An Orphan's Winter Read online

  WHAT READERS HAVE TO SAY ABOUT

  SHEILA JEFFRIES’ BOOKS . . .

  ‘Stunning. Beautifully written, with an exquisitely poetic narrative’

  ‘One of those rare books that stays with you long after you’ve finished reading it’

  ‘The most heart-warming book I have read in a long time. I did not want it to end’

  ‘Fabulous read’

  ‘Sheila Jeffries is an amazing storyteller’

  ‘One of the best books I have read. I couldn’t put it down’

  ‘Brilliant’

  ‘The prose is simply superb. When the sheer beauty of words can evoke tears, that’s the sign of a gifted writer’

  ‘Of all the books I have bought, this is the best’

  ‘Every page was a pleasure to read’

  ‘Spellbinding’

  ‘A truly unique book, one that I would highly recommend. I can’t wait for her next’

  ‘A book to touch your heart’

  ‘This novel is sweet and insightful and shows a good understanding of human emotions’

  ‘I heartily recommend this book’

  ‘I thought all the characters were brilliant’

  ‘I thoroughly enjoyed it and the insight into the afterlife was so interesting’

  To Jade

  Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,

  Take him and cut him out in little stars,

  And he will make the face of heaven so fine

  That all the world will be in love with night.

  William Shakespeare

  Romeo and Juliet

  Prologue

  1937, ST IVES, CORNWALL

  It all began when he reached down and lifted her out of the sea and into the brightly painted boat. He’d never done that before. Why now? she thought. Is it because I’m going away? Does he think I’ll never come back?

  His eyes looked down at her, soulful and rebellious, the December sunlight glistening on his wet shoulders. He seemed suddenly older than his seventeen years. Mature. Knowing exactly what he was doing. Even the hesitation was deliberate.

  Her skin was already on fire from swimming in the sea, diving and floating in the gold-flecked waters of St Ives Bay. Icy cold, but it was one of the crazy, carefree things they loved to do together. It was Christmas Eve; the winter sun held some warmth and the sea was calm – one of those rare days when St Ives Harbour was blessed with an echo of summer.

  ‘What’s wrong, Matt?’ she asked, and his eyes turned away to stare at the distant town across the water, its harbour, church and cottages nestled into rocky cliffs. Once it had been his home. But now, estranged from his family, Matt lived on his boat, The Jenny Wren, earning his living as an artist.

  A sense of urgency darkened his eyes as he turned to the girl he loved. ‘This is our secret, Lottie. The family won’t understand. When you go home tonight, you mustn’t tell anyone – not Mum, not Tom and definitely not Nan.’

  ‘I’m good at keeping secrets,’ Lottie reminded him. ‘Don’t worry, Matt, I shall tell no one.’

  ‘Not even Morwenna?’ he added.

  ‘Especially not Morwenna.’ Lottie touched his face, running her fingers over the hollow of his cheek. ‘You know you can trust me, Matt. You’re very important to me and I love you.’ She smiled and watched the light flood back into his eyes. ‘I know you won’t come home for Christmas, so let’s be quiet and enjoy our time here together.’

  ‘Mmm – you’re so intuitive, Lottie, and beautiful,’ he murmured and she felt his heartbeat quicken as he pulled her close again. She let him lead her into the cabin where there were rugs and cushions. Matt was no stranger. They’d grown up in the same house after Lottie was adopted by his parents, having been rescued from a shipwreck. Through the years of conflict and poverty, their love had grown in secret like a flower bulb in the cold, dark earth, its destiny to be a flower fully open to the sun. Invisible, it had grown through the frost and the silence, and now, on Christmas Eve, it had blossomed.

  To discover such compelling love at a poignant time was a gift beyond words. There would be no holding back. Lottie wanted to give herself fully to the moment. She wanted to be that flower, to experience their moment in the sun, to match the intensity of Matt’s love and create a lantern of joy that would sustain them through the gloom of their upcoming separation.

  Lottie was sixteen and on the brink of a life-changing trip to America to meet her birth mother, who had abandoned her when she was just four years old. It was a big, emotional journey set to begin just after Christmas. Leaving Cornwall. Leaving Nan and Jenny. Leaving Matt.

  Matt was young and inexperienced, but he wasn’t clumsy. He made love to her slowly, whispering kindness, asking permission. Lottie wasn’t afraid. She just let go, sighing with joy as they became one being, a perfect, burning, throbbing love, rocking the boat and sending gold-lipped ripples purling across the water.

  If only it could last forever.

  But even the sacred time spent lying together afterwards, in blissful, healing drowsiness, seemed too brief. The sun’s gold deepened into the gloom of a winter afternoon and Matt got up, put on his clothes and started the boat’s engine. Lottie pulled on her dress and coat and shook her long, honey-blonde hair down her back.

  Time moved on, and The Jenny Wren was chugging steadily into the harbour, both of them fully dressed again, ready to step ashore with no evidence of their deeper relationship on show.

  Lottie felt full of a glowing radiance – and yet, in a corner of her mind, panic was beginning. Matt might disappear again, pursuing his nomadic lifestyle. She longed to stay with him. Must she choose between Matt and the shadowy memory of her birth mother?

  She didn’t want to go.

  But she had promised.

  It felt like leaving a great ocean of light to follow a spark on a journey with an unknown destination.

  Chapter 1

  Follow Love

  Alone in the moonlight, Lottie lingered in the gateway of Hendravean, with Nan’s cat, Bartholomew, warm and purring in her arms. She listened to the thud of Matt’s footsteps fading as he disappeared down the darkening lane, the pain of separation hardening within her like a blade being sharpened. The glow of their lovemaking lingered on her skin, as if Matt had flung a cloak of wordless velvet around her. She wanted to race after him.

  ‘I’m coming with you, Matt,’ she’d call, and her voice would sing with happiness.

  Follow love, she thought. Follow it always.

  Matt had been resolute and relaxed about saying goodbye. Lottie searched the dying twilight for a last glimpse of him. She could no longer hear his footsteps, only the hooting of owls and the distant whisper of the waves.

  Soon you’ll be on that ship to America, Lottie told herself, and there’ll be no turning back.

  She needed time to think. What if she refused to go?

  She sighed, remembering the way her dad, John, would look at her with bewildered hurt in his dark blue eyes. John was Lottie’s birth father, and they were still getting to know one another after he’d come back into her life.

  ‘Lottie! What are you doing out here? You’ll get cold.’ The door of Hendravean opened, sending a slab of light across the gravelled drive as Jenny’s bright voice called into the night. A barn owl glided low across the garden.

  Lottie turned and saw Jenny limping towards her and felt sad. In the old days, Jenny would have come running out, her skirt hitched, her face sweet and kind like a welcoming flower. But now she had her leg in an iron calliper and often wore a frown on her brow as she struggled to walk.

  Polio is a terrible thing, Lottie thought.

  The disease had put Jenny Lanroska in hospital for a year, far away from her children. L
ottie knew Jenny loved her. She’d been eight years old, alone and terrified, the sole survivor of a shipwreck, when Jenny had scooped her up and carried her home, which, back then, was a tiny fisherman’s cottage in the Downlong area of St Ives. They were a poor family, but Jenny and Arnie were determined to adopt Lottie.

  She had a close bond with Jenny, but right now she wanted time alone to think. Time to change her mind and run after Matt. But it was too late. Jenny was there, gazing into her face with kindly concern. ‘ ’Tis a big exciting trip for you after Christmas, Lottie.’

  Lottie nodded. Still in her arms, Bartholomew reached up and patted her cheek with a long, furry paw.

  ‘He’s going to miss you, Lottie – and Mufty will, too.’ Jenny pointed at the stable and Lottie smiled at the sight of the donkey’s silvery face staring at her with bright, expectant eyes.

  ‘I’ll bet you’re scared stiff,’ Jenny said, slipping her arm around Lottie’s shoulders. ‘I would be. But don’t you worry, my girl, I’ll be thinking about you and praying for you every single day. Me and Nan, and Tom – we’ll be counting the days ’til you come home.’ She gave Lottie a searching look. ‘Come on, I’ll help you pack.’

  Lottie gave in and let her feet plod towards the house with Jenny. Bartholomew struggled to get down from Lottie’s arms, then galloped ahead of them, turning once to make sure they were following. The velvet glow floated away as if it belonged to someone else, a different Lottie who had lived and breathed in Matt’s arms out on the water.

  Once inside with the door firmly shut, Lottie went to see Nan, who was sitting in her favourite chair in the lounge reading an encyclopaedia, a pair of glasses perched on the end of her nose. Nan studied her with a suspicious look in her eyes. ‘Exactly where have you been, Lottie?’

  ‘Out on the boat with Matt,’ Lottie said firmly, but her eyes were secretive.

  ‘What? All this time?’ Jenny asked with a surprised tone, having entered the room behind Lottie.

  ‘I’ve been beside myself with worry,’ Nan added, a lethal mix of frustration and caring in her eyes. ‘I want to know why you’re so late.’

  Lottie felt her face flushing. It was the way Nan was looking at her. She knows, she thought, shocked. Was there some mysterious clue in the way she looked? ‘We went swimming,’ she said, feigning innocence.

  ‘Swimming?’ Nan left the word hovering in the air between them and waited.

  ‘I need to go and pack,’ Lottie said, leaving the room and walking into the hall.

  Nan’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve been up to something, my girl.’ She wagged a finger, opened her mouth, then pursed it shut, changing her mind. ‘Jenny, you want to keep a closer eye on this one.’

  Jenny looked down at her leg in its iron calliper. ‘Well, I can’t exactly go chasing after her now, can I?’ she said as she slowly followed Lottie out of the lounge and into the hall. ‘Besides, I don’t want to be nagging her on Christmas Eve.’

  Lottie turned and gave Jenny a hug. ‘Oh, Jenny! Don’t cry. We’ve got Christmas to enjoy.’

  Jenny stood up straight and shook her plume of dark hair down her back. She brushed the tears away, fiercely, with a threadbare sleeve. ‘I’m gonna miss you, Lottie.’

  ‘I won’t be away for long – you’ll be busy looking after Mufty and the chickens – and Tom, of course.’

  ‘Tom’s a good lad.’ Jenny stood hugging herself, her arms crossed and her hands rubbing her shoulders as if she were missing the comfort of having her husband Arnie there to love her.

  It touched Lottie’s heart. She felt both lucky and excited to be at the beginning of her relationship with Matt, while Jenny could only look back at the empty, difficult years since Arnie’s tragic death. Lottie felt compassion for this brave woman who had adopted her. Yet she’d never felt able to call Jenny ‘Mum’, not even when her real mum was a bitter memory.

  ‘Are you missing Arnie?’ Lottie asked, kindly.

  Jenny took a deep breath and shook her head. ‘No – well, I do miss him, always. It isn’t that. It’s, well, today, Tom came home bright as a button and so happy, telling me about Matt sailing into the harbour on The Jenny Wren. Tom was so proud of him. I couldn’t say anything and spoil it, Lottie, but it was breaking my heart. Why, when we haven’t seen or heard from him all winter – all through those terrible storms I’ve been worrying myself sick over – why couldn’t he have come home for Christmas?’

  ‘I did ask him to,’ Lottie said, concerned.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing, really. He just wants to be on his own, on his dad’s boat, Jenny.’

  Jenny quietly closed the door to the lounge so Nan couldn’t overhear what she said next. ‘Nan keeps saying that silly old rhyme to me when I mention Matt. She says, “Leave them alone and they’ll come home.” Honestly, if she says it to me one more time I shall scream. I’ve tried so hard, Lottie, to get on with her – but she’s never liked Matt. I think she’s glad he’s not here.’ Jenny spoke in a whisper. ‘Tell me about Matt – if I can bear to listen – what’s he like now?’

  Lottie felt a radiance flood over her again, awash with words of devotion to describe her lover, but not one of them was the right one to comfort his grieving mother.

  ‘He’s tall.’

  Jenny stared at her with a quizzical look. Obviously, Jenny expected her to deliver a reassuring, vivid description of Matt and his life but Lottie thought it best to say as little as possible. ‘He looks like his dad now.’

  Jenny gave Lottie a hug. ‘I really hope it goes well for you – meeting your real mum. I hope she appreciates you. And don’t you forget, Lottie: I’m your mum as well – in here,’ she patted her heart with fierce, endearing love. ‘In my heart, I’m your mum, for always. No matter what.’

  Little does she know, Lottie thought. But there was warmth in Jenny’s words, a tender message to carry with her on her journey to America.

  *

  After making love with Lottie on the boat, Matt felt crazily happy, like a bee drunk on nectar. Running down Foxglove Lane was like flying through the night, being a star on the water with other stars, sharing the euphoria. Lottie seemed to be with him in spirit, as she’d promised. He’d miss her, but he wouldn’t worry – she’d be well looked after by her father.

  For Matt, building his life as an artist was now a priority. Every day he must draw and paint, perfecting his technique. He wanted to have lots of pictures to sell to the tourists when they came flocking to St Ives in the spring.

  His mind was ablaze with happiness. Until he reached the harbour and remembered it was Christmas Eve – but not for him.

  Wharf Road was usually strewn with with lobster pots, pilchard barrels, hungry cats and scavenging seagulls. Tonight it had been swept clean. The seagulls were hunched in rows along the rooftops, and for once there was no laughter from the Sloop Inn, no boats coming and going. It even smelled different. A spicy, Christmassy smell.

  Matt’s heart sank. He didn’t want to get caught up in Christmas stuff.

  Too late, he thought as he stood back for the procession of families converging on the slipway, carrying lanterns: little girls with red and white ribbons in their hair, boys with sprigs of holly and ivy in their caps, enormous willow baskets laden with saffron buns, gingerbread men and fudge, proudly carried by the women. In the night air, the warm, fruity aroma of freshly baked treats made Matt hungry. His stomach growled, craving the uniquely Cornish taste of a saffron bun with its plump sultanas and rich golden bread, a memory of being a child in St Ives on Christmas Eve with his family.

  The ache of loneliness began, deep down, building like a thundercloud, engulfing his mind. Desolate, he sat on the harbour wall close to the assembling crowd, kicking his heels against the granite. Had he made a mistake? Blinded by happiness, he had ended up in the middle of Christmas, the very thing he wanted to avoid.

  It was too dark to take the boat out. The moon was no longer silvering the water, but sat high abov
e the town, glinting on the slate rooftops. Over the night sea, Orion was rising with one bright star shining below. The masts of boats stood upright like reeds in the lagoon-like calm of the harbour. On the slipway, the families waited, motionless, silent, gathered together in a pool of lamplight. The carol singing was about to start and Matt could see the Male Voice Choir standing ready, the conductor with his arms raised like a cormorant.

  His dad, Arnie, should have been there, singing with the choir he loved. But he wasn’t – he was in the cemetery above Porthmeor. Matt’s throat tightened. Like many Cornish folk, the Lanroskas had been a singing family, and the music still lived in Matt, body and soul.

  He needed to escape, but the carol singing started with a great burst of sound. The deep tone of the Male Voice Choir seemed to come right up from the earth, from the crystal caves and the tin mines of Cornwall where the words of Cornish carols had first been sung. As the crowd joined in, the women’s sweet voices rang from the cottage walls. Matt felt like it had knocked him over. He suddenly saw himself as a small boy in that mass of singers, leaning into the comforting warmth of his mother’s skirt. When she’d started to sing, he’d gazed up at her in awe, her clear soprano voice flowing over and around him, never stopping until all the hurts in his world were healed.

  How had it all gone wrong? Would it ever come right again? Not without Dad, he thought. Dad was the peacemaker.

  Bewildered by the way he had crashed from divine happiness into an incarcerating grief, Matt stumbled along Wharf Road and down the stone steps to where The Jenny Wren was moored. He climbed into the cabin and shut the door. He’d get his head down and sleep. He’d sleep until Christmas was over.

  After Christmas, Lottie would be boarding the ship to America; for five long weeks she’d be away. For her, it was a dream coming true, perhaps her only chance to meet her birth mother. What if the bond was undeniably strong? Matt imagined a wealthy American mother offering Lottie a lavish lifestyle in New York. She might never come back. Matt hadn’t voiced his secret fears. She’d promised to come home.