Miss Mary’s Daughter

  MISS MARY’S DAUGHTER

  Diney Costeloe

  Start Reading

  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.headofzeus.com

  About Miss Mary’s Daughter

  After her mother’s death, twenty-year-old Sophie Ross is left orphaned in London. With no money and little chance of an income, she tries to get work as a governess to avoid destitution. Now alone in the world, she only has the company of her erstwhile nursemaid and faithful friend, Hannah.

  But unbeknown to Sophie, her mother instructed Hannah to post a letter to Trescadinnick House in Cornwall upon her death. The letter will be the catalyst that changes Sophie’s life forever as she learns of her mother’s romance, marriage and then ultimate rejection by her own father and the estranged family she left behind in Cornwall.

  The Penvarrow family welcome Sophie and Hannah into their fold, but tensions rise and family secrets are revealed as Sophie attempts to rebuild her life and find happiness.

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About Miss Mary’s Daughter

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About Diney Costeloe

  Also by Diney Costeloe

  Newsletter

  From the Editor of this Book

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Trescadinnick 1860

  In the pale dawn of her twenty-first birthday, Mary Penvarrow stole out of the house carrying a large leather bag containing her worldly goods. She skirted round the outhouses and set off up the track that led to the moor. As she approached a stand of trees she saw a figure waiting, holding the reins of two horses. She ran towards him, dropping her bag as he gathered her into his arms.

  ‘You came!’ he murmured into her hair. ‘I was afraid you’d change your mind.’

  ‘Never,’ she replied as she returned his embrace.

  ‘Did anyone see you leave?’ he asked as he let her go and picked up her saddlebag.

  ‘No, the house was still asleep.’

  ‘Not even Miss Matty?’

  ‘No, John. Not even Matty,’ sighed Mary.

  ‘Then it’s time to go,’ John said and lifting her up in his arms, tossed her into the saddle. He slung her saddlebag behind her and then mounted his own horse. ‘There’s an early train to Truro from St Morwen,’ he said. ‘We’ll leave the horses at the inn.’

  Together they rode out from the shelter of the trees and took the track that edged the moor. As they crested a rise, Mary drew rein and turned for one final glimpse of the house where she had lived for her twenty-one years... from now, no longer her home. In wreaths of early mist, its tower jutting into a yellowing sky, Trescadinnick stood strong and solid, staring out across the pewter of the restless sea. In the distance, early-morning smoke rose from the hidden chimneys of Port Felec, the little fishing village and its harbour sheltered from the worst of the weather in a hollow of the cliffs. The church with its squat tower stood sentinel above the village, behind which a few sturdy cottages clung to the rising cliff, and beyond it all, etched against the pale morning, the tall finger of the copper mine pointed to the sky. It was a view Mary knew by heart, and as she gazed upon it one last time a shaft of sunlight pierced the mist, illuminating the home she was leaving. For a moment tears filled her eyes as she imprinted the view on her mind, but her decision had been made five days ago when her father had sent John Ross away, his suit unheard. She lifted one hand as if in salute and then turning the horse’s head, she followed John over the hill, riding into the unknown that was the rest of her life.

  1

  London 1886

  Mary Ross sat down at her bureau and pulled a piece of paper towards her. The July sun streamed in through the window and for several minutes she put off what she intended to do. Instead she looked out into the familiar street. For nearly twenty years she had looked out at the plane tree rooted in the opposite pavement, casting its shade across the road, and at the modest houses lined up on the far side, all reflections of her own. She had lived nearly all her married life in this house, looking out at this street, and it was in this house that she would die... and soon. She had battled against the illness which was now consuming her and she knew it was a battle she had lost. Her own mother had succumbed to the same disease at a similar age and Mary had recognized the signs well before anyone else. She had been nineteen when her mother died, a year younger than her own daughter, Sophie, was now, but somehow she felt Sophie was younger than her remembered self. Brought up in a house where love flourished, Sophie seemed to her mother ill-prepared for the chilly winds of the outside world. Even as she was thinking these thoughts, the sound of the piano drifted up the stairs from the drawing room below; Sophie practising as she did every afternoon. ‘For,’ as she pointed out, ‘I can’t begin to take on more pupils, Mama, if I’m a stumbling pianist myself.’

  Listening to her now, Mary was well aware that Sophie was anything but a stumbling pianist. She played with a fluidity and expression that she, Mary, had never achieved, despite the encouragement and the long hours of practice demanded by her own mother. Sophie had surpassed her several years ago and was well able to instruct the two little girls to whom she gave lessons twice a week. Sophie’s intention was to take on more pupils to help supplement their slender income.

  ‘I’m sure if I asked Emma and Harriet’s mothers they would recommend me,’ she’d enthused. ‘I shall build a list of pupils and start a music school.’ Her mother had smiled fondly at these ambitious plans.

  Dear Sophie, Mary thought now, as she listened to the melodies wafting through the house. So keen to help, to make life easier, but it would be no good. Since John had been killed, run over by a hansom in one of London’s famous pea-soup fogs, they had been living off the small capital inherited from his mother, all that he had left behind. It was meagre enough, but as a younger son he was entitled to little of his father’s modest estate. He might have inherited more but he had died before his father, and his share of the inheritance had returned to his brother, Harold.

  With only a small annuity, a legacy from Mary’s mother, and without John’s regular income from his work in the City, Mary and Sophie had been left in decidedly straitened circumstances.

  The annuity paid the rent, but Mary knew that it would cease with her death. When she died Sophie would have only the last of the dwindling capital to live on. When that had gone she would have to go out and make her own way in the world... unless.

 
Unless I eat humble pie and ask the family to look after her, Mary thought. That, she knew, was the situation in a nutshell, and it led her back to her decision.

  Reluctantly she again turned her attention to the paper in front of her and, picking up her pen, began to write. She had delayed writing this letter for too long and now that she faced imminent death, she knew it had to be written before it was too late.

  She hadn’t been in contact with those at Trescadinnick for over nineteen years. Not since Sophie was born. She had written to her father then to tell him he had a granddaughter, but there had been no reply, not even an acknowledgement that her letter had been received. Now, though, she must either leave Sophie almost destitute or she must swallow her pride and beg the family to provide for her. Was her father even alive still? she wondered. He’d be an old man now. She knew her brother Joss had been killed in an accident, but what about her sisters? Surely they’d still be there; Louisa running Trescadinnick, Matty married to George Treslyn. Surely they would see Sophie was looked after. However, it was to her estranged father that she knew she must address herself.

  Slowly Mary wrote, Dear Papa... More than once she tore the page across and started again before she was satisfied with the result. She had told him she was dying, explained the position in which this would leave Sophie and asked for his help. At last the letter was finished and having read it through once more, she slipped it into an envelope and sealed it. Would it be ignored like her last letter, when Sophie was born? Well, if it were, Sophie need never know it had even been sent. She put it in a pigeonhole in the desk and closed the lid. It was done.

  Suddenly she was exhausted and with the familiar pain coursing through her, she crawled onto her bed and lay back, closing her eyes for a minute before she reached for the bell at her bedside and rang for Hannah.

  Hannah she could rely on. She had been employed as a nursery maid when Sophie was a baby and somehow she had stayed on as cook-housekeeper, almost one of the family.

  Moments later Hannah came into the room, opening the door softly and pausing on the threshold in case her mistress had dozed off again, as she did sometimes these days. But as she stood by the door, Mary’s eyes opened and she beckoned Hannah inside.

  ‘I want you to do something for me, Hannah,’ she said. ‘Without question.’

  ‘Of course, ma’am. You just say what and I’ll do it.’

  ‘There’s a letter in my bureau, in the right-hand pigeonhole, addressed to some people in Cornwall. When I die... and not before, mind... you’re to post that letter immediately. But you’re not to say a word about it to Miss Sophie, you understand?’

  ‘Just post a letter for you? I could do that now if you want me to.’

  ‘No, not till... after.’ Realizing she had to give some explanation, she went on, ‘It’s just a letter to... to some friends that Sophie doesn’t know about. A final farewell. They live a long way away and I don’t want them to come visiting.’ That much at least was true. She had set aside her pride to write and ask help for Sophie, but she would ask nothing for herself.

  ‘Well, ma’am, if you say so,’ Hannah said, pleased to promise anything that would ease her mistress’s mind and happily unaware of the consequences of that promise.

  Later that evening, Sophie sat by the bed, her mother’s hand in hers no heavier than an autumn leaf, blue-veined, transparent, but an infinitesimal pressure from her frail fingers proved that she was not yet asleep. Sophie returned the pressure, knowing if she tried to speak she would break down and weep. As she sat there, watching the evening sun mellow the familiar wallpaper, Sophie found herself thinking about her father.

  Unlike her mother’s, his death was entirely unexpected. He had taken the omnibus to the City one dull, November morning – an ordinary morning, the start of anything but an ordinary day. He had dropped a kiss on his daughter’s head as she sat eating her breakfast before she too left the house to go to school; he’d paused at the front door to tip his hat to his wife, a familiar gesture of respect given every day as he left, and stepped out into the street. They never saw him alive again. As he’d alighted from the omnibus and started to walk to his office, the morning fog had swallowed him. He had collided with another, unseen pedestrian and had been tipped into the path of an oncoming hansom. Sophie had not been allowed to see him. His coffin had been closed, the damage to his head making him almost unrecognizable. Now, Sophie’s thoughts were of his funeral. She had not been allowed to attend that either. She had watched as the coffin was carried out of the house and laid in a hearse drawn by black-plumed horses. His brother, her Uncle Harold, attended, following the hearse in a black-swathed carriage, while other friends followed the cortege on foot. After the burial, with a brief handshake and words of condolence to Mary, Harold had returned home. The friends, with murmured sympathy, had dispersed and Mary had walked alone through the chilly November streets to the home where Sophie and Hannah awaited her.

  Sophie had never seen her mother shed a tear, though on occasion a bleakness in her expression told of her private grief. Sophie gradually became used to her father’s absence. Sometimes a jolt of reality hit her when she longed to tell him something, wanting to share some excitement or piece of news, and she had to accept again that he would never walk back through the door. But the ordinariness of daily life took over as she went to school, took her piano lessons, walked with her mother along the towpath by the river or across the common, and the fact of his absence became the ordinary.

  Will that happen when Mother dies? Sophie wondered as she looked down at the frail form, now asleep in the bed. Tears sprang to her eyes and she bit her lip to stop herself from crying out. How will I manage when she’s not here any more? How can I watch her simply fade away? Will living without her become ordinary?

  The end came a week later in that same sunlit bedroom. Mary lay motionless in her bed, no longer aware of her surroundings. She had taken no food for two days; no water since the night before. Sophie was sitting holding her hand, hoping that Mama knew that she was there with her, that she was not alone, but with a gentle relaxation of her hand, Mary slipped into her final sleep.

  On a hot August day, with sun burning in a cloudless sky, the coffin was carried in a plain black carriage pulled by a single, black-plumed horse, first to the church and then to the cemetery. This time it was Sophie who led the little knot of mourners who followed on foot.

  Sophie had written to her Uncle Harold to tell him of her mother’s death and had received a black-edged card of condolence, but he had not come to the funeral, pleading pressure of business. Mr Phillips was there, as was Dr Hart, but when they left the graveside, Sophie and Hannah walked quietly home and Sophie was left to mourn her mother alone.

  Since the death of her father five years earlier, Sophie and her mother had only each other, and Mary’s last illness had bonded them closer than ever. Now Sophie was left surrounded by an infinite emptiness, achingly alone. Her life seemed to stretch out bleakly in front of her, a grey wasteland full of pitfalls that she would have to negotiate by herself.

  On the day after the funeral Hannah took the letter from Mary’s bureau to the post. It was only a letter to some distant friends, she had reasoned. There was no hurry for them to receive it; they lived somewhere in Cornwall and would hardly be coming to the funeral. Sophie might hear from them some time in the future, but as far as Hannah was concerned the important thing had been to get the funeral over and consider what to do next.

  Hannah was no fool and she knew well that they’d been living on a shoestring for the past couple of years, and there were certain things that needed to be decided upon, and sooner rather than later. She was relieved when the lawyer, Mr Phillips, came to see Sophie, bringing the simple will that her mother had left. Surely a man like Mr Phillips would know what they should do, Hannah thought as, having served them tea, she retreated to the kitchen and left them to it.

  ‘Everything of your mother’s is left to you,’ Mr Phillips to
ld Sophie. ‘There’s a little money and a few pieces of jewellery. She mentions a ring and a necklace.’

  ‘I know about those,’ Sophie told him. ‘They were given to her by my father. I’m sure there used to be a bracelet that matched the necklace, but I can’t find it. I think Mother must have sold it.’

  ‘If that’s the case,’ he suggested gently, ‘you might think about selling one of the other pieces, just to tide you over until...?’

  Until what? wondered Sophie. Until I get a job? Until I get married? Until I have to sell the next piece? But she gave utterance to none of these things, simply saying, ‘I don’t intend to sell those if I can help it, Mr Phillips.’ She managed a smile. ‘I know things are going to be difficult from now on. For a start, I shan’t be able to last long on the money I’ve got now. Mama’s illness was long-drawn-out, you know, and the doctor’s fees mounted up. Then of course there was the funeral... We’ve been eating into capital, I’m afraid.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘And there wasn’t much in the first place.’

  ‘What about the house?’ asked Mr Phillips. ‘Not yours, I believe.’

  Sophie shook her head. ‘No, it’s rented. We pay the rent quarterly. It’s due in a month or so.’

  ‘Well, let me know if you have any difficulties, my dear,’ Mr Phillips said as he rose to leave. ‘Only too happy to help. Good friend of mine, your father.’

  Sophie saw him to the door and then sighed as she returned to the parlour. The rent of the small house in Hammersmith was indeed paid up until the end of the quarter, but that was only a matter of weeks away. Despite Mr Phillips’s offer of help, Sophie knew she must move to a cheaper place and find some form of employment.

  ‘There are two possibilities really,’ she sighed to Hannah. ‘Finding somewhere much cheaper to live and taking more piano pupils to pay the rent, or becoming a governess somewhere so I’ve no living expenses at all... unless, of course,’ the thought struck her, ‘I could get work in a shop.’