On the first of February, the rooftops of St Ives were alive with nesting pairs of seagulls. As always, spring had come early to the far west of Cornwall.
‘What on earth are you doing, Nan?’ Jenny asked.
Nan was preoccupied with a bundle of beeswax candles in her lap, picking them up one at a time and smoothing the pale golden wax. Her lips were moving as if she was talking to them.
‘I’m impregnating each candle with a prayer,’ she explained.
Jenny opened her mouth and shut it again. She had learned to keep quiet about Nan’s unorthodox passions. She got on with her knitting, a soft white matinee set for Lottie’s baby. It was the first of February and everyone was on edge waiting for the baby to be born. Dr Tregullow had threatened to send her to hospital if it didn’t happen soon.
‘To put it another way,’ Nan said patiently, ‘I’m blessing the candles because tomorrow, the second of February, is Candlemas. It’s the turning point of winter, exactly halfway between the winter solstice and the spring equinox.’ The firelight twinkled in her eyes and she looked at Lottie lying on the sofa. ‘Candlemas is a very fortunate day for a baby to be born.’
‘Why is that, Nan?’ Lottie asked. ‘Is there a legend?’
‘Oh yes.’ Nan placed the last candle into the basket on the table.
Everyone sat up and looked at Nan. ‘Go on, Nan, tell us the legend,’ Lottie pleaded, her eyes bright with anticipation.
‘Oh please, Nan. Me and Warren will listen,’ Tom said, and the two boys settled on the hearth rug at Nan’s feet, carefully avoiding the cats who were blissfully entwined in front of the crackling log fire. Sensing a story, Petronella came in from the kitchen. She gave Lottie a sharp look. ‘All right, are you, Lottie?’
‘Fine,’ Lottie said, but didn’t mention the twinges of pain she was having. Nan and Petronella were both watching her. How did they know? It was like being part of an ancient, mysterious network of womanhood, and Lottie felt comforted, safe and at peace.
When she began to speak, Nan had an aura that turned everyone to stone. Nobody moved except Jenny, who made a furtive attempt to carry on knitting. At the first click of the needles, Tom turned on her fiercely. ‘Shh, stop knitting, Mum,’ he hissed. Jenny stopped.
‘Hundreds of years ago,’ Nan whispered, ‘when dwarves and giants still roamed the earth – especially here in Cornwall – the three giants of winter came down to St Ives: one from Trencrom, one from Carn Brea and one from St Michael’s Mount. The earth trembled with the thunder of their boots.’
Nan raised her voice to a boom and then went quiet again.
‘They brought with them an almighty snowstorm, which swept down the valley and whirled around St Ives like an Arctic blizzard. The snow buried everything – the lobster pots, the upturned boats, the fishing nets – and it filled the streets with snowdrifts so high that people couldn’t open their doors. No one could work. There was no firewood and no food. For seven long days, the snow was frozen solid, icicles hung from the eaves and even the edge of the sea was frozen, the waves crunching through globules of ice. The three giants laughed at the havoc they had created and rolled enormous snowballs down the narrow streets and into the harbour.’
Nan paused, her eyes looked piercingly at each of them. In the silence, Lottie heard the moan of the winter wind coming under the door, the purr of flames in the hearth and the dispassionate tick of the grandfather clock. She felt another pain in her back and low down in her pelvis. She wanted to get up and walk around, but she kept still, enjoying the comfort of Matt’s hand on her shoulder.
‘But . . .’ Nan began again, her voice louder and faster, ‘when the sun rose over the sea, a Celtic goddess came into St Ives along the golden path of light across the water. Her name was St Brigid and she is the Goddess of Poetry and Healing and Midwifery.’
Nan looked directly at Lottie.
‘St Brigid brought with her a sacred flame, which shone so brightly that the three giants were dazzled. They turned away and left the town, never to be seen again, and as the thunder of their boots faded into the distance, the people of St Ives realised the snow was melting. They began to push their doors open and dig pathways and break the icicles. St Brigid brought with her a basket decorated with snowdrops, violets and celandine, and filled with beeswax candles, which she gave to all who were brave enough to venture out into the light. It was the second of February – Candlemas – and babies born on that sacred day are put in a cradle decorated with snowdrops, violets and celandine, and blessed with wishes for a happy life.’
*
And so it was, on the second of February, that Matt found himself alone in Nan’s garden under the stars, a knot of deep anxiety inside him. Petronella, Jenny and Nan had closed ranks around Lottie and taken her upstairs in a mysterious huddle of crooning efficiency.
Lottie hadn’t cried out. Not once.
All Matt could hear as he’d sat on the stairs was a low murmur and the creak of floorboards from upstairs, Petronella’s brisk feet and the swish of her embroidered skirt as she bustled to and fro.
How long will it take? And why aren’t I allowed to be there, holding Lottie’s hand, watching our baby being born?
Matt wanted to rage at the sky about the injustice. He left the garden and padded back to the house into the living room, where the embers of the fire were still glowing. John was there and he didn’t want to talk. He sat with his nose in a book, but Matt could tell he wasn’t reading it. He seemed lost in thought and soon after midnight he was asleep in the armchair.
Matt worked on the driftwood cradle he’d been making until the wood had a silken sheen, not a splinter in sight. It smelled of sea salt and summer beaches and he was secretly proud of it. Lottie had helped him with the sanding. He touched the bits she had done, picked up the blanket she had knitted and held it against his cheek, feeling close to tears.
Don’t let Lottie die, he prayed, or the baby, God. Are you listening? We’ve had enough sorrow in our family. The prayer drove Matt to the edge of an emotional chasm. A very unmanly chasm.
Yawning, Matt opened the front door and stood outside. The wind had dropped and the stars were diamond bright. In the night garden, the clumps of snowdrops were luminous white in the dark grass. Behind him in the house, the relentless clock chimed three.
A door opened upstairs and he heard Jenny’s iron leg tapping along the floorboards.
‘Matt – Matt! Where are you? Come up here – quickly.’
Her voice sounded urgent. Doom-laden thoughts sped through Matt’s mind. He charged upstairs.
‘Shh – don’t make a row,’ Jenny whispered. ‘You must see her before she goes to sleep.’
‘See who?’
Jenny looked at him and bubbled over with happy tears, ‘Your daughter, your little girl, Matt. She’s just been born and she’s gorgeous!’
Matt’s heart exploded with joy. The bedroom door was open and the room flickered with the beeswax candles. But the brightest radiance was in Lottie’s golden smile. Her cheeks glowed and her eyes sparkled like never before. She held out one arm to him.
‘Matt! Darling Matt – look at our baby! She’s perfect – just perfect.’ She looked down tenderly at the bundle in the crook of her arm. ‘Look, Little Star – it’s your daddy. Your daddy’s come to see you.’
The bundle made a cooing, gentle, humorous sound. Matt leaned over and, deep in the layers of lacy knitting, he saw a bright little face, unbelievably small, with sapphire blue eyes fixed on him in an unwavering gaze.
‘Can – can I touch her?’ he asked.
Lottie beamed. ‘Of course you can. She won’t break.’
Matt moved closer, hardly breathing, feeling a smile stretching his face. A tiny red fist emerged from the bundle. He offered a finger and the baby clasped it tightly as if she’d been waiting to meet him. The determined strength of her tiny fingers and the steadfast sapphire gaze seemed to be claiming him – for life. It was a moment Matt would remember for
ever. He mattered. He was Daddy. A new feeling billowed over him as if the clouds over his life had rolled apart and released a transformational stream of sunlight.
‘She’s wonderful,’ he breathed. ‘She’s unbelievably beautiful.’
‘Ooh, she likes you,’ Jenny said, her hands clasped in joy.
‘You can hold her, Matt, if you’d like to.’ Lottie looked at him eagerly.
But Matt shook his head. ‘No – no, I’d better not.’
‘Okay,’ Lottie said, but he could see she was disappointed.
‘I’ll sort ’im out,’ Petronella said, gleaming with confidence. ‘Let me ’ave her, Lottie.’ She stooped and tenderly lifted the bundle. ‘Let go of Daddy’s finger.’
She turned to Matt, looking at him with her flashing dark eyes. ‘Now then – you’re gonna hold your daughter, Matt,’ she insisted. ‘You’re afraid she’ll cry, aren’t you? Well, she might. But it won’t be your fault, Matt. It won’t mean she doesn’t like you. Babies cry for all sorts of reasons – sometimes they’re just letting off steam. If she cries, it’s not your fault – have you got that?’
Matt nodded, grateful to Petronella for understanding what he’d been worrying about. She put the bundle firmly in his arms. ‘It’s like holding a cloud,’ he said, still mesmerised by his little girl’s intense gaze. It seemed natural to rock her gently and watch the sapphire eyes slowly close. ‘She’s going to sleep.’
Matt didn’t want to put her down. A glow of contentment spread through him.
‘We all need a good sleep now – especially Lottie,’ Petronella said. ‘I’ll help you decorate the cradle later, Matt.’
‘We’re going to have a Candlemas naming ceremony,’ Lottie said. ‘I don’t really want to go to sleep, I’m too happy. I’ve never been so happy.’ And she closed her eyes. ‘Her name is a secret,’ she mumbled, ‘until tonight . . .’
*
Candlemas day was blessed with a tranquil ocean and tall blue winter waves breaking satin-smooth under a golden sun. Lottie spent a blissful day sleeping, waking only to feed her baby and gaze at her, and talk about her with Matt. Nan came to see her and held the tiny baby for a long time, misty-eyed and emotional.
‘She means so much to me,’ she kept on saying. ‘I can’t believe she was born so quietly and she hasn’t cried.’
‘It’s exactly how I wanted it to be for her,’ Lottie said.
‘You were a brave, brave girl,’ Nan said, ‘and you’ll have a happy child because you love her – both of you. You’re a shining, radiant family. Lottie and Matt and – oh, I wish you’d tell me her name!’
‘Not until the ceremony, Nan,’ Lottie smiled, enjoying the secrecy. ‘We want to hold her up to the stars.’
‘Well, the weather looks set fair,’ Nan said. ‘Petronella helped me decorate the lovely cradle Matt has made, and now we’re going to make dinner and pudding pasties for tea. John has taken Jenny out. They’re up to something, I think – and they are so thrilled with the baby.’ Nan looked down fondly at the sleeping child. ‘She’s like a rose in a winter garden.’
John and Jenny returned to Hendravean in a taxi, with a new pram tied on the roof.
Nan looked at them shrewdly. ‘And what have you two been up to?’
Everyone went quiet. Jenny blushed and looked at John. ‘Go on then – shall we tell them?’
John’s eyes sparkled. He took Jenny’s hand. ‘We do have something to tell you – and I hope you’ll be pleased.’ He looked at Lottie. ‘I’ve grown to love Jenny. She’s my perfect woman, and . . .’
‘Even with my iron leg?’ Jenny interrupted.
‘Even with your iron leg,’ John said patiently. ‘Jenny is beautiful and courageous and I have asked her to marry me.’ Jenny’s face glowed. She held out her hand to display the ruby ring on her finger.
‘Oh bravo!’ Nan said, and tears ran down her wrinkled cheeks. ‘That’s wonderful news. I’m so happy for you.’
Lottie gave a cry of delight. ‘I always knew you would, Daddy – and, Jenny, now you’ll really be my mum!’
Only Warren looked uneasy. ‘Are you gonna take Jenny away on a ship?’ he asked.
Jenny shook her head. ‘No, Warren. We’re going to stay here in St Ives forever. We love it here – and you can come whenever you like.’
Warren grinned and copied Matt and Tom, who were both giving Jenny and John a thumbs-up sign. ‘Shall I play me piano-accordion?’
‘Not yet,’ Nan said. ‘It’s too loud for the little baby. Later, when she’s upstairs in bed we’ll have a sing-song.’
‘I’d love that,’ John said. ‘I’ve been waiting all winter for a Cornish sing-song. So, let’s get on with the baby’s naming ceremony. It’s a clear, starry night.’
There were gasps of admiration as Matt carried the decorated cradle out of the scullery and put it on the table. The celandines had closed their golden petals for the night, but snowdrops glimmered and violets glowed in tiny posies, tied with curls of thin satin ribbon. Lottie stared at it happily.
‘What an exquisite bed for our baby’s first day on earth. It’s lovely, Matt. You’re so clever.’
She settled the baby into the soft nest of blankets. ‘You, Little Star, are going to have a naming ceremony, just for you!’ The baby opened her sapphire blue eyes and pursed her lips, looking up in astonishment at the bunches of flowers arched above her head.
The hall flickered with light from the beeswax candles and the heavy scent of honey and herbs filled the air. John held the front door open and everyone fell silent as the salty air from the sea wafted in and the wide vista of stars welcomed them outside. The Cornish night was cold and still, the full moon spilling its silver seeds on the dark water.
‘I feel like a cloud,’ Lottie murmured. ‘So full of happiness that I could float.’ Her smile filled the night as she looked down at her baby, her hair silvery in the moonlight, her eyes luminous. She didn’t need to look at the family gathered around her. She could feel them. Their warmth, their faith in her. The old feuds and arguments were gone, swept away by the love that had flowed in like a velvet tide.
Lottie lifted Little Star out of the cradle. The baby was still awake, gazing up at her mother. Matt stood close and Lottie could feel his heartbeat as he wrapped his arms around them.
Nan was waiting, eagerly, for the name.
Lottie smiled at her. ‘Thank you, Nan, for sharing your home with us. We will love you forever, you’ve been our guardian angel.’ Lottie paused when she felt Nan tremble a little. ‘And so, in honour of Nan . . .’ she looked up at the stars, ‘we name this child – Nanette.’
‘Nanette! How lovely.’ Nan moved closer. ‘Let me have a cuddle.’ She took the tiny, newborn baby in her arms. ‘My great-great-grandchild, Nanette Lanroska. You, my darling, are a blessing to this family and to this earth.’
Acknowlegements
Thank you to the St Ives Archives and the RNLI for helping me with the research, and to Beth Emanuel for her meticulous typing and preparation of the manuscript. I’ve enjoyed working with a new editor, Bec Farrell, and I appreciate her care and skill. A warm thank you to my agent, Judith Murdoch, for her wise guidance.
The support and understanding from my family and friends has been wonderful, especially from Ted, my beloved husband and soulmate, who reads all my books and tells me he loves them.
Go back and read the beginning of Lottie’s journey in Cornwall . . .
A captivating Cornish saga set at the turn of the century, from the bestselling author of The Boy With No Boots.
Following a terrible storm, seven-year-old Lottie is rescued from a shipwreck by local Cornishman, Arnie Lanroska. Her clothing suggests she comes from a wealthy family, but Lottie’s back bears the scars of a severe beating, and how she came to be on a cargo ship in the first place remains a mystery . . .
Arnie and his wife already have two young children, Matt and Tom, but are desperate to keep Lottie. They decide to foster her, despite outcries
from the local community, and though Matt appears hesitant to get close to Lottie, Tom quickly warms to the new sister in his life.
But when tragedy strikes the very heart of the Lanroska family, the repercussions could change the lives of everyone close to them . . .
A nostalgic and heart-warming family saga, perfect for fans of Katie Flynn and Margaret Dickinson
AVAILABLE NOW IN PAPERBACK AND EBOOK
Sheila Jeffries has been writing since she was young, and has written twelve children’s novels. After studying at Bath Academy of Art, Sheila spent many years teaching in UK schools. Sheila lives in Somerset where she enjoys teaching meditation and running workshops for writers.
Also by Sheila Jeffries
Solomon’s Tale
Solomon’s Kitten
The Boy with no Boots
Timba Comes Home
The Girl by the River
Born to be Trouble
A Cornish Orphan
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2019
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Sheila Jeffries, 2019
The right of Sheila Jeffries to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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Cover images © Trevillion Images and Johnny Ring.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-4711-6529-0
eBook ISBN: 978-1-4711-6530-6
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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