The Thief's Daughter

by Victoria Cornwall

  Whilst standing engrossed in her favourite Pre-Raphaelite painting – Millais’s Ophelia – Cori catches the eye of Tate gallery worker, Simon, who is immediately struck by her resemblance to the red-haired beauty in the famous artwork.

  The attraction is mutual, but Cori has other things on her mind. She has recently acquired the diary of Daisy, a Victorian woman with a shocking secret. As Cori reads, it soon becomes apparent that Daisy will stop at nothing to be heard, even outside of the pages of her diary …

  Will Simon stick around when life becomes increasingly spooky for Cori, as she moves ever closer to uncovering the truth about Daisy’s connection to the girl in her favourite painting?

  Purchase from your eBook provider or visit www.choc-lit.com for details.

  The Velvet Cloak of Moonlight

  Christina Courtenay

  Book 4 in the Shadows from the Past Series

  “As the velvet cloak of moonlight settled over the ruined towers of Raglan Castle, the shadows beneath them stirred …”

  When newly widowed Tess visits Raglan Castle, she experiences an extraordinary vision that transports her to seventeenth-century Wales and a castle on the brink of a siege.

  Even when Tess leaves Raglan to return to Merrick Court, her late husband’s home, the strange dreams continue as her life becomes increasingly intertwined with the past. And when the new owner of the estate arrives – New Zealander Josh Owens – the parallels become even more obvious.

  But perhaps the visions aren’t just trying to tell their own story, maybe they’re also giving a warning …

  Purchase from your eBook provider or visit www.choc-lit.com for details.

  Read a preview of The Captain’s Daughter next …

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  The Captain’s Daughter

  by Victoria Cornwall

  CHAPTER ONE

  June, 1868, Cornwall, England

  The cart creaked to a halt, rocking momentarily on its old wooden wheels as the horse settled. The passenger discreetly arched her aching back to bring relief to her tense muscles and jarred spine.

  ‘This is where we part company, Janey,’ said the old man sitting beside her. Holding the reins in one hand, he lifted a calloused finger. The young woman looked to where he was pointing. ‘If you follow that stone wall over the hill it will take you out to a road, turn left and the entrance to Bosvenna Manor is on the right. This short cut will take two miles off the journey.’

  Janey nodded but remained seated, she felt she had troubled him enough yet was reluctant to leave.

  He noticed her hesitation. ‘Don’t worry, maid, if you stick to the stone wall you won’t get lost on the moor. The wall borders Zachariah Trebilcock’s land. He’s farmed here for years, married a Penhale maid from Zennor way. If you get lost he’ll point you in the right direction. I lived around here when I was a young man, used to help him out now and then. He’s nice enough, although he must be pushin’ seventy now.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you to give me a lift, Jack.’

  Jack grinned broadly, his crumpled old face not hiding the glint in his eye. ‘It was my pleasure, maid. I’ll make my deliveries and be here in a couple of hours to collect you. My sister, Betty, has offered us a bed for the night.’

  ‘Are you sure your sister won’t mind me staying?’

  ‘No, she won’t mind you. The journey back to Truro is too far to make today. Best we rest up first.’ The old man at her side winked at her. ‘Not sure she will be so keen to have me though.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Janey.

  ‘Last time I was here I took her husband drinking. John didn’t return home and she was frantic with worry. Two days passed before he turned up.’ Jack chuckled. ‘Says he woke up in a pigsty three miles away and didn’t know where he was. If you ask me, I think he knew exactly which direction was home, but decided to stay put. A tongue lashing from my sister is nothing to rush home for.’

  Janey smiled and climbed down from the cart. She stretched her legs, tentatively bending her knees to encourage the circulation back. The journey had been long and arduous, on an unforgiving wooden seat and over uneven roads. They had been travelling for three hours and she felt exhausted, but she remained determined. A vacancy for a lady’s maid at Bosvenna Manor had arisen and she was resolute in her plan to secure it.

  Moments later Janey watched Jack drive away. She shook out her blue dress, patted her hair into place and turned to follow the Cornish stone wall. Looking around she realised she stood on the very edge of Bodmin Moor, with its vast expanse of granite strewn moorland stretching as far as the eye could see. The gorse bushes were in full bloom, their bright yellow flowers a stark contrast to the brown crunchy grass that swathed the undulations and stony tors of the moor. She had never seen anything so beautiful and wild. It seemed to beckon her with open arms, inviting her to explore its natural beauty and meander around the ruins of the Bronze Age settlements.

  But Janey had no time to fritter away. She followed the track that ran alongside the stone wall, made by moorland cattle as they followed their daily route to graze the moor. Cattle, sheep and ponies, owned by the local farmers, were allowed to graze on the moor during the summer months. This practice resulted in the animals grazing at will, enjoying a natural existence unlike any other farm animal. Janey felt as if she had stepped into another world.

  As she walked and enjoyed the sun on her face, she gave thought to the interview she was attending. She had never held a position of a lady’s maid before and it was important she gave the right impression. At only twenty years old she knew she was much younger than the usual age of thirty years expected, but Janey had ambition and a good education, which she felt would be an advantage above any contenders for the position. She took the advertisement out of her reticule and read it for the hundredth time to reassure herself that, unusually, age had not been stipulated.

  ‘In a Gentleman’s family, near the village of Trehale, wanted one lady’s maid. She must be neat in appearance, literate, honest, trustworthy and proficient in needlework and the dressing of hair. For name and address apply to the office of this paper.’

  Janey folded it neatly and replaced it inside her bag. While doing so she noticed for the first time the sound of granite stone on stone carrying towards her on the mild breeze. She looked for the origin and in the distance saw a figure of a man methodically repairing the stone wall. He chose a stone from the pile at his feet and skilfully slotted it into place, continuing the pattern of the original builder. At first she thought it must be Mr Trebilcock, the owner of the farm, but as she approached him she realised his body was more agile, athletic and younger than a man ‘pushin’ seventy’.

  A loud bleat from a lamb caught her attention as a herd of sheep trotted past her and settled nearby. Janey had not seen young lambs feeding naturally before. She couldn’t help but gasp in wonderment at the vision and, with an unusual lack of decorum for her, she spread her arms out behind her, tilted her face to the sky and sighed in delight. I love it here, she thought, feeling the warmth of the sun on her face and the gentle breeze kiss her skin. The rhythmical stone on stone sound ceased.

  Janey turned back to him. The man had stopped mid lift, a forgotten stone held in his hand and he was watching her. Embarrassment flooded her cheeks that he had seen her impulsive behaviour. Head down she marched on with purpose, focusing hard on her shiny boots that peeped out from under her dress at each hasty stride. She was aware, from her peripheral vision, that he had dropped the stone and slowly straightened – and that his eyes never left her. She knew that the track would soon pass by him and the thought of being so close to him unnerved her, however, she concluded sensibly, if she diverted to give him a wide berth it would look ill-mannered.

  Yet this dark stranger, with his tanned skin and dark brown hair, heightened her senses as she could almost feel his eyes follow the curves of her body. She felt like an animal being watched by a predator. The feeling both discomfited and annoyed her.
She decided she would look up and meet his stare as she drew closer. If he smiled a greeting she would too and all would be forgotten. If he did not she would glare back at his rudeness and discourteous behaviour. She took a deep breath and looked up.

  He was no more than six feet away and she was soon past him, yet that moment in time would be forever etched in her mind. His eyes were the darkest brown, with dark lashes and brows. They penetrated to the core of her soul making her heart lurch in her chest. It was as if a lightning bolt sizzled and crackled between them for they were connected in time and space and nothing around them existed at all. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, serious and bold in manner. He did not smile or bid her ‘good day’ but continued to stare at her unabashed. She dropped her gaze in shock at his poor manners and instantly admonished herself for doing so. She walked on but she could still feel him watching her until at last she followed the stone wall around a corner. She took a deep, shaky breath.

  Why was her heart thudding in her chest and her cheeks so flushed? Nothing had occurred out of the ordinary to cause such an extreme reaction within her. He had not threatened her or attacked her, yet somewhere deep inside she knew he was a bigger threat to her mind, soul and body than anyone she had ever met before.

  Miss Petherbridge gave the finishing touches to the accounts for the day and sat back in her chair to study them. Master James was due to return from Bath at the end of August, following a stay with his friends, and Lady Brockenshaw wanted to give a party to celebrate his return. She would have to find another source to provide the extra milk, pork and duck required. She was not impressed by the standard of produce recently delivered by her usual supplier. It would do them good to know they had competition.

  She looked around the room with satisfaction. No other member of the domestic staff had their own office, not even the butler, yet she had two. There was the housekeeper’s room, known as her parlour, where the upper servants would gather to take tea, and this room, her very own office. She ran her hand along the wooden desk where she undertook all her administration tasks. Her pride in her position of housekeeper was palpable as she liked to walk the corridors of the manor like a strutting peacock; her uniform and keys her feathers. She had worked her way up from the position of scullery maid. Now she was housekeeper to one of the richest families in Cornwall. She had declined marriage and children in order to achieve her ambition and, although she was immensely proud and satisfied with the way her life was, she knew her appearance did not convey this as her tall skinny frame, serious bitter face and tight lips gave the impression of resenting her life and everyone in it.

  There was a knock on the door. It opened and Mary, one of the chambermaids, popped her head around it.

  ‘Miss, the girl applying for lady’s maid is here. Shall I take her up to the mistress?’

  Miss Petherbridge sat up and rested her forearms on the table. She was well aware that the lady’s maid position was the only servant to report to and be hired by the mistress herself; however she felt, under the circumstances, she should meet the woman before taking her up to Lady Brockenshaw. She picked up the letter the applicant had written, scanned the beautiful script and, looking over the top of it, asked Mary to send her in to her.

  There were several striking things that Miss Petherbridge noticed when the girl entered the room. She was a girl, not a woman and therefore too youthful for such a position. She was very pretty with arresting green eyes. She was neatly presented, with a sense of fashion, but, most importantly, she represented everything she herself was not, causing her to take an instant dislike to the girl. She did not ask her to sit down.

  ‘Miss Janey Carhart, I presume,’ she said.

  The girl nodded. ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘We received your letter. Your writing is beautiful but you appear too young for the position. I would not want you to get your hopes up.’

  ‘I had hoped that what I lacked in years would be made up for by my education,’ the girl replied.

  Miss Petherbridge looked at the writing and admitted she was curious about this girl.

  ‘Where did you learn to write so well?’ she asked, slowly waving her letter requesting an interview as evidence.

  ‘My father was a captain, miss.’ This did nothing to diminish the housekeeper’s curiosity and her expression must have showed this as the girl continued to explain further. ‘He believed education was important for everyone and taught me to a boy’s standard.’

  ‘Yet,’ Miss Petherbridge queried, ‘you entered domestic service at thirteen years old.’

  ‘I was orphaned at thirteen.’

  Miss Petherbridge lifted an eyebrow. ‘Did you have no other family to care for you?’

  The girl looked down at her feet momentarily, then lifted her chin to meet her steady gaze.

  ‘None that would own me, miss.’

  Reluctantly the housekeeper admired her candour. ‘It cannot be easy for you to admit to that, but I admire your honesty. A quality that is important in a lady’s maid.’ She got up. ‘Follow me. I will take you up to Lady Brockenshaw.’

  Miss Petherbridge led Janey along a passage towards the back stairs. They passed the servants’ hall, where the servant, who had met her on her arrival, had hung her bonnet and shawl on the coat stand.

  They climbed the narrow servants’ staircase, which led to the main entrance hall on the first floor where the family and their guests entered the building. Once in the main hall, and probably as a matter of habit, the housekeeper ran a finger along the ornate hall table. She nodded in satisfaction, but was less impressed with the flowers in the vase. Janey got the impression, from her expression, that someone would feel the sharp edge of her tongue later that day. Their footsteps, and the jangle of the housekeeper’s keys, echoed through the hall as they proceeded to the drawing room.

  ‘I hope you realise that a lady’s maid is a very different position to what you have held before now,’ said Miss Petherbridge. ‘It can be a lonely existence. Due to the position’s unique intimacy with the lady of the house, the lady’s maid is trusted by no one. The domestic staff will be concerned you will title-tattle to the mistress and she in turn will be wary you will title-tattle to the domestic staff. Are you prepared for that?’

  Janey opened her mouth to reply but Miss Petherbridge was not really interested in her thoughts. ‘I have been in service since I was twelve,’ she continued. ‘When I was twenty-nine I became a lady’s maid for ten years. I then took up a position as housekeeper, as no lady likes a lady’s maid that is too old. Having said that,’ she looked pointedly at Janey, ‘no lady likes to have a maid too young either.’ She hesitated and looked like she was about to say something but changed her mind, adding abruptly, ‘Wait here.’

  She disappeared inside the room and left Janey outside. She could hear the soft murmur of voices inside and it wasn’t long before the door opened again.

  ‘Lady Brockenshaw will see you now,’ Miss Petherbridge said, formally, before leading Janey inside. She introduced her to her mistress and immediately left her alone with her prospective employer.

  A small dog ran to greet her, before returning to settle down before a welcoming fire, which crackled softly in the grate. However, to Janey’s surprise, the room was inadequately lit resulting in much of it being in shadow. Lady Brockenshaw, dressed in a high-necked dress of the darkest blue, sat stiffly in a chair by the window, appearing to gaze out. Her silver hair reflected her mature years, while its severely parted style and low, tight chignon showed a distinct disinterest in bending to the will of fashion. A portrait of a young woman, with vibrant auburn hair, smiled down on them. Janey recognised the tilt in her chin as being the same as the older woman who had yet to look at her. White lace trimmed her collar and cuffs and helped soften her stiff countenance, as did the frail, fragile hand tapping the seconds of time away on the arm of the chair. The tapping stopped.

  ‘Miss Petherbridge has filled me in briefly regarding your work history,’
said Lady Brockenshaw, without turning round. ‘I also understand your present employer has written a very good letter of recommendation. You work for the Reskelly family as a housemaid?’

  Janey nodded, but as Lady Brockenshaw was not looking at her she cleared her voice with a small cough and answered, ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Good, that’s about thirty miles away. We don’t encourage followers. I assume you are not walking out with anyone from this area.’

  ‘No, ma’am, I just arrived today.’

  Lady Brockenshaw nodded in satisfaction. ‘Good, Miss Petherbridge feels you are too young and inexperienced but I want qualities in a maid that are, perhaps, a little different. I also understand your father was a captain. A captain of what?’

  ‘A merchant ship called the Emprise,’ Janey replied. ‘He tansported coal, ore and china clay and brought back timber, citrus fruits and wine from France, Spain and Italy.’

  Janey was beginning to find it a little disconcerting being interviewed by someone who had yet to look at her and was even more confused by what Lady Brockenshaw asked next.

  ‘There are some roses on the table,’ she said, abruptly. ‘Describe them to me.’

  Janey looked at the red roses and hesitated at the strange request.

  As if sensing her confusion Lady Brockenshaw turned to her. ‘I see Miss Petherbridge has not warned you. I am almost blind, Carhart. My sight has been deteriorating for many years. I see very little now.’ She turned opaque eyes to Janey. ‘The ability to see is so much taken for granted. One does not appreciate the gift until it is lost. I miss the emotion that accompanies seeing something beautiful. In my heart I am eighteen, my last clear image of myself was when I was forty-two, now …’ Her voice trailed off as she indulged in a memory.

  Janey studied the five roses arranged in the glass vase, aware that whatever she answered would determine her success at gaining the position. She thought about how best to answer. Snippets of poetry came to mind but none seemed appropriate, yet a literal description seemed inadequate.