About the Author
KERRY BARRETT is the author of eight novels, including the Strictly Come Dancing themed A Step in Time, and The Girl in the Picture, about a crime novelist who solves a 160-year-old mystery.
Born in Edinburgh, Kerry moved to London as a child, where she now lives with her husband and two sons. A massive bookworm growing up, she used to save up her pocket money for weeks to buy the latest Sweet Valley High book, then read the whole story on the bus home and have to wait two months for the next one. Eventually she realised it would be easier to write her own stories …
Kerry’s years as a television journalist, reporting on EastEnders and Corrie, have inspired her novels where popular culture collides with a historical mystery. But there is no truth in the rumours that she only wrote a novel based on Strictly Come Dancing so she would be invited on to It Takes Two.
When she’s not practicing her foxtrot (because you never know …), Kerry is watching Netflix, reading Jilly Cooper, and researching her latest historical story.
Also by Kerry Barrett
The Secret Letter
The Hidden Women
The Girl in the Picture
The Forgotten Girl
A Step in Time
The Could It Be Magic? Series
Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered
I Put a Spell on You
Baby, It’s Cold Outside
I’ll Be There for You
A Spoonful of Sugar: A Novella
The Smuggler’s Daughter
KERRY BARRETT
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020
Copyright © Kerry Barrett
Kerry Barrett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © September 2020 ISBN: 9780008389734
Version: 2020-08-14
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Also by Kerry Barrett
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1: Emily
Chapter 2: Phoebe
Chapter 3: Phoebe
Chapter 4: Emily
Chapter 5: Phoebe
Chapter 6: Emily
Chapter 7: Emily
Chapter 8: Phoebe
Chapter 9: Phoebe
Chapter 10: Emily
Chapter 11
Chapter 12: Phoebe
Chapter 13
Chapter 14: Emily
Chapter 15: Phoebe
Chapter 16: Emily
Chapter 17: Phoebe
Chapter 18: Emily
Chapter 19: Phoebe
Chapter 20: Emily
Chapter 21: Phoebe
Chapter 22
Chapter 23: Emily
Chapter 24: Phoebe
Chapter 25: Emily
Chapter 26
Chapter 27: Phoebe
Chapter 28
Chapter 29: Emily
Chapter 30: Phoebe
Chapter 31
Chapter 32: Emily
Chapter 33: Phoebe
Chapter 34: Emily
Chapter 35: Phoebe
Chapter 36: Emily
Chapter 37: Phoebe
Chapter 38: Emily
Chapter 39: Phoebe
Chapter 40
Chapter 41: Emily
Chapter 42: Phoebe
Acknowledgments
Extract
Dear Reader …
Keep Reading …
About the Publisher
I wrote most of this book in lockdown, so it is dedicated to my children’s teachers, with massive respect and gratitude.
Chapter 1
Emily
Cornwall, Spring 1799
I put my hands over my ears and pushed my palms hard into my scalp, trying to block out the sound of the argument. I hated shouting at the best of times, but tonight my parents were louder than ever. They were making no attempt to keep it quiet – normally I heard whispered barbs and hissed insults but tonight it was full-blown screaming. From my mother, at least.
‘He will starve us out,’ she was shouting. ‘He’s warned us, and I don’t doubt he means it. We’ll go hungry, Amos.’
‘It won’t come to that,’ my father said. He was a calm man most of the time but his temper had been short lately, and tonight I heard a tremor in his voice that I’d never heard before. ‘He’ll get bored and go away.’
‘He’ll only go away when we give him what he wants,’ my mother screeched. ‘And if we don’t give it to him, he’ll take it.’
Something smashed and I cowered under the blanket. I didn’t understand what they were arguing about. I only knew they’d been fighting like this for days and days. Weeks, even. I didn’t know who they were talking about, nor why my mother sounded so frightened. It wasn’t like her at all. She was always smiling, my mam. Or at least she had been until recently. Da always said that most of the drinkers at The Ship came to see Mam, serving drinks and keeping the customers happy, not to drink his ale.
‘Your father had this inn, Amos Moon, and his father before him,’ my mother said, sounding defeated. ‘I don’t understand why you want to give it away.’
‘I don’t,’ Da said. ‘I want it to be a home for you and Emily.’
‘Then let him use it.’ Mam was hissing now, her voice sounding urgent and high-pitched. ‘It’s just once. No one will know.’
‘It won’t be just once,’ Da said. ‘If we let him in, he’ll keep coming. He’ll take more and more liberties, and it’ll be me who hangs for it.’
I huddled in my bed. What did Da mean? Why would he hang? I wished I could run to him and ask him what was going on. Da was the only person who took time to explain things to me properly. Mam did her best, but she was always busy, laughing and chatting with the drinkers in the bar. It was Da who spared the time to talk. He knew that I didn’t always understand the world. That I couldn’t always follow a conversation, that I misunderstood some phrases or took things too literally. I sometimes wondered if he felt the same way – not as strongly as me, but enough that he understood the troubles I had – and that was why he preferred to spend time in the cellar, or with his kegs of ale, while Mam dealt with the drinkers and the entertainers.
‘It’s not right,’ Da was saying. ‘How can we be a part of that?’
‘God’s teeth,’ my mother shrieked. ‘You and your principles, Amos Moon. Those morals of yours will see us starve to death, you’ll see.’
‘Janey, calm yourself.’
‘Calm myself?’
I heard the clink of a bottle as my mother poured herself a drink. She’d never been bothered by the riches on offer at the inn before. Da said she was as full of fun without the grog inside h
er, as any man who’d taken a drink. But lately, she’d been helping herself more and more. Her face was more frowns than smiles recently, but when she knocked back a measure of rum or brandy, her lips turned upwards again.
Da said something I didn’t hear, and Mam roared. ‘Get out!’ she screamed. ‘I’m sick of the sight of you. Get out.’
‘This isn’t finished,’ Da warned.
‘Yes it is,’ Mam shrieked.
The whole inn shook as Da slammed out into the yard, whistling softly for his dog, Tully, as he went. I scrambled up on to the window seat, peering out into the darkness to see where he was.
Da was sitting on a barrel, Tully by his side and a flickering lantern at his feet. I wanted to go down to him, but I could hear Mam clattering about in the inn, pouring herself more drinks, and I didn’t want to see her. Instead, I reached under my bed, and pulled out my sketchbook and my charcoal.
I loved to draw. I’d done it since I was tiny, and Da – and Mam – had supported me. As I got older, and my difficulties had become clearer, Da had encouraged me to draw people’s faces. I found sketching their expressions helped me understand their emotions. Copying the tilt of a lip, or the creases around someone’s eyes taught me what sadness, happiness, or anger looked like.
Now I watched my father, his brow furrowed. My charcoal rasped across the page as I captured his eyes narrowed in thought, and his tight lips. Determined, I said softly to myself. He looked determined.
A quiet knock at the courtyard gate made me and Da both jump. Who was coming to The Ship at this late hour? Surely everyone in Kirrinporth was in bed?
Da turned his head. He could see who was out there, though I couldn’t. He sat on his barrel for a moment, then he stood up and opened the gate, standing aside to let the visitor in.
An older man came through into the courtyard, crouching down and rubbing Tully’s ears in greeting.
‘Some guard dog you are,’ I muttered with fondness.
The man was my father’s friend, Petroc, I realised now, recognising his wide shoulders and his love of animals. But whatever was he doing here so late? The inn was long closed and Da was only awake because he and Mam had been arguing.
‘Take that mutt and tie it up by the stables.’ Another man came into sight below my window. I didn’t recognise him. He was tall and his face was hidden by the three-cornered hat he wore. He waited for Petroc to take Tully across the courtyard and out of sight. I narrowed my eyes, peering down into the darkness to see better.
‘So, do we have an agreement?’ the man said. He took his hat off and rubbed his forehead. He had dark hair with one white streak that seemed to glow in the moonlight and a handsome, though rugged, face. On the same page as my sketch of Da, I began drawing the man’s expression. He was smiling, but as I drew, I saw that his eyes were angry. That was something I’d not seen before. ‘I’ll be very disappointed if we don’t,’ he added.
‘No, we do not have a deal,’ said Da. He was whispering but it was so quiet that his voice carried clearly across the cobbled courtyard. ‘It’s too risky.’
‘You never used to be frightened of a bit of risk,’ the man said. His voice sounded amused, as though Da had made a joke. But I didn’t think he had said anything funny. ‘Never used to worry when you were younger.’
‘Well we all did stupid things when we were young,’ Da said. He turned away from the man and lifted the lantern up so it illuminated the courtyard better.
‘Stupid?’
My father sighed. ‘This is different. The risks are too great; the benefits are too small.’ He looked at the man, his chin lifted slightly. ‘Except for the benefits to you.’
‘Come on, Amos, you’re not being fair,’ the bigger man said. He reached out and, quick as a flash, pulled my father’s arm and twisted him round so they were facing each other again. From my viewing point at the window, I gasped.
‘No. You’re not being fair, Morgan,’ my father said. He sounded angry. ‘Things are different now. I’ve got a wife and a daughter.’ He nodded up towards where I sat watching and I shrank back against the wall so I wouldn’t be seen, wondering if he knew I was spying on him.
‘Reckon your woman will be easier to persuade than you are,’ Morgan said. ‘Or that pretty daughter of yours.’
My father snorted. ‘Janey knows her own mind. You’re no match for her.’ I smiled to myself; he was right about that. ‘Now you need to leave, before I throw you out.’ He turned his back and went to walk away, but the other man was getting angry. I flinched, trying to capture the glower on his face on my paper and then watched in helpless horror as the man yanked Da’s arm again. There was a flash of metal and my father slumped on to the cobbles.
For a moment, I didn’t understand what I’d just seen. What had happened? How did a conversation between two men suddenly end like this? My head was reeling with the horror of it all.
Sobbing, I pressed myself up against the window, watching the blood trickle from my father’s stomach. Morgan pulled his knife from the wound, wiped it on his britches and turned to where Petroc had just emerged from the stables without Tully.
‘What have you done?’ he said, his mouth open in shock. ‘What have you done to Amos?’
Morgan shrugged. ‘Made things easier for myself.’
Almost without thinking I found a new sheet of paper and started drawing the faces down below. I drew my father’s dull eyes, blood pooling around him, Morgan’s white streak in his hair and his calm expression, and Petroc’s horrified wide eyes. As I drew, tears ran down my cheeks and splattered on to the paper.
‘But …’ Petroc began.
Morgan prodded my father with his foot. ‘We’ll throw him down one of the mineshafts over Barnmouth way,’ he said. ‘No one will find him there.’
‘No we will not,’ said Petroc. ‘We need to get help for Amos.’
He went to crouch down to my father, just as he’d crouched next to Tully, but Morgan grabbed him by his collar and threw him against the wall. There was another flash of metal and I saw the knife at Petroc’s throat.
‘We will throw him down one of the mineshafts,’ said Morgan. ‘Or you’ll be joining him.’
I was frozen with shock and fear. I wanted to scream and bang on the window, but I was scared of what the big man would do to me if he knew I was watching.
Shoulders slumped, Petroc tramped across the courtyard to where my father lay. As he approached, my father’s eyes flickered open and he looked up at me. Still crying, I pushed my hand against the window in a sad goodbye and my father, slowly, painfully, put his finger to his lips. Stay quiet, he was telling me. Stay silent.
Tears ran down my cheeks as the men hoisted my father up on to their shoulders and carried him out of the inn’s courtyard. Morgan picked up a rain bucket we left for the horses and emptied it over the cobbles, where the blood was staining the stone. He watched as the water washed away any evidence of what he’d done, then he paused for a minute looking at the inn.
Suddenly, I leapt into action. I had to stop them. Da was still alive; I had to tell my mother. I had to save him.
I jumped off the windowsill and raced into my parents’ bedroom. Mam was lying face down on the bed, fully clothed.
I shook her roughly by the shoulders, hoping she would open her eyes. Her lids flickered but I couldn’t rouse her. She’d had too much to drink and she was out cold.
Crying so hard I could barely catch my breath, I left her lying there, and ran downstairs through the courtyard and out into the night. But the men were nowhere to be seen. It was quiet and still. All I could hear were the waves breaking on the beach far below. They’d gone. But – I thought, with icy cold fear trickling down my spine – what if they came back? Morgan had mentioned my mother, and me. What if he came for us too?
Trembling with fright, I crept to the stables and untied Tully. He licked my face, drawn to the salty tears on my cheeks, and I rubbed his head. ‘Come on, boy,’ I whispered. Obediently, he foll
owed me back into the inn. I drew the bolt across the door, checking and double-checking it was firmly closed, and then, with Tully at my heels, I climbed the stairs to my parents’ room. Tully jumped up on to the bed, and I lay down too, clinging to my mother’s back. I’d stay here all night, I thought, in case they came back, and then in the morning, I’d raise the alarm. Tell everyone what I’d seen.
But it didn’t happen that way, despite my intentions. Instead, when my mother woke, ill-tempered and sweating from all the drink, she glared at me.
‘Why are you here?’ she said, heaving herself off the bed. ‘Where’s your da? He stormed off in a state last night. Is he back?’
I was not much of a talker. Never had been. I couldn’t talk to strangers, never passed the time of day with the drinkers in the inn. And even with Mam, I’d only ever said what was needed. I was better with Da, and my friend Arthur. They never rushed me, never tutted when I couldn’t find the right word, or finished my sentence for me, too impatient to wait. When I was nervous or upset, or even sometimes if I was excited or happy, it was worse. It was like my throat clenched and my voice just wouldn’t work.
Now, I sat up in bed, ready to tell her what had happened, how I’d seen Da’s blood spill on the cobbles and watch Morgan drag him away.
‘Mam,’ I began. ‘Mam …’
And then. Nothing. The words wouldn’t come. Mam stared at me for a moment and then, frustrated, she rolled her eyes. ‘He’ll be back when he wants food,’ she said.
At the mention of food, Tully got to his feet, shaking his fur out and giving a soft bark in my mother’s direction. She looked at the dog. ‘He left you behind, did he?’ she said. ‘Then he’ll be back even sooner.’
She turned to me. ‘Floors need sweeping.’ And off she went, downstairs, unaware of what had happened to my da, because I’d not been able to tell her.
Three days went by. Three awful days. The inn was quiet. Mam was silent. Tully sat by the window, his front paws on the sill, watching for Da. And try as I might – and believe me, I tried – I couldn’t get the words out to tell Mam what had happened. I tried to mime it, clutching my stomach and falling to the floor. Pointing at the spot in the courtyard where the blood had splattered. I tried to show her the drawings of Petroc and Morgan, but she pushed me away. I wanted to scream in frustration and fear and grief. But I couldn’t do that, either.
The Smuggler's Daughter Page 1