A Cornish Promise

Book 2: The Fox Bay Saga

by Terri Nixon

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas

Synopsis

'A brilliant read' RoNA award-winning, bestselling novelist Tania Crosse

The perfect treat for fans of Poldark, Dilly Court and Downton Abbey - discover the second in a heartwarming new series set in the 1920s in a glamorous hotel on the Cornish Riviera . . .

Welcome to Fox Bay Hotel, where family fortunes rise and fall . . .

1929, Cornwall. Fiona Fox, youngest child of the celebrated Fox family, is a devoted volunteer at the local lifeboat station, giving all her free time and her energy to the selfless crew. But when she seizes a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to do more, she sets in motion a chain of events that sparks danger and intrigue at Fox Bay Hotel.

The stranger she brings into her family home provides an unsettling presence over Christmas, and when visiting 'Hollywood Royalty' is drawn into the web, Fiona has to decide how much her promises are worth after all.

But the glamorous visitors have their own secrets, and their own reasons for hiding out at Fox Bay. As those reasons become apparent, Fiona must choose between betraying a close friend, and keeping her word... And lives are at stake whichever way she turns.

Set against the dramatic Cornish coastline, this tale of secrets and strangers will delight fans of Rosie Goodwin and Evie Grace.

Praise for A Cornish Inheritance

'Love, loss and old rivalries are skilfully woven against an atmospheric coastal backdrop holding a promise of new beginnings. A five star page turner from the start' Kay Brellend, author of A Workhouse Christmas

'Terri Nixon has created a captivating backdrop for the Fox Bay Hotel, and the Fox family who run it. I guarantee their story will stay with you long after you have finished reading this beautifully written book' Lynne Francis, author of A Maid's Ruin

'A moving story of tragedy, deception and one woman's determination to protect her family. I couldn't put it down!' Charlotte Betts, author of The Light Within Us

Release date: December 3, 2020

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 432

Sample

Trethkellis Lifeboat Station, Cornwall

December 1929

Fiona Fox wiped her condensed breath from the window of the lookout station and leaned on her crossed arms, straining for sight of the Lady Dafna. Beside her, the lamp flashed out its Morse-coded message to the 40-foot lifeboat fighting the tide in pursuit of the floundering cargo ship: vessel rounded headland south. A moment later the lifeboat’s own lamp signalled back, and Fiona’s practised eyes decoded it: the Dafna would change direction and follow the path of the stricken ship, to pick up any survivors.

Since October the coast had been battered by wind and rain that surpassed even their usual ferocity, and today was no different; the sky seemed to skim the surface of the sea like a lowering grey blanket, and the rolling, heaving water dragged it down until the two became one. December rain lashed at the window of the lookout and dripped through the leaking roof, but Fiona remained in her place while the coastguard tracked the lifeboat’s progress with the telescope. As usual he’d forgotten she was even there, which suited Fiona perfectly.

She’d arrived today, just after the call had come down from the lookout station, and had immediately joined Geoffrey Glasson, the coxswain, in rousing the sea-going crew, running from house to house, knocking on doors and yelling through letter boxes before returning to the station with eight men at their heels, along with the women; wives, sisters and daughters who formed the willing shore crew. She had watched with envy as Glasson pulled his oilskin over his head.

‘Can’t I come out this time?’

Glasson’s head popped out of the oilskin and he wrestled his beefy arms through the sleeve holes. ‘Not in a month of Sundays, maid. Anyone joins us today it’ll be Barry.’ He’d nodded at the retired helmsman, who still spent most of his days here, then held out his arms, and Fiona had sighed, unsurprised, and slipped a cork life jacket over them. She’d left him to secure it, then hurried down to the slipway to assist with the launch itself. It never failed to thrill her, watching the Lady Dafna’s bow plunge from the slipway into the water, and when the tide was high, as it was today, the spray drenched everyone within shouting distance. Icy water had soaked her from head to toe as the petrol engine coughed into life, and she’d watched, her heart in her mouth as always, until the lifeboat had stopped rocking and begun powering through the waves.

At just sixteen, and the youngest of the women who supported the boat, she was often given the grunt-work to do; cleaning and sweeping puddles of water from the station, fetching water to boil for hot drinks, and picking up and re-hanging oilskins that were often dropped where they were shed. She didn’t usually mind it in the least, and for a few minutes today she’d contentedly helped Barry Hicks re-coil the heavy, wet ropes before growing impatient to see what was happening at the sharp end. She’d taken a quick look at the others, to check she’d not be missed, and run up here to the lookout to watch Pasco Penberthy communicating with the Lady Dafna. She could have watched for hours as the Morse code flickered between them. It was like magic.

The latest information sent, Pasco seized the telescope mounted in the wall at the front of the lookout station, and swung it towards the jutting headland. ‘They’m away,’ he muttered.

‘Good luck to them.’

Pasco jumped and turned to her. ‘What are you still doin’ here, miss? They’ll want you down there sharpish, and ready. And fetch Tam Rowe, just in case. Go on!’ He made a little shooing gesture, and Fiona grinned.

‘Alright, I’m going. But can I come back after?’

‘You’ll be bored. Better off running back home to your posh ’otel.’

Fiona gave him a look he clearly recognised, because he winked, and deliberately turned his back on her to forestall further conversation. She stepped back outside and pulled her sou’wester lower as she turned into the bitter wind and hurried across to Doctor Rowe’s house. By the time she was at the door he already had his bag in hand and was dismissing the two patients who were waiting to see him.

‘Saw the signal,’ he said grimly. ‘Had a feeling I’d be called today.’

He strode away towards the station, leaving her to hurry after him. Rain drenched the rough path down to the beach, and as she splashed through puddles Fiona blinked away the drops that ran into her eyes, and blew them off the tip of her nose, but instead of taking up her place in the shelter of the station, she went straight past and onto the beach, ignoring the exasperated shouts of the women who watched her pass. Since they were all volunteers, the only person Fiona answered to was Mr Glasson, and he was out with the boat, so let them shout. The Lady Dafna had not yet come back into view, and there was no telling how long it would be before she did, but Fiona meant to be here, on hand and ready to help drag her ashore.

She waited, shivering, beside the slipway. After what might have been twenty minutes, but felt like an hour or more, the dark, bobbing shape came into view around the headland again. Up in the lookout Pasco would have seen them already; Fiona watched the light flashing from the lifeboat: Ship safe. 3 casualties.

Fiona instinctively moved closer, as if that would speed up the progress of the boat, and the freezing water lapped over her boots, drenching her to the knee once again. The lifeboat came closer, and her engines cut just beyond the beach, letting the tide push her up onto the shingle. Fiona darted forward, along with the others who had come down from the hut, and then re-wetting her boots was the least of her worries, as she waded in to seize the ropes and begin dragging the Dafna up the beach.

All was bustle and shouting for a while; two unknown men, and one all-too familiar, were handed on to the shore crew. Donald Houghton, younger brother of Bertie’s mechanic friend Stan, was white-faced and clutching at his thigh, where a gash half a foot long had been hastily wrapped but still gushed blood. He was divested of his cork life jacket, and gently laid onto a stretcher and borne away up the beach, Tam Rowe hurrying along at his side.

The two men from the cargo ship were walking wounded, swaying on their feet but grateful to be ashore, until one of them clutched at Glasson’s arm, a look of alarmed realisation on his face.

‘The small boat! Still out there!’

‘What?’ Glasson leaned closer, shouting over the rest of the noise. ‘What boat?’

‘The old man … he took it. Some others too.’

‘Damn!’ Glasson looked around at his exhausted crew. ‘Turn her back, lads!’

But the crew had already begun backing the Dafna the way she had come, and Fiona and the others lent their waning strength to the task.

As soon as the boat was afloat again Glasson turned to Fiona, spitting out seawater. ‘Girl! Fetch Barry, we’re one down!’

Fiona turned to run up the beach, but her gaze fell on Don’s discarded life jacket and, before she realised she was going to do it, she had stooped down and snatched it up. She struggled with it at first, on her way back down to the sea, but thanks to its larger size she was able to draw it on without help.

‘Hoi! No you don’t!’ Glasson tried to catch her arm as she splashed past him, but she was too quick for him.

‘I can help!’ she flung over her shoulder. ‘Quicker than fetching Barry!’

‘Your mother will skin me—’

‘Then don’t tell her!’

Glasson boosted her into the boat, glaring at her with an exasperation they both knew he had no time for, and a moment later the engine rattled into life once more and the Lady Dafna headed back out to sea. Davey Tregunna set to work signalling Pasco on shore, and Fiona pictured the coastguard skimming the rough seas with his telescope for any sign of a smaller boat in trouble, and getting ready to signal back.

Part of her felt guilty for the rush of fierce excitement poor Don’s plight had afforded her, but a larger part revelled in the sensation of the smacking of waves against the prow, and the salt spray that dashed across her face. The wind pulled at her old, thin coat beneath the cork vest, and she wished she’d had time to seize an oilskin as well, but if she’d stretched her luck too far she would have been left at the beach with the others, and this once-in-a-lifetime chance would have been and gone.

The boat’s speed made her dizzy; she’d last been out on it before it had been converted to petrol, when it had still been a pull-and-sail boat, and even though that hadn’t been on a rescue it had seemed to take forever to reach the open water beyond the headland. Now they were approaching the rocky outcrop within minutes, and the boat rose on the waves, slamming down into each trough hard enough to knock the breath from Fiona’s body. Her wet hands had been ripped from the rail with the first plunge, and were so frozen it had taken three attempts to lock her fingers around it again, but once she did, she hung on grimly for her life.

It was a miracle anyone spotted the drifting rowing boat through the ferocious swell, despite signals from the coast, which suddenly seemed a hundred miles away. But, just as Fiona thought they’d have to turn back, the helmsman shouted, and Glasson signalled to cut back on the engine. The roar settled to a loud rattle, and the boat slowed almost to a halt while everyone peered through the driving rain and blowing spray.

‘There!’ the helmsman yelled again, pointing away to the starboard side, and the Dafna began turning in that direction. Fiona, her teeth chattering so hard her jaw hurt, prised her icy fingers off the rail and made her uncertain way along the water-washed deck to where Glasson stood. She slipped as she reached him, and grabbed at his arm, immediately furious with herself for doing so, but he righted her without comment, and pointed.

Just ahead, and only visible as the Dafna slipped into a trough, a small rowing boat floated upside down, battered sideways and backwards at the whim of the tide, but with no sign of anyone in the water beside it.

‘Underneath!’ Glasson shouted back to the crew. ‘But I only saw two, they’re holding on to the seats, I think.’

‘How will we get close enough?’ Fiona yelled, blinking salt water out of her eyes. It was impossible; the Dafna was rising and plunging like a terrified horse, and the tiny rowing boat drifted farther away the longer they waited. But she soon saw that getting close enough was not on the minds of the lifeboat crew at all. The men were a blur of practised motion; barely a word passing between them as ropes were pulled from the end box at the bow, tied around Danny Quick and Andrew Kessel, and secured by the others.

Fiona swallowed hard, suddenly humbled. These men that she, and everyone else, would pass on the street with hardly a second look; who returned home without fanfare and calmly went about their usual business … These men were preparing to throw themselves into a violent, icy sea, with only a hastily tied rope to anchor them to relative safety. Knowing vaguely what they did when they were out here was one thing, but seeing it for herself gave Fiona a strong surge of emotion that was a little like love.

The two men eyed the swiftly disappearing rowing boat, nodded to one another, and a moment later they were both gone. Fiona cried out and instinctively lunged forward, but a large hand grasped her upper arm.

‘Don’t be stupid!’ Glasson growled. ‘Just keep watch.’

Fiona nodded, and turned to watch for signals from the coastguard’s lookout. It hardly seemed possible that under an hour ago she’d been back there herself, staring out to sea and yearning to be out here instead. The motion of the lifeboat was becoming more familiar under her feet, and she finally felt safe enough to stand without support as she stared through the rain towards the shoreline, but there were no flashing lights there now.

‘Not the day you’d choose to be out here,’ Damien Stone, the mechanic, observed with admirable calm.

‘It’s horrible,’ Fiona agreed, tucking her hands into her armpits.

‘I was thinkin’ more of the date. Friday the thirteenth,’ he added, when she looked at him blankly.

‘Oh!’ Fiona had never been particularly superstitious, but she knew it would have been the first thing her mother would have said, and she tried not to think about it now in case Mum was suddenly proved right.

A commotion behind her made her turn back, and she watched with growing fear as Bill Penneck and Damien joined forces to wrestle with one of the ropes. Without being asked, Fiona picked up the slack behind Damien and began pulling, aware she was doing very little to help. She heard a gruff laugh behind her, and Glasson eased her aside and took her place.

‘Just be ready,’ he told her, not unkindly. ‘First aid kit’s under there.’ He nodded to the end box, and Fiona scrambled forward and dragged out the large metal case, but before she could open it she heard distant shouts, cutting through the wind and the heavy slapping of the waves against the Lady Dafna. She rose from her kneeling position in time to see Bill and Damien reaching down to pull a limp form from Danny’s grasp.

‘One more,’ Danny gasped, before he slipped away again and struck out in the direction of the rowing boat.

While Bill and Damien returned their attention to the two ropes, Glasson bellowed for Fiona to bring the first aid box. The unconscious survivor was a man of indeterminate age, but certainly no younger than sixty; slight of build, with a ragged-looking beard, and dressed in a uniform of sorts. He would be lucky to have survived much longer in those icy temperatures; thank heaven for the petrol motor. Glasson made a brief examination, then ordered Fiona away to fetch a blanket while he stripped the man’s wet clothing. She hurried back to the end box, acutely conscious of every passing second, but when she returned, she was met with a minute shake of the head, and Glasson’s gaze dropped.

‘Too late,’ he said, so quietly Fiona wasn’t sure she’d heard properly over the sound of the wind. ‘Old fella probably had a heart attack.’

Fiona looked down, strangely unshy at the sight of the pathetic nakedness of the old man. Until ten minutes ago he’d been clinging to the upturned rowing boat with living, capable hands. Now all that strength and desperate hope was wasted, and he lay here nameless and empty. She felt a sudden rage, as strong and unpredictable as that earlier surge of pride, and a look at Glasson’s face told her that those feelings would never fade.

‘There’s still hope for the other,’ he said with surprising gentleness as he pulled a heavy tarpaulin across the body. ‘Be ready with that blanket.’

When Andrew and Danny appeared again, they were supporting an even smaller figure between them.

‘Little boy!’ Andrew shouted, and Bill and Damien pulled on their ropes with great care until they were able to relieve the exhausted men of their burden. The child was bleeding from a head wound; the water washed away the streak of blood, but it reappeared each time with frightening speed. Bill and Damien lifted him onto the deck, and then turned back to help their flagging crewmates pull themselves over the gunwale.

The child looked to be about twelve years old, with white-blond hair turning crimson as the blood soaked into it. It wasn’t until the wet clothing was summarily stripped away that they realised the slight figure was that of a girl. Glasson wrapped her in a dry blanket while Fiona rummaged for a bandage, and the girl’s clothing, along with a rather odd-looking necklace, was put into a box with a number scrawled in charcoal.

There was little they could do for the casualty now, beyond making their way back towards the shore as quickly as possible. Fiona lay with her arms around the child, to offer as much warmth as her own chilled body had to spare, and tried not to look at the still, shrouded figure of the dead man. He might have been this girl’s grandfather, and what she couldn’t comprehend was that they were there! He’d been alive when they pulled him out, so how could he be dead now? And if she felt this guilt so deeply, how must the others be feeling?

She raised her eyes to the two men who’d put their lives at risk, and once again felt that wash of shame that she had never truly understood what they did out here. Twenty-year-old Danny Quick, who’d habitually teased her back at the station until she’d crossly told him to ‘drop dead’, at which he’d roared with laughter and told her to be wary of what she wished for. Andrew Kessel sat beside him; Andrew, whose large family owned bakeries all over Cornwall and who boasted that one day he would oversee every one of them. He sat silent, huddled into a blanket, his head down, fatigue rendering him silent for once. Tomorrow he would be making people’s eyes roll again with his prideful declarations, but today he was a hero, and not one of those people would ever really know it.

The Lady Dafna crunched onto the sand and shingle of the beach, and Fiona found she had stiffened into the position in which she’d lain. It had not been more than a few minutes, but her clothes seemed to be frozen against her skin, and her muscles locked. Glasson lifted the girl up, and only then did Fiona find herself able to move, and she rolled to a kneeling position to watch as the girl was taken ashore. Danny helped her to her feet, without any of his usual flippant remarks, and Fiona mumbled her thanks, wishing she could tell him she understood now.

A miserable cry echoed across the bay as the girl woke, and Fiona’s limbs came to life. She slithered across the wet deck and jumped onto the beach, and when the girl at last opened her eyes, her terrified gaze fell first on Fiona. The eyes, wide and blue, remained fixed on Fiona’s face, and didn’t waver until someone – Tam Rowe, Fiona saw – unwrapped the bandage from her head. Then she tried to twist, to see who was touching her, but it must have cost her to move because she cried out again, and her eyes slipped shut.

‘Don’t worry,’ Fiona said, and took the girl’s hand. ‘You’re safe now. My name’s Fiona, what’s yours?’

The girl gave a single nod to indicate she’d heard and understood, but did not volunteer her own name. Instead a tiny sigh escaped her, and her hand went limp in Fiona’s.

‘It’s alright,’ Doctor Rowe said, lifting one of the girl’s eyelids. ‘I’d say it’s not as bad as it seems, but you can’t be too careful with a knocked head. We’ll take her to hospital; she’ll likely need a few stitches. Make haste if you’re coming.’

‘I ought to stay and help,’ Fiona began, looking around at the shore crew who were already working on restoring the Lady Dafna to her usual sea-going state.

‘I should tan your hide for sneaking on board like that,’ Glasson said grimly, making her jump. ‘Don’t you dare do it again.’

‘It was hardly sneaking,’ she pointed out.

‘Still, you can’t just—’

‘Please, don’t tell my mother,’ Fiona broke in. ‘She’d stop me coming here altogether.’

Glasson looked at her narrowly for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Up to you, maid.’ His expression softened. ‘You did alright, in the end.’ He looked over to where Doctor Rowe was settling the unconscious child in the back of Andrew’s bakery van. ‘Get on then, or you’ll miss your ride.’

The girl remained unconscious for the journey. Fiona couldn’t help fretting as she saw the growing red stain on the freshly applied bandage, and as she waited in the little side room at the hospital, she feared the worst. But the nurse who’d tended the girl assured her that there was no serious damage, and that the cut itself was shallow and wouldn’t need stitches after all.

‘Always seems worse, where the skin lies so close to the bone,’ she said. ‘You can go in and see her now if you like. How’s your sister, by the way?’ she added, as she led Fiona towards the girl’s bed. ‘She was a lovely patient, I’m sure lots of the nurses here would be glad to know how she’s getting on.’

‘A lovely patient?’ Fiona gave her an incredulous look, then saw the nurse was quite serious. ‘She’s doing well,’ she said. Clearly Bertie had been a lot easier to care for here than she’d so far been at home. Not that Fiona didn’t have sympathy for her in spades, of course, losing a leg was unimaginably awful, and she loved her sister dearly, but sometimes Bertie just made everything far more difficult than it needed to be.

They arrived at the girl’s bed, and Fiona’s first thought was that she looked like a doll lying there; so small, with the sheets still pulled tight as if she hadn’t moved at all. Her hair, now dry, stuck up white and fluffy above the bandage.

‘Hello, dear,’ the nurse said, drawing Fiona forwards. ‘This is Miss Fox, who came in with you after the accident.’

The girl ignored her. ‘What happened to the ship? Did it … did it sink?’

The nurse looked questioningly at Fiona, who shook her head. ‘No, it made it around the headland at least.’

The girl twisted her head on the pillow. Her face was almost as white as her hair, but her eyes looked more alert, and the bandage no longer seeped blood. She observed Fiona for a moment, without expression, but as soon as the nurse had melted away her face brightened in a startlingly sunny smile.

‘Hello, Miss Fox. And thank you for coming with me.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Fiona hesitated, unsure what to say now. Although such a short time had passed, the experience on the lifeboat seemed as if it had happened to someone else, and that she’d just been watching from the outside. ‘You can call me Fiona. What’s your name?’

The girl’s face clouded again. ‘I don’t know. The nurse tells me I’ll remember soon enough, so I’m not too worried.’

‘You don’t sound as if you’re from here,’ Fiona ventured, pulling up a chair. ‘I can’t tell what your accent is.’

The girl shrugged, then winced. ‘Remind me not to do that again,’ she said, and her grin reappeared. Fiona realised then that she was older than she’d first seemed, perhaps even the same age as Fiona herself; the face was heart-shaped, and the eyes childlike, but there was something in the way she spoke, and in the direct blue gaze, that belied her appearance.

‘They said they’re keeping me overnight,’ the girl told her. ‘But I’m perfectly well.’

‘I should think they’ll probably keep you until your memory’s come back,’ Fiona said. ‘They have your clothes safe in a box.’

Abruptly the girl’s hand went to her throat, and her eyes widened further, but now they looked distraught. ‘My necklace! Where’s—’

‘It’s safe,’ Fiona assured her quickly. ‘With your clothes. You were still wearing it when they took you from the sea.’

The girl subsided, but, witnessing her distress, the nurse returned. ‘I think the poor love needs to sleep now, Miss Fox. Come and see her again tomorrow.’

‘I will,’ Fiona promised. ‘If you’d like me to?’ she added, and the girl looked at her for an unsettlingly long moment before she nodded.

‘Yes, please. I don’t know anyone else.’

‘As far as you know, you don’t,’ the nurse pointed out. ‘You’re bound to be missed off that ship, and someone’ll come looking, don’t fret.’

Fiona realised the girl had yet to be told the rest of it. ‘How many of you were on the rowing boat?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘What’s the last thing you do remember?’

‘Miss Fox, now’s not the time.’ The nurse gently urged her to her feet, and Fiona held out her hand to the girl.

‘I have to work tomorrow morning, but I’ll come after lunch. I hope I’ll find you fully recovered then.’

She stopped off at the lifeboat station on her way home, to pass on news of the girl, then walked slowly back to Fox Bay, growing more and more subdued as she relived the moment when she’d looked on the limp and lifeless form of the old man. She wondered how many others had struck out for safety in that tiny boat, how well the girl had known them, and if she knew yet that she’d been the only survivor.

Fox Bay Hotel

Helen closed the office door, feeling like the keeper of the world’s best secret; Christmas was about to be turned on its head in the best possible way. In the meantime everything looked normal out in the lobby; guests were milling about waiting for friends, and Guy Bannacott was thumbing through the heavy guest book, while Martin Berry was wiping wet handprints off the counter top and scowling out at the weather.

Helen’s smile faded as she followed his gaze. ‘Is Fiona back yet?’ She hated the thought of her youngest daughter out there at the lifeboat station at any time, but in winter her fears doubled, and this had already been a more than usually vicious one … She pushed the significance of today’s date to the back of her mind, it wasn’t helping.

‘She came back a short while ago, Mrs Fox,’ he told her. ‘Her clothes were wet, so she went upstairs to change.’ Martin gave the wood a final wipe and dropped the cloth back beneath the counter.

‘Thank you. I’ll go and find her in a minute.’ Helen turned to Guy, unable to contain the news any longer. ‘You’ll never guess!’

Guy raised an elegant eyebrow. ‘You’d better tell me then.’

‘We’re having very special guests this Christmas. A couple of Hollywood film stars.’

‘We’ve had Hollywood before,’ he reminded her, and he was right of course, but they’d never had anyone quite like this.

‘Go on then,’ he said, with exaggerated indulgence. ‘Who is it?’

‘I’ll give you a clue.’ Helen tried to think of one. ‘Oh, I know.’ She put both hands to her face and opened her eyes as wide as they would go, her mouth an ‘O’ of apparent dismay. ‘Mercy, Aunt Mercy!’ Her American accent wasn’t anywhere near as good as Leah’s, in fact it was awful, but Guy looked suitably impressed, and Martin’s mouth dropped open, though not, Helen was sure, due to the accuracy of the impression.

‘Not Daisy Conrad?’

‘And Freddie Wishart,’ Helen said, looking directly at Guy, whose eyes widened slightly though he gave nothing else away. But Helen had seen the shelf in his room where he kept every issue of Motion Picture magazine that featured the fresh-faced young star. He sent away for them especially, and when they arrived he would devour every page with all the hunger of the movie fanatic he was. Once read, he left those in good enough condition in the guest sitting rooms, but the Freddie Wishart ones he kept.

‘Really?’ he murmured. ‘How exciting.’ His tone was dry, but Helen noticed his hand was trembling a little as he turned the page of the ledger. ‘We must make sure the first-floor rooms are beyond reproach, then. When do they arrive?’

‘Next Saturday. The twenty-first, that is, not tomorrow. The producer arrives on Monday.’

Martin shook his head. ‘Why on earth would they want to come here?’ He flushed as Helen raised an eyebrow. ‘I only meant to say—’

‘Don’t worry, I asked myself the same thing.’ She smiled to ease his embarrassment. ‘At first I thought it might be a way to escape prohibition over the holiday, but they could have gone anywhere, including any of the top London hotels, if they just wanted to get tight. The thing is, the producer of their next film is an old acquaintance of Harry’s.’ She waved the letter at Guy again. ‘The film is going to be set in an hotel just like this, and he’s keen to make sure the set is authentic. He’s flying Miss Conrad and Mr Wishart over early so they can get a feel for the place.’

‘Away from home over the holiday?’ Guy looked mystified. ‘Americans are rather fond of Christmas, I thought.’

‘They’ll be even fonder of it by the time this one’s over,’ Helen said, with determination. ‘At least, we’re going to do our best to make sure they are.’

After that impossibly difficult first year without Harry, Christmas at Fox Bay had gradually become the place to be. To all intents and purposes the hotel was closed, but each year twenty regular guests were invited to make bookings if they wished, and it was rare that such an opportunity was turned down. Society magazines were always trying to secure an invitation, even down to cultivating a relationship with the hotel throughout the rest of the year, but Fleur had the uncanny knack of sniffing them out and alerting Helen to a seemingly innocent booking. Fox Bay guests could be assured of their privacy, particularly over Christmas.

‘So, I’m to meet the famed Clifford Brennan, am I?’ Guy rubbed his hands. ‘He’s a genius, I’ve so much to ask him. His work on Stagehand Sally was—’

‘Wait a moment. Who?’

Guy gestured at the letter, a little impatiently. ‘The producer. He’s done all the Wishart–Conrad films.’

Helen had to smile at the way he switched the accepted order of the names around to put Freddie’s first. ‘No,’ she said, ‘this is a Mr Rex Kelly, he’s not worked with them before. Dangerous Ladies is his first since he took over this studio.’

‘Oh.’ After a flicker of disappointment, Guy rallied. ‘I’ve heard of him, at least. Oh, well. It’ll be wonderful to have them all over here.’

Helen handed hi