Titles in the Cornish Tales series:
The Thief’s Daughter
The Captain’s Daughter
Copyright © 2017 Victoria Cornwall
Published 2017 by Choc Lit Limited
Penrose House, Crawley Drive, Camberley, Surrey GU15 2AB, UK
www.choc-lit.com
The right of Victoria Cornwall to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Barnards Inn, 86 Fetter Lane, London EC4A 1EN
EPUB: 978-1-78189-318-0
A loving, supportive family provides a firm foundation on which to build the rest of our lives.
I would like to dedicate The Thief’s Daughter to my parents for the unwavering love, support and guidance they have given me.
Contents
Cornish Tales series
Title page
Copyright information
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
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
Author’s Note
Thank you
About the Author
More Choc Lit from Victoria
Introducing Choc Lit
More from Choc Lit
Preview of The Captain’s Daughter by Victoria Cornwall
Acknowledgements
There are many people who have supported me through the writing process and along the journey to publication. I have been enthusiastically questioned by friends, family and acquaintances and received many words of encouragement and praise. Their remarks may have been made in passing, but their interest in my writing was more precious to me than they will ever know.
I would particularly like to thank my daughter, Jade. One summer, over a Cornish cream tea, she patiently listened to the storyline of my first novel and instantly became my most enthusiastic and helpful supporter. Thank you, Jade. Your opinion, and the interest you have shown in my work ever since, are greatly appreciated.
I would also like to thank the Romantic Novelists’ Association. Their New Writers’ Scheme assessor advised me to submit The Thief’s Daughter to a publisher and gave me the push I needed.
Finally, I would like to thank Choc Lit and the Choc Lit tasting panel, who believed in my novel and recommended it for publication. You have turned me into a traditionally published author and made my dream come true. Yet, at this very important moment when I have a chance to thank you, I cannot find the right words to truly express my gratitude and joy. So I will just say ‘thank you’ from the bottom of my heart to: Sheila S, Victoria G, Alma H, Sarah C, Lizzy D, Jenny K, Ester V, Rosie F, Kathleen A, Stacey R and Jo O.
Prologue
1765, Cornwall
As quietly as she could, Jenna slowly released the breath she was holding; instinctively her body sucked in another. Her eyes widened in fear at the sound of her soft gasp. Did he hear her? She prayed he did not.
She could hear the man’s boots pacing the floorboards in the adjoining room. His boots are muddy, she thought, hearing the grit on his soles scoring the wood beneath. Frightened, she remained silent and hidden, not breaking her cover even when she heard her mother and father begin their cursing. It did no good, more boots arrived and her parents were forced away.
Jenna hugged her knees to make herself smaller. She stared at her little toes, as she felt the vibration from his footsteps through her feet. The vibration grew as the boots came into the room and she tried to shrink even smaller. She fought to control her silent, shallow breaths, while the rest of her body froze with fear. She was cocooned in her hiding place, scared of being found, yet inside her heart hammered loudly as if daring to be heard. She hoped she would wake up and discover it was all just a bad dream. And she was safe. And her brothers and parents were too. But it was happening and the fear she felt was real. Her head began to throb and tingle as she listened to the grit scratch the floorboards with each step. Mother will be angry when she finds out he is ruining her floor, thought Jenna. Such a silly thought, considering the circumstances.
The man shouted and more boots entered the room. He had found what he was looking for: her brother, Paul. A scuffle broke out between them, more cursing, more shouting and more mud on mother’s floor. It sounded like Paul was putting up a fight. It did not surprise her; he always said he would if the man came to get him. A valiant attempt, but Jenna knew that his resistance would do no good. Only moments before they had taken David and he was the strongest of all her brothers. This morning everything had been normal, now she had lost two of them and everything had changed. And she might be next.
For a moment there was silence, but even so, Jenna dared not move. She would wait until her mother came to get her, just as her parents had told her to do. The sound of a man’s boots returned to the room again. She strained to listen for the noise of the grit. She could not hear it. Had it worked loose or was it her father?
The footsteps stopped before her. The silence that followed felt heavy and her legs began to tremble, causing the pile of clothes that covered her to shake too. The slight tremor was enough to give her away. A large, thick-fingered hand reached underneath and grabbed her bare foot, pulling her roughly out into the daylight and causing her dress to ride up behind her head and expose her knees. She lay stiff and motionless at his feet, like a submissive dog, waiting to be slayed. ‘Hide from the thief-taker,’ her parents had told her, ‘for if he finds you, he will take you away.’
The man looked down on her. His dirty beard covered his lips and hid any expression of a smile he may have had at finding a four-year-old child at his feet. He reached down and grabbed her clothing. His fist twisted in the cloth of her dress as he lifted her off the floor. Her face came level with his. As her bare, grimy feet dangled in the air, she dared to look into his face and saw there was no smile.
‘Do I scare you, child?’ he asked her menacingly. ‘Do I make you want to weep?’ He gave her a little shake, making her body sway in the air. His breath smelt of rotten eggs and she could see her frightened face reflected in his bloodshot eyes. Struck dumb with fear, she was unable to answer him. ‘Remember what it is like to be caught by a man such as me.’ He looked down at her thin body dressed in rags. ‘Your family has bad blood running through them and you will turn out the same if you don’t mind your ways. If you don’t, we will seek you out and hunt you down.’ He held her closer until she could feel his breath on her face. ‘Remember, child, we will watch you as you grow, and one day a thief-taker will come calling and he will take you away.�
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Satisfied with his warning, he opened his fist and Jenna dropped to the floor like a stone, where she lay twisted on the wooden floor, too scared to move and too frightened to weep. Time seemed to stretch and play a peculiar game, for Jenna had gained a grave worldliness that she had not possessed only minutes before. A strange, solemn numbness engulfed her like a shield and the feeling remained until she finally felt the vibration of the floor against her cheek and heard his boots walk away.
Jenna remained silent and still for some time, until another child’s hand slipped into hers and broke the fear that had frozen her. She clutched it and turned, burying her face into their grasped hands. Silas was the only brother she had left. His hand gave her comfort and finally she allowed herself to weep.
Chapter One
1779, Cornwall
A crowd of people was gathering at the crossroads. The mood was jovial and the expectation was high. Hoping to take advantage of the potential trade, hawkers hastily set up their stalls to display their wares, while barefoot urchins played chase games through the throng of waiting people. As pleasantries were exchanged between neighbours and spontaneous laughter broke forth, a foreigner to these parts would be forgiven for thinking a travelling theatre had arrived to entertain the folk of Cambryn. That assumption would not be unwise, until one learnt the local name for the site or saw the old, well-used gibbet in the place of a stage.
The site was on the outskirts of the small market town and was aptly named Deadman’s End. The gibbet overshadowed a point where three tracks met, acting as a warning to any who passed that way and considered breaking the law. It had been used for hanging criminals for as long as anyone could remember, its macabre use becoming part of the normal fabric of countryside life. Stealing property, even just a loaf of bread to ward off starvation, was considered particularly heinous by the property-owning lawmakers of the land. Today, in this hour, it was a poacher’s time to die.
Jack Penhale watched from the shadows as he leaned against the remnants of a medieval boundary wall further up the hill. He usually avoided hangings as it was not a form of punishment he could detach himself from. The dead man’s dance, the jerking and twisting for several minutes as he died, Jack found grotesque to watch. Yet he understood why the crowd sought some fun here today. Forms of entertainment to take them away from their hardships and poverty were in short supply, and to relish in a criminal’s demise distanced them from their own wrongdoings. He did not blame the crowd for their voyeurism; it was the same in every town where hangings were held. Hanging and entertainment were sleazy bedfellows and he could not see it changing in the foreseeable future. For a man who disliked hanging, Jack would have liked two other men to die by Mr Gibbet today: Amos and Job Blake, known locally as simply the Blake brothers.
Amos and Job were built of solid muscle and sinew, had long, scraggy beards and a notorious reputation for thuggery. In recent years they had added smuggling to their crimes. Yet despite their involvement being common knowledge in the area, no man was willing to bear witness to their crimes for fear of retribution. Jack would have liked to see them brought to trial, but with no one courageous enough to speak against them, there was little hope of this happening and that frustrated Jack greatly. To onlookers Jack looked relaxed, almost disinterested, as he bit into his meat pie, but unlike the crowd below him, he was not happy.
There was a shout from the crowd. The cart carrying the poacher had been spotted lumbering its way along the bumpy track. Expectant faces craned their necks to get a better view, while others jeered at the shackled prisoner in the cart. Jack did not know the poacher, but it appeared he was not a popular man. Although poaching was a hanging offence, judges usually showed leniency and sentenced them to long gaol sentences. Not in this case, it seemed. This man, with brutish fists and a face more worn than his thirty years, had a history, and he was to pay on the end of a rope. No wailing relatives accompanied him. No tankard of ale was offered by a landlord en route. No mercy was to be shown. Yet the poacher did not show any fear. To the contrary, he swore and spat back at the crowd, almost relishing in his own demise. His lack of fear and remorse buoyed the crowd even more, and their insults grew.
Jack’s attention was taken by a shadowy movement beside him, and for the first time he noticed a small boy with sunken eyes watching him. His feet were bare, his skin grimy and the ragged clothes he wore were too small for his skinny frame. Malnourishment made him look younger than he probably was, and Jack felt sorry for him. He knew from experience what it was like to have no money coming into the home and the pain of a hungry belly. Although his circumstances had changed, the county remained littered with children who were no more than bones draped in dirty cloth. Jack tossed him the remainder of his pie.
‘Go home,’ he said kindly to the boy as he watched the eager hands catch the food in mid-air. ‘This is no place for a child.’ Without taking his eyes off the dark stranger, the boy bit into the pie before running away.
Jack turned his attention back to the entertainment below him. The cart was now positioned below the gibbet, and a man of God was reciting some carefully chosen words. The poacher had finally quietened, his bravado deserting him at the sight of the rope. The crowd surged forward to get a better view before falling silent to listen to the final prayer. Jack noticed the poacher was not praying, instead his eyes darted around the crowd as if he was looking for someone. The hangman stood beside him, waiting for silence and holding the white hangman’s hood in his hands. Next to him, Jack believed, was a surgeon’s assistant with a warrant in his hand. It appeared some good would come from the poacher’s life after all, as his dead body was to be claimed for dissection.
The poacher stopped searching the crowd and Jack, his interest piqued, tried to see who he was looking at, but the crowd was too thick and he could not make out who his target was. The preacher had stopped talking and the white hood was quickly pulled over the man’s head. Jack saw the poacher smile before his face was hidden. He would never see the world again, thought Jack, yet whomever he had spied in the crowd had given him some comfort.
The rope was hastily placed over his head and around his neck. Fear had returned and his body went rigid as he resisted the guard’s hands guiding him towards the edge of the cart. He began to shake. No time must be wasted now. A signal was given for the cart to move forward. The horse whinnied and strained at its harness. The cartwheels began to turn. There was no drop to kill the man outright. The slack in the rope was small and as the floor of the cart withdrew from his feet, he was forced to take another step forward towards the edge. The poacher hesitated, resisted, stumbled and stepped into the air. The dead man’s dance had begun.
Suddenly there was jostling in the crowd. A youth broke free and ran towards the gibbet. Before anyone could stop him, he climbed the cart, took aim and leapt into the air. He grabbed the jigging body with both arms. The rope, and his extra weight, succeeded in breaking the poacher’s neck. His death was instantaneous and his body grew still.
Jack pushed himself away from the wall and braced himself. An unhealthy silence had descended and the atmosphere became tense. The crowd’s entertainment had come to an abrupt end because of the boy’s actions, as the dead man would dance no more. The boy continued to hold on tightly to ensure his job was well done. His own feet hung precariously in the air, his face hidden tight in the poacher’s body. An angry roar erupted from the gathering, pulling the boy from his focus. He let go, dropped to the ground and took off as fast as he could.
From the top of the hill, Jack watched as the boy tried to get away, but it soon became clear he was in danger. The crowd’s jovial mood had indeed changed, and they wanted the boy punished. Several men tried to grab him as he ran past, a woman hit his shoulder as he darted by. A tankard was thrown through the air in his direction, but it missed its target as the boy was too fast for the drunkard’s aim. Word travelled to cut off his means of escape and the crowd worked as one and closed in on him until hi
s body disappeared under a pile of moving rags. Jack’s eyes narrowed in concern; he was too far away to be of any immediate assistance, but his thoughts were too involved to walk away.
Jack could not help but admire the boy’s attempts to escape. He showed determination and courage to grant the man’s dying wish. He would have known that it would anger those who had travelled to watch, yet he had done it all the same. He had shown true friendship, or family loyalty, at a time when he was needed most. He must have cared for the lout very much.
He was about to set off down the hill when he spied the boy’s small frame scramble in the dirt as he crawled out from between someone’s legs, and ran towards the hill where Jack stood. Those few precious seconds before he was noticed gave him the advantage he so badly needed. A gap grew between the angry crowd and the boy, leaving only the fittest few to follow him. From his vantage point, Jack could see the boy’s speed was diminishing. He was tiring and his remaining pursuers, young men, were gaining on him. He would not be able to outrun so many and he would soon be caught. Jack had no doubt that he would suffer the beating of his life. His concern for the lad grew. He was just a young boy on the verge of manhood and he did not deserve such hatred. The boy was almost upon him, he was stumbling, his breathing heavy, his face concealed by his overly large and battered tricorn hat. Jack grabbed his collar and pulled him aside.
‘Quick, boy, over the wall,’ he ordered, bending and making a stirrup with his hands. The boy hesitated. ‘Quick,’ said Jack again, without looking up. ‘They will catch you.’
Needing no more encouragement, the boy placed his boot into his open hands and Jack lifted him up. The boy stretched upwards, his fingers grasping the top bricks of the wall. Lacking in strength, he struggled to pull himself upwards. Jack pushed the boot he held higher. ‘Quick, boy. They are coming,’ he urged.
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