We’re not children any more,’ Kate finished for her. ‘I know. It’s really weird, isn’t it? But this won’t make any difference to us. It’ll be your baby, too. You can help me wash and feed it, just like we used to with our dolls, only this will be real. Oh, Marianne, I’m so happy!’

  All at once, Kate folded her younger sister in her arms and hugged her so tightly that Marianne could hardly draw breath. She gazed over Kate’s shoulder back towards the farmhouse. The other members of the two families were chatting away, already making plans, no doubt. But Marianne felt alone. An outsider. She would pretend to be happy, of course she would. And she would support her sister in every way. But in that moment of embrace, Marianne made a silent vow. She would never allow herself to fall in love and have children. Her life would be dedicated to the superb horses her parents bred, and the love of her life would be the savage beauty and endless wilderness of the place that was the cornerstone of her soul. She would live and die on Dartmoor, and nothing or no one would ever come between them.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘Oh, when will you let me learn to drive?’ Marianne called out, exploding with frustration, as her father brought the Napier to a stop at the front of the grand family home known as Fencott Place. ‘I’m nearly twenty-five, for Heaven’s sake! Surely I’m capable—’