9781804993941 by Smakprov Media AB

A LOCKET FULL OF HOPE

Lily Fielding

TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS

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First published in Great Britain in 2025 by Penguin an imprint of Transworld Publishers

Lily Fielding has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

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For Liam, Ben, Johnny, Jaxon and Lilly.

With love x

CHAPTER ONE

1876

‘You’re not going out tonight, Ivan, surely?’ Lydia Wheeler pleaded with her husband, her pretty face creased with fear.

‘We’ll be all right,’ Ivan said, reaching for his heavy oilskin coat. ‘Won’t we, lads?’ He turned to his two sons.

Thirteen-year-old Robert looked up from pulling on his boots. ‘Course we will, Dad. The storm’s only due to hit at first light. We’ll be back long before that.’ Like his father, he was stockily built with a shock of unruly dark-brown hair, a wide, strong jaw, and brown eyes.

‘But you know how unpredictable the storms can be on this part of the coast,’ Lydia said, wringing her hands. ‘What if you don’t get back in time?’

‘Elizabeth May can outrun any storm,’ bragged fifteen-year-old Simeon, playfully tugging his little sister’s cornfield-blonde plait.

‘Ow!’ she yelped, batting at him with her hands.

Simeon laughed, easily dodging her. Like his father and brother, he was tall, dark and square-shouldered but, like tenyear-old Rebecca, he had inherited his mother’s blue eyes.

‘Stop teasing your sister, Simeon,’ Lydia said automatically. ‘You put too much faith in that boat,’ she told Ivan, her gaze going to the small, lead-paned window that overlooked the bay. In the growing twilight the water appeared as calm as a millpond under the darkening winter sky.

‘Look, love.’ Ivan placed his big, calloused hands on her slender shoulders. Lydia looked into his warm dark eyes. Their love had sustained them through many a hard time over the sixteen years they’d been together. ‘We haven’t had a decent catch all winter. We’re weeks behind on the rent. We’ve no choice.’

‘I don’t like it, Ivan,’ Lydia said softly. ‘I’ve a bad feeling.’ He pulled her close, caressing her back.

Rebecca looked up at Simeon. ‘Promise me you’ll be all right, Sim,’ she whispered.

‘Course we will, Becky,’ her eldest brother said, crouching so they were face to face. ‘Look at it,’ he said, motioning towards the window. ‘It’s as calm as anything. By the time the storm hits, we’ll be home and snug in our beds, you’ll see.’

Rebecca nodded, unconvinced. Her mother wasn’t one to let her anxieties get the better of her. If she felt there was cause to worry, Rebecca worried too.

‘We’ll be home before dawn,’ Ivan promised, releasing Lydia from his embrace as his eyes rested on his daughter. ‘I’ve a feeling we’ll make a good catch tonight, so we’ll go into town tomorrow and buy material for a new frock, and a ribbon for your hair, Becky. What do you say to that?’

‘Can I wear it to church on Sunday?’ Rebecca asked, eyes shining at the prospect of a new hair ribbon.

Her father laughed. ‘Course you can, my little one. Now, come and give your old dad a hug goodbye.’

Rebecca threw herself into her father’s open arms, burrowing

her face into his broad chest, the rough fibres of his woollen jumper scratching her cheek.

‘You be good for your mum, Becky,’ Ivan said, as he squeezed her tight.

‘I will, Dad,’ she promised.

‘Now, we really must go,’ Ivan said, releasing her with a pat on the head. ‘We don’t want to miss the tide. Lads?’

‘Ready, Dad,’ Robert said, grabbing his hat from the peg on the wall.

The fire sputtered in the cold draught that rushed in as Ivan opened the door. The horizon was the colour of ripe damsons. Water lapped musically against the wharf and Elizabeth May rocked on the gentle swell of the incoming tide.

Simeon gave Rebecca’s pigtail an affectionate tweak and followed his father and younger brother onto the harbour wall. Rebecca and her mother watched from the cottage doorway. Lydia clutched the shawl at her throat. She shivered, but the chill that came over her had nothing to do with the cold wind blowing off the bay. She couldn’t shake the dark foreboding that had taken hold of her. With her free hand, she pulled Rebecca to her, watching her husband and sons preparing to leave. Simeon hoisted the sails, which snapped in the breeze as Ivan expertly steered the fishing boat out of the relative safety of the harbour into the open waters of the English Channel.

Mother and daughter stood in the doorway until the little craft was no more than a speck in the distance. With night fast approaching, Lydia ushered Rebecca inside and lit the lamp. In relative silence, they washed up the supper things and settled in front of the fire. Rebecca picked up her schoolbook, but she couldn’t concentrate on the words. She glanced at

her mother. Lydia was sitting on the threadbare sofa, her fingers playing with the silver locket she always wore around her neck.

‘Tell me the story of your locket again, Mother,’ Rebecca asked, closing her book and snuggling up to her mother.

‘You’ve heard it a hundred times,’ Lydia said, managing a small smile.

‘I want to hear it again,’ Rebecca insisted.

‘All right,’ her mother said. ‘As you know, my father gave it to my mother when they married.’

‘It’s very pretty,’ Rebecca said, stroking the intricately engraved pattern on the oval-shaped pendant. It depicted vine leaves entwined with the initials HD. ‘Hermione Durnford,’ Rebecca murmured.

‘That’s right,’ her mother replied. ‘Though everyone called my mother Min. Even my father. I was only four when she passed away. I remember being very sad and frightened. The house never felt the same after that. My father was heartbroken and spent a lot of his time away on business, leaving me in the care of the housekeeper and my governess, Miss Robinson. They were kind, but I was a very lonely child.

‘My father gave me the locket on my sixteenth birthday. I was so disappointed when I opened it. You see, I had a vague memory of my mother showing me inside her locket and I had expected to see portraits of my mother and father, but my father had removed them, just as he had every other portrait of my mother after her death.’ Lydia’s expression clouded. ‘I could hardly remember what she looked like.’ She gave herself a small shake and the smile returned. ‘So now, as you know, it contains miniatures of your father and me.’

‘Tell me again how you met Father,’ Rebecca begged,

cuddling closer to her mother. She knew the story so well, but she never tired of it.

Lydia smiled. ‘I had been quite poorly, and the doctor recommended I spend some time on the coast to rebuild my strength. So, my father arranged for Miss Robinson and me to take a house in Stoke Fleming. It was a lovely house set in small but pleasant grounds and afforded us lovely views of the sea. But,’ she chuckled, ‘it was set high on a hill and Miss Robinson was not a great walker so I spent much of my time exploring by myself. I liked to walk along the coastal path and one morning, as it was such a pleasant day, I wandered further than usual and ended up here, in Leonard’s Bay. Your father was working on his boat. I thought he was the handsomest man I had ever seen.’

Rebecca grinned. Lydia knew she liked this part of the story. How her mother had been intrigued by the simple fisherman with the sun-browned skin and wild dark hair. And how she had given Miss Robertson the slip most afternoons to meet Ivan at the harbour. He’d taken her out on his boat several times over that long, hot summer.

‘It was agony to part from him when I had to return to London. Sadly, your grandfather forbade me to have anything more to do with Ivan so we ran away together. We didn’t have much money, but we were happy in our little cottage by the sea. Then, one day, a young man turned up on the doorstep. He was an artist, down on his luck and needing a place to stay for a few days. Well, the days turned into weeks and, to repay your father and me for our hospitality, he painted our likenesses in miniature.’ Lydia pressed the clasp and the locket sprang open to reveal the two tiny paintings.

Clearly Rebecca loved examining them, seeing how her mother and father had looked in their youth. Her mother had

been only a few years older than Simeon was now when she’d sat for the painting.

‘Dad looks different,’ Rebecca said, studying the pictures in the flickering lamplight. ‘But you’re the same.’

Lydia laughed. ‘That’s very sweet of you, Becky, but I doubt it.’ She closed the locket, slipping it back beneath her clothes. ‘Now, it’s time for bed. Up you go. I’ll soon be behind you.’

Reluctantly, Rebecca unfurled herself from the sofa. Her mother grabbed her hand. ‘Be sure to say an extra prayer for your father and brothers tonight, love,’ she said, giving her daughter’s fingers an affectionate squeeze.

‘Course I will, Mum.’

It was cold upstairs, her breath billowing in clouds before her face as she climbed the rickety staircase. Upstairs the single room was divided by a curtain. Rebecca shared one half with her brothers, and her parents slept in the other. She changed quickly into her nightdress and slipped under the covers. She was halfway through her prayers when she heard the creak of her mother’s footsteps on the bare floorboards and saw the flicker of candlelight through the thin curtain.

‘Mum,’ she called. ‘Can I sleep with you tonight?’ She often shared her mother’s bed when her father and brothers were away fishing.

‘Of course, you can,’ replied her mother.

Rebecca flung back the covers and, pushing aside the curtain, scampered over to where Lydia stood at the window. ‘There they are, see?’ she said, blowing out the candle.

Rebecca’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness but then she spotted it, a tiny pinprick of light far out in the inky black. The white flash from the lighthouse above the harbour

briefly lit up the sky, picking out swathes of calm, flat sea. Its sturdy presence, perched high above the small fishing village gave them a measure of comfort.

‘Come,’ Lydia said. ‘Into bed now. The sooner you go to sleep, the sooner morning will come, and our boys will be home.’

Rebecca slipped under the covers. Her mother tucked the blankets under her chin and smoothed a strand of hair from Rebecca’s forehead. ‘Sleep well, my love.’

CHAPTER TWO

Rebecca woke with a fright. The house was shaking. A gust of wind slammed into the wall, making her cry out in alarm as she sat bolt upright.

‘It’s all right, Becky,’ her mother’s voice said in the darkness. ‘It’s just the storm. It’s hit sooner than we expected.’ The room was suddenly illuminated by the flash of the lighthouse, and she glimpsed her mother, silhouetted against the window, her back to the bed as she stared out into the night. The lighthouse lamp continued its circuitous route, plunging the room back into darkness.

Swallowing her fear, Rebecca crawled from beneath the covers. The air was bitterly cold, and she shivered in her nightdress as she joined her mother at the window. Lydia was still wearing her clothes, Rebecca realized. Had she been to bed at all?

‘I didn’t think there was any point in going to bed,’ her mother said, as if Rebecca had spoken her thoughts aloud. ‘I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Here, put this round you.’ She tugged the blanket from the bed and draped it over Rebecca’s shoulders. As she did so, the lighthouse lit up a swathe of foaming sea.

In that moment, Rebecca saw the waves pounding the harbour wall. The light faded and she strained her eyes, searching the vast blackness for the tiny pinprick of light.

‘Please God, your father found somewhere to anchor until the storm passes,’ her mother whispered.

Rebecca felt sick in the pit of her stomach and her chest hurt with the effort not to cry.

She must have fallen asleep again, for she awoke to pale thin daylight streaming in through the window. ‘Mum?’ Rebecca sat up with a start. ‘Mum?’ Scrambling from the bed, she ran to the window. The storm had blown itself out and the rising sun cast a golden hue over the gently undulating sea. The air was filled with the clamour of seabirds nesting on the cliffs behind the cottage. The tide was going out and already the water in the tiny stone harbour was receding, revealing large patches of black mud, seaweed and broken crab pots.

Her mother stood on the low wall, her back to the cottage as she stared out towards the horizon. Two of their neighbours, men Rebecca’s father had known all his life, stood nearby. With a horrible sinking sensation inside her, Rebecca dressed quickly and, almost tumbling down the stairs in her haste, flew out of the door, and across the lane.

‘Mum,’ she shouted, the cold breeze snatching away her words as she sprinted up the stone steps onto the harbour wall. Her mother looked strained, her face pale. The men’s expressions were grave. ‘Run up to the lighthouse, Becky,’ she said, her voice faltering. ‘Perhaps Mr Fisher has seen something.’

Rebecca nodded.

‘Be careful,’ one of the men warned her. ‘It’s blowing a hooley up there. Stay well away from the edge.’

‘I will, Mr Ford,’ Rebecca called, over her shoulder, as she jumped down the steps and raced to the foot of the winding pathway that led up to the lighthouse. She’d barely gone a few yards when she was almost bowled over by a gust of wind. The path hugged the hill but on the other side there was no protection from the elements. A low dry-stone wall was all that separated a person from certain death on the rocks below.

Rebecca pressed herself against the rough bracken that clung to the side of the hill. The wind snatched at her clothes and hair, like icy fingers trying to draw her towards the edge of the path. Swallowing her fear, she inched her way round the bend. There the wind lessened, and she could walk quicker, until she rounded the next bend, where it hit her full in the face, making her gasp. By the time she reached the lighthouse, she was panting and shaking.

She leaned against the cold white stone, fighting to stay upright as she caught her breath, looking down at the three fishermen’s cottages nestled at the foot of the rugged cliffs below her. She could see her mother standing on the harbour wall. Their neighbour, Mary Ford, stood beside her.

Clinging tightly to the wooden handrail, Rebecca turned her gaze to the sun-dappled sea. White horses had begun to appear on the waters beyond the bay.

‘I’ve been looking ever since first light,’ said William Fisher, the lighthouse keeper, coming up behind her. He was stocky, with weathered skin and wiry grey hair that curled from below the thick woollen hat pulled low over his ears. His grey beard reached almost to his stomach. He was a solitary man, preferring his own company, but he’d always been kind to Rebecca, giving her a toffee or a pretty shell on the odd occasions when their paths crossed.

‘There’s nothing out there,’ he said now. He smiled, treating Rebecca to a glimpse of crooked brown teeth. ‘No sign of wreckage, which could mean they managed to hole up somewhere until the storm passed.’

‘Do you think so, Mr Fisher?’ Rebecca asked, her blue eyes scanning the empty sea hopefully.

The old man shrugged. ‘Ivan’s a seasoned sailor. He knows every sheltered cove and gully along this coast.’ He gestured at the small group gathering on the harbour wall. ‘Tell your ma I’ll sound the bell the minute I see anything. Now, off you go, and mind yourself.’

‘Thank you, Mr Fisher.’ As Rebecca turned to leave, the old man pressed a toffee into her hand. ‘For later.’

Thanking him again, Rebecca slipped it into her pocket and set off, careful to keep close to the hillside.

She reached the bottom to find her mother wasn’t among the knot of people staring out to sea.

‘Your ma’s nipped home,’ Mary Ford said, with a worried frown. Puzzled, Rebecca thanked her and hurried back to the cottage where she found Lydia stirring a large pot in the fireplace. ‘Your father and the boys will be wanting their porridge when they get in,’ she said, straightening as Rebecca entered the cottage. ‘I think you should stay at home today, love. I don’t want to be on my own.’

Rebecca ate her breakfast in silence. Her mother stood at the window, staring out to sea. The harbour wall was deserted now, apart from a flock of seagulls squabbling over the carcass of a dead fish.

As soon as she’d scraped up the last spoonful of porridge, Rebecca deposited her bowl in the sink and joined her mother at the window. Voices sounded outside. A door banged and the

Ford children spilled out into the lane. They were joined almost immediately by the Willis girls. Rebecca knew them all as well as she knew her own brothers. They were a subdued group as they walked past her window, with none of the usual banter and teasing. In such a small, tight-knit community, the news that Rebecca’s father and brothers were missing would affect them all. Kitty Willis, Rebecca’s particular friend, glanced towards her as they passed, her expression pale and anxious. Rebecca gave her a small wave. She wished with all her heart that she was going with them. It was a two-mile walk to the school in the next village and usually she relished a day off but now she would have given anything to be setting off for school while her father and brothers caught up on some much-needed sleep.

The day passed in agonizing slowness. Lydia spent most of her time staring out of the window or walking along the harbour wall. Amos Ford, Edward Willis and their older sons took their boats out, scouring the little coves and beaches along the coast in search of their missing friends. They returned early in the afternoon, shaking their heads, grim-faced. Mary Ford and Catherine Willis came during the afternoon to sit with Lydia. Rebecca was kept busy making tea and peeling potatoes for the evening meal. She found the toffee in her pocket and sucked it slowly, savouring the sugary taste of caramel melting on her tongue.

When their visitors left, the silence was deafening. Quietly Rebecca went about finishing off the meal. She hesitated as she set the table, unsure as to whether to lay five places or two. In the end she decided on five. She refused to give up hope that her father, Simeon and Robert would walk through the door at any minute. She’d been praying for a miracle all day and Miss Jones, her Sunday-school teacher, said that if you prayed hard

enough, and believed without a shadow of doubt, Jesus would be sure to answer your prayers.

‘This looks delicious, love,’ her mother said, a few minutes later as she took her place at the table. She stared at the empty places, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘You’ve been busy,’ she said, forcing a smile as Rebecca set the bowl of fish stew before her, then took her own seat opposite. She tried not to notice the empty chairs, or that her mother only managed a mouthful before she pushed back her chair to resume her vigil at the window.

‘Trim the lamp and place it in the upstairs window,’ Lydia said, pulling her shawl tight around her. ‘Just in case.’

Rebecca nodded. In the bedroom she trimmed the lamp and stood it in the window. The sea was being swallowed into the coming night. She hoped that, wherever they were, her father and brothers were safe.

She woke the next morning to a shout. Sitting bolt upright in bed, she heard the slam of the front door. Rebecca jumped out of bed, and flew to the window, her heart in her mouth. A small group was gathered on the shingle beach. Her mother was running along the lane, her hands to her mouth. Even with the window shut, Rebecca could hear her anguished cry and her blood turned cold. She ran down the stairs. Stopping only to pull on her coat and boots, Rebecca yanked open the door and sprinted towards the beach.

‘Mum!’ she screamed. The small crowd parted, and she could see Lydia. She was on her knees on the damp shingle, crouched over something lying just below the tide line, rocking gently in the shallow water. Not something, her brain amended. Someone. Her chest tightened. ‘Mum!’ she screamed again. Her boots crunched as she ran onto the damp shingle, the wind

whipping at her hair. Then she felt arms tight around her waist, and she was almost lifted off her feet.

Squirming against the vice-like grip, she twisted her head round to find herself staring into the face of Mary and Amos’s oldest boy, Paul. ‘Don’t go on the beach, Becky,’ he said.

‘Let me go,’ Rebecca squealed. ‘Mum! Mum!’ she shouted, fighting against Paul’s grip. ‘Get off me!’

‘Becky! Stop, please,’ Paul pleaded.

‘Becky, love, come with me.’ It was Catherine Willis. She was a short, stout woman with flaming auburn hair and startling green eyes. On her broad hip, she jiggled her seventh child, a small red-haired boy of about two.

‘Becky.’ He beamed, stretching his arms out towards her.

‘Not now, Sammy,’ his mother chided him, turning slightly. ‘Becky doesn’t want to play.’

The fight went out of her and Rebecca’s knees buckled. She would have fallen had Paul not been holding her up. ‘Is it my dad?’ she asked, tears running down her face.

Catherine and Paul exchanged glances and Catherine sighed. ‘It’s Simeon, love.’

At the thought of her beloved brother lying dead on the beach, Rebecca let out a shrill cry.

‘Come on, love. Let’s get you indoors.’ Catherine nodded at Paul, and he swept Rebecca up and carried her away from the beach.

Catherine’s dingy cottage smelt of fish and damp. Laundry was draped in front of the fire and Paul had to duck to avoid the lines of fish where they’d been strung across the ceiling to dry before he could lower Rebecca into the nearest chair. He ran a hand through his hair, as if at a loss as to what to do next.

‘You get off,’ Catherine said, filling the doorway. ‘You’ll

need to be scouring the beach for . . .’ She glanced uneasily at Rebecca curled up on the armchair, sobbing piteously. ‘Well, you know . . .’

Paul nodded grimly.

‘Becky?’ Sammy chirped, as Paul ducked out of the door. ‘Becky sad?’

‘Yes, pet, Becky’s sad,’ replied Catherine soberly, shutting the door. With Sammy on her hip, she went to stand by the window. Soon, she felt a small hand in hers and looked down at Rebecca’s tear-stained face.

‘Mrs Willis, is my dad dead, too?’ she asked, in a small voice. ‘And Robert?’

Catherine bit her lip. ‘I think it’s likely, love, yes.’

Rebecca nodded, wiping her eyes. Catherine fished in her pocket for a bit of rag and handed it to her to blow her nose.

From the window, they watched as Lydia staggered up from the beach, supported on either side by Mary and Paul Ford. They were almost at the lane when Lydia stumbled.

‘Mum!’ Rebecca shrieked. She flung open the door and raced out of the cottage. She reached her mother just as Mary and Paul were helping to lift her upright.

At the sight of her daughter, Lydia sank to her knees in the damp shingle. ‘Oh, Becky,’ she wailed, opening her arms. Rebecca fell into them, tears streaming down her pale cheeks.

‘He’s gone,’ her mother gasped, sobbing unashamedly. ‘Our dear Sim. Oh, our poor, darling boy.’

CHAPTER THREE

Rebecca clung tightly to her mother’s hand. A cold wind swept across the cliff top, scouring her wet cheeks. Gulls and cormorants wheeled overhead in the dark-grey sky, the heavy clouds pregnant with the threat of rain. Far below, the sea was flecked with white horses. Waves crashed against the reef, throwing spray high into the sky.

Unable to bring herself to gaze upon the open graves of her father and brother, she kept her eyes fixed on the ground at her feet, straining to hear what the vicar was saying. She tried to swallow. Her throat ached from crying and her stomach felt hollow.

Only three days earlier they had buried Simeon among the generations of Wheelers who rested beneath the rough scrubland grass, and now they were here again to bury her father and Robert. Their bodies had washed up on the beach on the day of Simeon’s funeral.

She heard her mother’s sharp intake of breath. Raising her gaze, Rebecca immediately recognized the stout middle-aged man standing on the other side of the open graves as Gilbert Carter, the rent collector. She glanced up at her mother. Lydia’s

mouth was a thin, angry line in her white face, and she looked tense as the vicar brought the short service to a close.

‘My condolences again, Mrs Wheeler,’ the vicar said, taking Lydia’s gloved hands in his. ‘May you know God’s comfort during this difficult time.’

‘Thank you, Vicar,’ Lydia whispered, watching Gilbert Carter from the corner of her eye. He was clean-shaven with dark hair, greying at the temples, and dark eyes under thick brows. Catching Rebecca’s eye, he gave her and Lydia a curt nod. Replacing his hat, he strode casually to the stone memorial that had been erected fifty years ago in memory of the crew who had lost their lives when their ship had sunk on the reef off Leonard’s Bay.

‘Come on, Becky. Let’s go.’ Her mother took hold of Rebecca’s arm, gently leading her away as Amos, Paul and his brother Arthur picked up their shovels. She heard the dull thud of soil hitting the wooden coffins, sending a shiver up her spine.

Buffeted by the cold wind, Lydia and Rebecca led the way down the steep, winding path. Mary and Catherine followed with their children and the handful of other mourners who had made the journey from the surrounding villages to pay their respects. Back at the cottage, Mary and Catherine busied themselves making pots of tea while the Willis girls offered plates of sandwiches. The vicar and Gilbert Carter stood by the fire, drinking their tea. The vicar had his head inclined towards the rent man, who was talking animatedly, pausing only to swallow another bite of his sandwich. Rebecca noticed her mother watching them nervously and felt a growing sense of unease.

The door swung open, letting in a cold draught, as Amos

Ford entered, followed by Paul, and Edward Willis, stamping their feet and blowing on their cold hands.

‘Lizzie,’ Catherine Willis called to her eldest daughter. ‘Fetch your dad and Mr Ford a cup of tea. Kitty, where’s that plate of sandwiches?’

Kitty fetched it from the kitchen and gave it to her mother, then joined Rebecca on the low window seat. They sat in silence, listening to the ebb and flow of conversation.

The night was drawing in and people were starting to leave. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs Wheeler,’ Gilbert Carter said, approaching Lydia, hat in hand. He stood in front of her, feet apart.

At once the air in the cottage felt charged. Across the room, Rebecca saw Amos and Edward exchange glances.

‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, Mrs Wheeler,’ Gilbert began, ‘especially at such a time as this, but it is my duty to remind you that you are several weeks in arrears with your rent and—’

‘Have a heart, Mr Carter,’ Amos spoke up. ‘The woman has just buried her husband and two sons.’

‘I’m aware of that, Mr Ford,’ Gilbert replied testily, looking not the least bit ashamed. ‘And Mr Elliot has instructed me to pass on his most heartfelt condolences to you, Mrs Wheeler. However, the fact remains that you are behind on your rent and, unfortunately, if all arrears are not paid up to date by the end of this week, Mr Elliot will have no choice but to evict you.’

‘Evict us!’ Lydia rose to her feet, clutching her throat. ‘He can’t!’

‘I’m afraid he can, Mrs Wheeler,’ Gilbert responded brusquely.

‘I can’t afford to pay,’ Lydia said, wide-eyed in panic. ‘The fishing. It hasn’t been good and now . . . Please, I need more time.’

‘Mr Elliot has been more than patient,’ Gilbert said. ‘And as you now have no obvious source of income . . .’ He cleared his throat, his cheeks reddening.

‘I hope he chokes to death,’ Kitty hissed under her breath, making Rebecca smile for the first time in days. ‘End of the week, Mrs Wheeler. Good day to you.’ He set his hat on his head and strode towards the door, which Paul held open, regarding the older man with barely concealed contempt. Uttering no word of thanks, Gilbert ducked out into the cold November evening. Paul let the door swing shut behind him as Lydia sank onto her chair. She was shaking. Catherine and Mary, who were washing up, left the dishes and hurried to her side.

‘What will you do?’ whispered Kitty, as Rebecca watched her mother, her lip quivering as she fought back tears. ‘Where will you go?’

‘I don’t know,’ Rebecca said, barely audibly. They had no family, no one they could turn to should Mr Elliott evict them. What would become of them?

‘Have you no family you can go to?’ Mary Ford asked. She had sent her husband and the children home, and Catherine Willis had left with her family, but Mary had insisted on staying, despite Lydia’s protestations that she’d be all right with Rebecca.

Lydia shook her head.

‘You could write to Grandpa?’ Rebecca piped up. She had been pondering their predicament and, to her, the solution was obvious. They did have family. She had a grandfather. She’d never met him but perhaps he would help them.

‘Your father is alive?’ Mary asked Lydia. ‘I assumed your parents were gone, as you’ve never mentioned them.’

‘I haven’t spoken to my father for sixteen years,’ Lydia replied, with a sigh, ‘He didn’t approve of Ivan. The last time I saw him, he told me I was never to darken his door again.’ She smiled sadly at Rebecca. ‘I’m sorry, love, but I doubt he’d be willing to help.’

‘Time is a great healer,’ Mary said firmly. ‘He may have come to regret his behaviour towards you. It’s worth a try, surely.’ Her expression softened. ‘If I had the room . . . but with my brood we’re bursting at the seams as it is. And Catherine, well, they’ve even less space than us.’

‘Oh, Mary.’ Lydia squeezed her friend’s hand. ‘I wouldn’t dream of imposing. No, you’re right. I shall write to my father immediately and attempt to build bridges.’

Curled up at her mother’s feet, Rebecca couldn’t help feeling a fizz of excitement. Her mother had often spoken about the grand house she had grown up in. How wonderful it would be to live in such a beautiful place. She hoped her grandfather would write back soon. She closed her eyes, imagining the large house from her mother’s stories, with butter-yellow walls and a fountain in the garden . . .

‘Becky . . . Becky.’ Her mother’s voice seemed to come from far away. Rebecca sat up, rubbing her eyes. Mary had gone and the fire had died down, leaving a chill hanging over the room.

‘You fell asleep, love,’ Lydia said, stroking her hair. ‘It’s been a long day. Off you go to bed. I shan’t be far behind you.’

Rebecca made her way wearily up the stairs. She set the candle on the small nightstand, its flame flickering in the draught from the ill-fitting windows. Stifling a yawn, she got into her nightdress, shivering in the dank night air. Without her

brothers’ noisy presence, the room seemed unwelcoming. She slipped under the covers and squeezed her eyes shut, listening to the howl of the wind under the eaves. She could hear the waves pounding the shingle beach and her throat thickened. Turning on to her side, she buried her face in her pillow and cried herself to sleep.

‘I wish I was as clever as you, Becky,’ Kitty said, as they negotiated the narrow cliff path down to Leonard’s Bay. ‘I can never remember all my times tables.’ She pulled a face, the humiliation of being made to stand in front of the entire class and recite the nine-times still smarting.

‘I just find it easy,’ Rebecca said, with a shrug. She was only half listening to her friend’s chatter. She’d felt sympathy for her friend, red-faced and stammering as she’d tried to remember nine sevens, eights and nines, but Kitty had been moaning about it for the past fifteen minutes, and Rebecca had more important things on her mind. Mr Carter was due to collect the rent this afternoon, and when she’d left for school that morning, there had been no reply from her grandfather.

‘My dad says it’s a waste of time girls knowing their numbers,’ Bertie Ford informed Kitty, with a sneer. ‘You’ll only end up in service.’

‘Who says I will?’ Kitty flashed back.

Bertie shrugged. ‘What other jobs are there around here?’

‘I’m going to apply at Maisie’s Hotel when I leave school this summer,’ Maddy Willis said. ‘Rosie Clarke’s sister’s a chambermaid there and she says it’s lovely. The wages are fair, and the staff are treated like family.’

‘I heard it’s very hard to get a place there,’ one of the younger Ford girls said, shoving past Rebecca and Kitty. ‘You’ve got to

know someone. Oh, drat,’ she said, as she snagged her skirt on a bramble.

‘Rosie’s going to ask her sister to put a word in for me,’ retorted Maddy, as she twisted round to help the younger girl unhook her skirt from the prickly bush. Rebecca moved up the bank to squeeze past her and froze, causing Kitty and Bertie to crash into her.

‘Becky!’ grumbled Bertie. ‘Watch what . . .’ His words died on his lips as he followed Rebecca’s shocked gaze.

‘What’s happening?’ Kitty whispered, peering over Rebecca’s shoulder.

‘Oh, my word!’ Maddy screeched, making them all jump. ‘Becky,’ she said, in a horrified whisper, ‘he’s gone and done it! You’re being evicted.’

Her heart in her throat, Rebecca scrambled down the path as fast as she could, her gaze fixed on the scene unfolding below. Her mother was standing outside the cottage, her face ashen, as she clung to Mary. Catherine stood nearby, holding Sammy’s hand. As Rebecca slithered over a small rocky outcrop, she saw her mother’s work basket fly out of the cottage to join the small assortment of belongings that littered the road.

‘Mum?’ She ran along the quay, her breath catching in her throat. She could hear her friends following, but she didn’t look back. ‘Mum, what’s happening?’

‘Becky, wait.’ Catherine put out a hand and grabbed her arm, bringing her to an abrupt halt. ‘You’re being evicted, love,’ she said quietly.

Rebecca shook her head. ‘They can’t evict us,’ she panted, struggling against Catherine’s grip. ‘We haven’t heard from Grandpa yet.’

‘Becky.’ Lydia stretched out her hand. Catherine let her go and she flung herself at her mother. A frying pan flew out of

the door, followed by Lydia’s treasured china bowl, which shattered on the road.

Rebecca pressed herself against her mother, unable to bear the sight of the two big, bald men moving systematically through the cottage, throwing out everything that didn’t belong to the landlord, but equally unable to look away.

A figure filled the doorway, and she flinched as Gilbert Carter strode towards them, his expression grim. ‘All your things have been cleared from the cottage,’ he said, his eyes hard as he handed Lydia a piece of paper. ‘And you are no longer legally entitled to enter the property or you will be arrested for trespassing.’

Lydia scanned the notice, her hands trembling. Surrounded by her friends and neighbours, her meagre possessions scattered across the road, Rebecca was overwhelmed with shame. She couldn’t bring herself to meet Kitty’s eyes when her friend asked if she was all right. She simply nodded, keeping her eyes focused on her scuffed shoes.

‘Where will you go, Lydia?’ Mary asked, as the two bald men emerged from the cottage. One shut the door with a resounding bang, and stationed himself in front of it, arms folded across his broad chest.

Lydia took a shaky breath. With a determined tilt of her chin, she looked at Gilbert Carter with defiance in her eyes. ‘We shall go to Dartmouth,’ she said, a note of forced cheer in her voice as she smiled down at her daughter. ‘It will be an adventure. Help me gather up all our things, Becky. There’s plenty we can sell.’ She turned her smile on Mary. ‘We’ll be all right for a day or two until I can find work.’

‘Are you sure, Lydia?’ protested Mary, her eyes brimming with tears.

‘Of course.’ Her confident tone belied the terror squeezing her insides. She took Mary’s hands in hers. ‘I’ll send you my address. If a letter should come for me . . .’

‘I’ll send it on to you,’ Mary assured her but, as their eyes met, it was clear that neither woman expected one.

Lydia turned away, her heart aching because she was leaving Ivan and her boys alone on the cliff top. But she couldn’t stay in Leonard’s Bay where fishing was the only way to earn a living. In Dartmouth she’d have more chance of finding work, even if it was mending nets. Lord knows she’d done that often enough. Even Becky knew how to mend nets. They’d be all right. She would make sure of it.

CHAPTER FOUR

It took the two of them an hour to navigate the two and a half miles of rugged coastline, and darkness was falling by the time Rebecca and her mother trudged wearily along the quay, dragging the small cart that held their possessions.

Water lapped against the harbour wall, the lights from the nearby hotel shimmering across its ruffled surface. The door swung open, affording Rebecca a glimpse of plush carpets and embossed wallpaper. She caught the tinkle of a piano before the door swung shut, cutting the music off mid-note.

Despite the bitter winter weather, the town was bustling with merchants unloading carts and wagons, horses whinnying loudly. Voices shouted in the darkness and the steady splash of oars drifted across the water.

‘Excuse me,’ Lydia said, as a well-dressed couple hurried past. The man looked down his nose at her and kept walking. ‘Sir, can you help me?’ she tried again, taking a step towards an elderly gentleman standing at the harbour wall, gazing contemplatively over the water.

‘I don’t encourage begging,’ the man answered haughtily. Lydia flushed beetroot red. ‘I am no beggar, sir,’ she said, in

what Rebecca’s father had always laughingly called her ‘posh’ voice. ‘I was hoping you might direct me to a certain address.’

The man raised a quizzical eyebrow, clearly surprised that someone dressed as shabbily as Lydia should be so well-spoken. ‘What address are you looking for?’ he asked, in a slightly warmer tone.

‘Mead’s Emporium,’ Lydia said, fishing a scrap of paper from her pocket on which Catherine Willis had scribbled the name of a pawnbroker her sister had used some years back when the family had fallen on desperate times.

‘Mead’s?’ The man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, his hooded gaze alighting on the loaded barrow.

‘Please,’ Lydia said, with a defiant tilt of her chin as she pulled Rebecca closer.

The man shrugged. ‘It’s along the Butterwalk,’ he said, indicating a covered walkway to Lydia’s left. ‘Big sign over the door. You can’t miss it.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Lydia gripped Rebecca’s arm, ushering her towards the opening of the wide street, the rattle of the cart’s wheels echoing off the buildings. The broad, decorative ceiling covering the pavement offered welcome respite from the wind. A nearby streetlamp sputtered, and a mangy cat slunk out of the shadows, startling them both.

‘Goodness,’ Lydia breathed, laughing nervously as she clutched Rebecca’s hand. Their footsteps echoed on the frozen ground. They passed a narrow doorway where two women dressed in low-cut gowns were sheltering, their shoulders bare despite the freezing conditions. They eyed Lydia and Rebecca sullenly, their made-up faces macabre in the sickly yellow light of the streetlamp. Rebecca stared at them. One women flashed her a smile, displaying rotting teeth.

‘Come along, Becky,’ Lydia said sharply. Rebecca bowed her

head and quickened her pace to keep up with her mother, her heart pounding. The noise and smells of the town were intimidating after the quiet tranquillity of Leonard’s Bay. She heard her mother’s sigh of relief at the same time as she spotted the emporium up ahead, its name illuminated by a lamp swinging on a hook above the door.

Through the steamed-up window, Rebecca could see the blurred shapes of an assortment of household items. On the door hung a crudely painted sign which read: ‘Mead’s Emporium ‒ Fair Prices Paid for Quality Goods’.

Taking a deep breath, Lydia pushed open the door. A bell jangled above their heads, summoning a large, overweight woman from behind a curtain. She had a round face and florid complexion, with tendrils of greying greasy hair escaping from beneath a grubby white-lace cap. She propped her ample bosom on the wooden counter, wheezing as she eyed Lydia and Rebecca with disinterest against a backdrop of shelves laden with every conceivable household item.

‘Yes?’ she said, in a bored voice.

‘Good evening.’ Lydia approached the counter, carefully manoeuvring the cart between piles of precariously stacked furniture. She cleared her throat and steadied herself, forcing a smile. It wouldn’t do to let the woman see how desperate she was. ‘I have a few items I no longer need, and I wondered if you might be interested in buying them.’

Rebecca clutched the edge of the counter, staring up at the woman nervously.

The woman eyed the loaded cart with indifference. ‘I’ll give you a shilling.’

Lydia blanched. ‘Is that all?’ Her voice quivered. ‘The linen alone is worth more than that.’

The woman waved her hand. ‘You can see how much stuff I’ve got in here. It could be sitting on the shelves for months. Take it or leave it,’ she said, with a shrug. ‘Unless you got anything else?’

Lydia’s hand moved to her neck. She could feel the locket nestled against her skin. It was solid silver. They would be able to live comfortably on the proceeds for several weeks. But could she bear to part with her one link to her mother? She glanced down at her daughter’s pinched, frightened face, and was about to unfasten the clasp when the shop bell jangled, and a small, thin man entered, bringing with him a draught of cold evening air. He removed his hat and peeled off his black gloves as he approached the counter, his oiled black hair gleaming in the lamplight.

‘Ladies.’ He nodded. ‘Everything all right, Mrs Mead?’ he asked the woman, resting one pale hand on the counter. The woman nodded, and told him how much she’d offered Lydia for her goods.

The man smiled up at Lydia, displaying yellow teeth. His eyes widened, as his smile brightened. ‘Perhaps we can be a little more generous, dear wife,’ he said, stroking his moustache thoughtfully. ‘Erastus Mead.’ He turned to Lydia. ‘Owner of this establishment.’

Suppressing a shudder of revulsion, Lydia smiled back. ‘May I?’ Without waiting for Lydia’s reply, he peered into the cart. ‘Fallen on hard times, have we?’ he remarked sympathetically.

To her horror, Lydia felt tears welling in her eyes.

‘Mrs Mead, put the kettle on,’ Erastus said, affably. ‘This poor lady is clearly in distress. My dear madam,’ he said, motioning towards the curtain, ‘please come through to the parlour.’

As his wife bustled off to make the tea, Erastus settled Lydia and Rebecca in the warm, stuffy parlour. The room, decorated in greens, oranges and browns, had clearly been furnished with little regard to taste. A stag’s head hung above the fireplace. Rebecca sat in an armchair, her feet an inch off the floor, while Erastus Mead attempted to prise Lydia’s story from her.

‘So, you and your little girl are alone in the world?’ he prompted, with a sympathetic tilt of his head.

‘Yes, sir.’ Before Lydia could say any more, the door opened and Erastus’s wife entered with the tea tray.

‘Ah, thank you, my dear.’ Erastus half rose from his seat. ‘Has Mr Fox been in this evening?’ he asked her, in a low voice, as she set the tray before him.

‘Not yet.’

‘Thank you, my dear.’ He accepted his cup with a smile. ‘Perhaps you might nip over to the Nautical Arms and see if he’s in. I believe he may be able to help this lady.’

‘Might Mr Fox be able to offer me employment?’ said Lydia, feeling a surge of hope for the first time in days.

‘It is a possibility,’ Erastus replied, studiously ignoring his wife’s scowl as she pulled on her wraps. Clearly she was not relishing the inconvenience of going out on such a cold night. She banged the door behind her, making Rebecca jump. Erastus winced.

‘So, you were about to tell me how you came to be in this . . . unfortunate situation,’ he prompted, leaning towards Lydia, having quickly recovered his equilibrium.

To her surprise, Lydia found herself telling him everything that had happened over the past ten days. Was it only ten days? she thought, as she paused to catch her breath. Less than two weeks ago, she had been a happily married woman, and mother

of three. Now she was a homeless widow trying to provide for her only surviving child. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she recounted the bailiffs’ visit.

‘You poor lady,’ Erastus said, pulling a clean handkerchief from his trouser pocket and handing it to her.

‘Thank you.’ Lydia sniffed, wiping her eyes. ‘So here we are,’ she said, with a shaky smile. ‘All we have in the world is in that little cart. I was hoping for enough to tide us over until I can find work. The amount your wife suggested would barely cover one night’s accommodation in a decent hotel.’

‘I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a difficult time,’ said Erastus, his hair gleaming in the lamplight. ‘Most of my money is tied up in stock. However . . .’ he continued, sucking his teeth. He clasped his hands under his chin and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘If my assumption is correct, my esteemed acquaintance Mr Fox may be able to provide you with a solution. He’s often on the lookout for new employees. Accommodation is provided.’

Lydia’s eyes lit up. ‘Do you really think he may be able to offer me a position?’ she asked. ‘I’m used to hard work.’

‘I’m sure you’re just the sort of person he’ll be looking for.’ Erastus smiled. Lydia’s calloused, workworn hands, so at odds with her genteel manner, hadn’t gone unnoticed. Fox would work her hard, he mused, with a glint in his eye. But not in the way she expected. ‘More tea?’

Rebecca sipped her tea, trying not to make any slurping noises or spill on the furniture, watching Mr Mead. He must have felt her gaze for he turned to her and winked. She looked away quickly, feeling the heat rising in her neck and colouring her cheeks. Something about the man made her uncomfortable, but

she had no time to ponder why for at that moment they were interrupted by the muted jangle of the shop bell, followed by the sound of voices. The parlour door opened, and a heavily built man came in. His ginger hair was shaved close, and he sported a neatly trimmed, red goatee beard.

‘Ah, Mr Fox,’ exclaimed Erastus, jovially, getting to his feet. The man gave his outstretched hand a cursory shake, his gaze going past Erastus to settle on the woman seated by the fire. ‘Thank you for popping in,’ Erastus continued, as his wife relieved the man of his hat, coat and scarf. ‘Allow me to introduce you.’

Lydia rose quickly to her feet, indicating to Rebecca to do the same. She slid off her chair, clutching her teacup in trembling hands.

‘Mr Fox, may I present Mrs Lydia Wheeler and her daughter, Rebecca? Mrs Wheeler, Mr Michael Fox.’

‘Good evening, Mr Fox,’ Lydia said, with a prim nod.

‘Good evening, Mr Fox,’ Rebecca echoed, staring shyly at the floor.

Mickey Fox’s initial interest quickened. The woman was a bit long in the tooth. He’d hazard a guess at early thirties, but her upper-class accent, coupled with her striking looks, would be a big draw. Punters would pay over the odds for a woman like her. ‘I believe you’re in need of employment,’ he said, stroking his beard contemplatively.

‘I’m not afraid of hard work,’ she said, a note of desperation in her voice. ‘I’ll happily turn my hand to anything.’

‘I thought Mrs Wheeler would be just right for your establishment the moment I saw her.’ Erastus smiled ingratiatingly at the younger man.

‘Here’s your brandy, Mr Fox,’ Mrs Mead said, appearing at Mickey’s side. He accepted the glass without a word of thanks and downed the amber liquid in one long swallow.

‘How old is the girl?’ he asked.

‘She’s ten, sir. Almost eleven . . . but if you cannot allow me to bring her with me I shall have to turn down any offer you may make. I cannot be parted from my child.’

Rebecca flinched as he cupped her chin in his fingers, tilting her head towards the light. He gave an approving grunt and let her go. Rebecca scuttled closer to Lydia, who wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders.

Mickey played with the glass in his hand, mesmerized by the way the cut crystal reflected the light. Rebecca inched even closer to her mother, pressing into her.

‘Very well,’ he said at length. ‘I shall take you on. Here.’ He reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew out a handful of notes. ‘This is an advance on your wages. Mrs Mead, see to it that all of Mrs Wheeler’s outstanding debts are paid. If you need any more, let me know.’

Rebecca stared at her mother clearly astonished. She’d never have seen so much money.

‘Why, Mr Fox,’ Lydia stammered, ‘that’s so generous.’

‘I’m a generous man,’ he said, with a semblance of a smile.

He glanced at the clock. ‘It’s time we were on our way.’ He laid his hand on Rebecca’s shoulder. Her cup fell to the carpet, tea seeping into it.

‘Clumsy girl!’ snorted Mrs Mead, and slapped Rebecca’s face.

‘Mrs Mead!’ Lydia cried, outraged, as her daughter clutched her cheek.

‘Mrs Mead,’ Mickey repeated mildly, ‘accidents happen.