You know Miss Havisham, the world's most famous jilted bride. This is her daughter’s story.
Raised in the darkness of Satis House where the clocks never tick, the beautiful Estella is bred to hate men and to keep her heart cold as the grave. She knows she doesn’t feel things quite like other people do, but is this just the result of her strange upbringing?
As she watches the brutal treatment of women around her, hatred hardens into a core of vengeance. And when she finds herself married to the abusive Drummle, she is forced to make a deadly decision: should she embrace the darkness within her and exact her revenge?
A stunningly original, gripping Gothic read, perfect for fans of Stacey Halls, Eve Chase, and Jessie Burton.
Release date:
November 5, 2024
Publisher:
Canelo US
Print pages:
384
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It is dark, so dark, as dark as my soul, but still there is just enough light down this dank alley for me to see that my hands are stained with something sticky. My blood. In this half-light they look slate-grey but I imagine them as the colour of the half-finished shawl I have been knitting, the vibrant wool lying unspooled somewhere nearby, across the filthy cobbles.
Beneath the blood veneer are cuts and open wounds where my knuckles have split on impact. An experimental try at gently opening and closing my hands makes me suck in my breath, short and sharp, and a smell reminiscent of a butcher’s shop hits my nostrils, mixed with the rank tang of urine, and the freshness of petrichor.
In that first surge of action the pain was blotted out. Now it is rushing in, along with…
I need to stop these ridiculous thoughts and try to find out where all the blood is coming from.
I hold my hands out and take a little shuffle backwards, trying to get away from them and the truth they spell out in violent vermillion. My stomach heaves. I hurriedly wipe my hands on my clothes – and they find something unexpected. My fingers explore. There is something protruding from my bodice. Something long and thin and cold to touch and… realisation dawns.
It is a knitting needle. My own knitting needle.
My heart, which had been slowing, speeds up painfully again, and as I pull the homely weapon out my breathing comes in gasping huffs that refuse to be controlled.
Murder, I think. How did it come to this?
Terror, anger, regret, guilt…
They aren’t the emotions singing through me. No, it is joy. Absently, I lick my lips. A metallic tang of blood spreads across my tongue as my thoughts start to shout.
Murder! It was always going to come to this!
Tears fall: happiness and relief forming a river down my cheeks. Slowly, I fold down onto the damp cobbles and curl up, red hands over my head, trying to quiet myself when all I want to do is scream my elation at finally accepting my fate.
The sound of footsteps running grows fainter. And beside me the dead body starts to cool.
Chapter One
NOW
LONDON, 1835
We do not have a history of good weddings in my family. The opposite, in fact. This has been at the forefront of my mind while organising my own nuptials, and one obvious way to ring the changes has been the dress. I was determined mine should be totally different from my adoptive mother’s, thus guaranteeing the day be nothing like her disaster. Not for me the slim, elongated silhouette, with no hint of a waist, which was so popular back in 1813. I have gone for the totally modern: a gown the colour of the sky over the marshes of my home on a cold spring day, the damask silk material so heavy it weighs me down. It has the widest sleeves to be found – the modiste assured me during the fittings that no one had bigger sleeves than I. A glittering silver and diamond buckle on my belt accentuates my waist, and the bell skirt hem touches the floor and hides shoes that are beautifully bejewelled and embroidered with the sun, moon and stars, even though, satisfyingly, only I will ever know it.
Mother won’t be here today to see the outfit, though, or my triumph over London society. She’ll be sitting at home, in the dark, brooding. Her chin resting on hands folded atop her walking cane, as she gazes into the fire, wearing her own wedding dress, once white but now yellow as old bone. I invited her, of course, but had already known the answer would be an emphatic no.
The man I’ve chosen to wed is not a good man. He isn’t kind or charitable; if asked to give alms to the poor, he would ask what the poor had ever done for him. He hasn’t a dizzying intellect that makes me want to listen to him extol for hours on a subject, convinced he will change the world with his ideas. He isn’t a sharp businessman who will earn a fortune and so guarantee us a comfortable life. Nor is he that most sought after of creatures: the handsome man, who dazzles people into forgetting and forgiving all those shortcomings. I’m even happier to report that he is no smooth-talking charmer; instead, he is more often than not monosyllabic, and has a curious way of skulking in the corner of rooms, spreading a cloud of sullenness that slowly sours the atmosphere and causes people to make excuses and leave.
In short, he is perfect for me.
What you see is what you get with Bentley Drummle: ambitious, determined, persistent, patient as a toad waiting under a stone. He won’t disappoint. There is no pedestal of false adoration from which he can tumble. So often I hear married women complaining about their husbands. ‘He used to make sweeping declarations of undying love, and gaze at me as if I were the only item in the entire world worth seeing. Now he doesn’t acknowledge me when I walk into the room,’ they complain – or words to that effect. I have no such high expectations of Bentley and so he will never injure my feelings this way.
Our marriage is practical, not lofty, and with this comforting thought I step through the church entrance. At the rustle of my voluminous skirts, everyone turns in the pews to look. There isn’t a single person gazing down the white rose-lined aisle that I care about. No friends, no family apart from those I abhor, no childhood acquaintances. The stares in my direction are not dewy-eyed, they are a mix of hard, cold, envious, curious. This is the wedding of the year, all the ton are here, the polished gems of society, just as Bentley promised when he asked for my hand:
‘We will be the talk of the town. We will hold all of London in our thrall, Estella. Everyone will want to be like us. And then – then it will be the whole damned country who will be in our power. Lord, together, nothing can stop us.’
No chattering of love from him, just facts. Together we will conquer, but I am the one in control. Bentley needs my cleverness to guide him and my charm to win allies. I will be the power behind my husband, and his triumphs will be mine in a world where a woman cannot achieve for herself.
Beside me, Mr Jaggers proffers his arm.
‘Time to enter the spider’s web. There can be no turning back once the vows are made,
you understand?’ he says.
Those clever obsidian eyes impale me from beneath spiky black eyebrows. They would make my heart beat faster, if I had one capable of feeling. My gaze moves from them to the querulous vicar at the altar, who is peering around the broad back of my husband-to-be and the equally tall but far more delicate form of Startop. Startop, the one person who could be described as Bentley’s friend. Only last month Bentley spent an entire night laughing that he owes Startop £100, and delighting that he is too afraid to ask him to pay it back. The memory makes me smile. I know the very worst of Bentley Drummle, and by knowing the truth I am secure.
With a regal nod, I silently take Mr Jaggers’ arm and together we sweep through the church towards my new life; the whisper of petticoats and congregation members are the only sounds. By the time I reach the altar, and Bentley turns to smile at me and take my small hand in his huge paw, I’m as aglow as any other bride.
***
There is quite the crowd at our wedding reception, the bright colours of their outfits an ever-shifting kaleidoscope against the white of the great hall. Sunlight streams through the huge windows as well as the glass dome in the ceiling, dazzling when it hits the crystal and glass of the tableware and chandeliers. Gigantic displays of white roses are barely noticeable against the decorative white stucco on the walls, but I know they are there, and that is enough. On tables are bowls containing white rose petals, held aloft by brass cherubs.
Bentley and I work our way through the room, stopping here and there to make connections with any guest of influence, or sweeping past those we invited only for the amusement of belittling. We make a beeline for Sir John, Bentley’s godfather, a man with monumental wealth, whose teeth and eyes are a matching saffron.
‘Congratulations!’ he booms. ‘With your baronetcy-in-waiting, Bentley, and the youthful beauty of your charming new wife, you are the perfect match for one another.’
He takes hold of both my hands and rubs his thumbs over my skin in a way that makes me want to knock his stupid, old-fashioned white wig off his ugly head. Of course, he thinks the only thing I can bring to the marriage is my looks – he is echoing society’s opinion. Galling as it is, I am not naïve enough to be ungrateful for the advantages my beauty gives me, though, nor those my husband’s station affords us.
My husband. How strange it is to even think the phrase.
Bentley is close enough to peerage that many friends and relatives spread their compliments over him thicker than jam on a piece of toast. In this particular case, though, we will be the ones laying it on thick, as Sir John has a great fortune and even greater influence.
‘You are too, too kind,’ says Bentley. ‘How wonderful to see you here, despite your terrible loss. I was sorry to hear about your wife.’
‘Yes, yes, it was a shame. It’s been three months now, though, and one must get on with life.’
There is a look in the wily old dog’s jaundiced eye that emboldens me. ‘Sir John, if I could have but one wish it would be that everyone could share happiness like ours. Soon, I’m certain, you’ll enter married bliss once more.’
‘What’s that? Yes, yes, another wife. I would like more sons. You can never have enough of them, you know. Of course, you’ll be discovering this yourself.’ He gives a barking laugh that sends a cloud of malodorous breath at my face, and leans in conspiratorially. I lean back – and as I do so, catch the conversation immediately behind us.
‘—its cover. You know who her adoptive mother is, don’t you? You haven’t heard the story? It was quite the scandal! The brewery heiress, Miss Havisham – a recluse, you know, over Kent way, or is it Essex, I forget; some godforsaken backwater, anyway—’
I recognise the voice of that pernicious witch, Mariella Featherstonehaugh, who hasn’t managed to bag a husband yet despite two years of
her best efforts. It isn’t a surprise to hear the gossiping, and it cannot be allowed to distract me, so I incline my head closer to Sir John’s again as he speaks.
‘Do you happen to know of any young ladies of good standing who are from thoroughbred breeding stock?’ he asks.
‘Mmm,’ I manage. It is no use, I’m going to have to breathe, so put my hand over my mouth and nose momentarily, as if thinking. ‘I will put my mind to that question, though I am sure that any woman you set your cap at would feel honoured.’
I feel safe enough to say that because I am no longer in danger of encouraging the attentions of men such as this. There is safety and security in marriage that simply isn’t available to the unattached woman, which is one of the reasons why I decided to shackle my own leg. Also, Bentley and I have already discussed how grateful Sir John will be if we find his new wife, and have someone in mind. The backing of such an influential man could make a huge difference to our future political ambitions. In the elections at the start of the year, he was the power behind several of the MPs who were elected for the Tories. Today will be the perfect day for introductions…
As if on cue – exactly as if, because it is on cue – I reach out and tap the shoulder of a young woman gliding past us.
‘Elizabeth, how wonderful to see you here. Are you well? And how are little Grace and Jane – ah, you are so good with your younger siblings; you’ll make such a wonderful mother one day. But I am forgetting my manners, forgive me. Sir John Taykall, may I introduce Miss Elizabeth Cleaver.’ I add into his ear, ignoring the hair sprouting from it: ‘Someone who, it suddenly occurs to me, may be relevant to our conversation.’
I became acquainted with Miss Elizabeth over the course of the season, talking to her sometimes at the various balls, gatherings and promenades in the park. Her family has a title but no money, and seven daughters but not one son, of which she is ranked around the middle in age, and bottom in beauty. All of which means she is desperate enough to marry someone whose breath can shrivel leaves.
Elizabeth has braced herself for this introduction, and it’s pleasing to see how she flirts demurely by fluttering her fan – a convenient way of distributing the halitosis.
Bentley and I stay long enough to ensure conversation is flowing between them and then slip away to talk with more of our guests.
In the centre of the room is a feast with all manner of delicious food, from asparagus pie to salmon, and even two pineapples, that rarest and most expensive of fruits, which only those of highest status can afford. They are causing quite the sensation; even Sir John looks impressed by them. Towering above it all is the wedding cake, taller than a man.
As I look upon my triumph, I suddenly see black mould at the bottom. The blackness spreads, consuming and devouring and ruining. Spiders with bloated bodies scuttle across the whole, until it is entirely shrouded in its own silk wedding gown of webs. The long white scar on my right thigh gives a deep dull throb.
I gasp, blink, and the vision disappears. Everything is pristine again.
Bentley gives my arm a squeeze and we continue, stopping to lord it over envious
creatures or charm those who could be useful to us. Although we are predators used to acting alone, my husband and I are learning rapidly how to go for the jugular together.
Only a handful of our guests are not part of the fashionable set, among them my relatives in family if not in blood, the Pockets. Over in a corner is Matthew Pocket, once close to my mother but no more, along with his wife and the countless children they share between them. They have attended not in order to curry favour, but because they genuinely and unfathomably hold Bentley and me in affection. Seeing them here almost pierces my armour and makes me feel happiness. I am about to head their way when I notice three other relatives whom I recognise instantly, even with their backs to me. Sarah, Camilla and Raymond are also Pockets but, unlike Matthew, they hate me. The feeling is deliciously mutual. Today they are dressed almost as if in mourning at my success, in tired greys and browns, looking suitably out of place as they glare around the dazzling room.
With a nudge and nod in their direction, Bentley and I change course towards them.
‘—obscene amount of money. So vulgar.’
‘It is a sad fact that money cannot buy taste.’
‘Indeed – the very idea!’
‘And those pineapples cannot be real. Imagine the cost if they were.’
‘If they are real, then they – no, I cannot bring myself to say it, it is such an abhorrent idea. All I will say is that it is always commendable to keep up appearances, especially to uphold the family name, but such wanton waste, such falseness and fakery, it does no one any good. No, I shall go further: I believe the pineapples are rented.’
‘No! Is that possible? I have heard they cost fifty pounds each to buy, but to stoop so low as to rent—’
‘Oh, yes, I believe there is quite the business to be had in renting them to make them more affordable to those of less than profligate tendencies. Although goodness knows that girl has always—’
‘Cousins, how wonderful to see you here,’ I announce loudly, having heard enough. Those hypocrites are accusing me of being simultaneously cheap and wasteful; I really cannot do right for doing wrong in their eyes. All three jump – how satisfying – and Sarah gives a tiny shriek from her wooden countenance as she spins and sees me.
Chapter Two
NOW
LONDON 1835
Sarah recovers quickly and tries to turn her shriek of shock into a squeal of delight that is so far removed from her usual character that I feel Bentley, whose arm is through mine, juddering with barely contained amusement.
‘Dear Estella, Bentley, how charming everything is,’ she says. ‘What a terrible shame it is that Miss Havisham could not be here with us.’
Beside her, Camilla gives a great sigh, and when she is certain she has my attention, a quiver appears through her lips and she dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief with such enthusiasm I fear for her sight.
‘It is a tragedy that she is not among us, though no surprise given all she suffers. And I have suffered at the thought of how she must have struggled and pained herself with the thought of not being able to join her family…’ She flounders for a moment, realising she has used a word both she and Sarah avoid in connection with me. ‘…that is to say, to be with us, while watching her ward’s marriage. The idea! Raymond is a witness to the sleepless nights I have suffered while I wonder about how poor Miss Havisham would feel. Indeed, we almost did not come ourselves, in order to be at Satis House and support her, but in the end we decided to come here instead.’
‘Camilla’s digestion has been terribly afflicted,’ Raymond confirms. ‘She’s been at the ginger almost constantly.’
‘It is inspiring to see how well you have rallied and disguised your discomfort,’ I say. ‘The way you are forcing yourself to eat and drink with such rigour is truly brave.’
‘We are so grateful you are here,’ adds Bentley, giving a bow.
Sarah seems to be trying to work out if we are mocking them or not. Given the almost-but-not-quite baronetcy, she gives us the benefit of the doubt.
‘Are you going on a wedding tour?’ she asks.
‘Paris. I’ve a house there, though it’s rarely used, and some relatives I wish to introduce to my bride,’ Bentley replies.
Envy pales Sarah’s complexion, but Camilla rallies, enveloping me in an embrace that takes me so by surprise I find myself reciprocating. Perhaps because of Bentley’s standing and the protection this affords me, she is finally calling a truce between us.
When her lips are close to my ear she turns slightly and whispers.
‘How very well you look, Estella. Is that how you have managed to land such a catch?’
Shocked, I pull away and stare at her, breathing rapidly at the insult. I could swing for that woman – and once, many years ago, her plan for me to do just that came terrifyingly close.
‘Bentley, come, we have other guests to attend to,’ I manage.
‘Indeed.’ He gives another bow. ‘Camilla, as your digestion is so delicate, I won’t insult you by offering you a slice of the pineapples we have bought for this occasion. Nor will I put you, Sarah, Raymond, in the awkward position of having to refuse in solidarity.’
The knowledge that they will never again have the opportunity to taste that exotic jewel has all of them reddening at the ears and neck.
Bentley starts to lead me away, but I turn back.
‘Camilla, dear, have you lost a button? You look like you have.’
Seeing the redness of all three of them spread from ears to entire countenance is deeply satisfying. Bentley and I stroll on, and though he asks me what I meant by my comment, I shake my head and promise one day I will share the story with him but now is not the time. He grunts, like a bull snorting.
‘You were right about them being a bitter bunch; particularly Camilla,’ he says. ‘Someone with such a chip on their shoulder generally has something to hide.’
‘There’s no great mystery. She hates me because I am the sole heir to the Havisham fortune, and she thinks it should go to blood relatives not an adopted child. In her head I’m a thief; I’ve stolen her inheritance.’
He shrugs those vast shoulders. ‘Forget her, then.’
But he’s got me thinking. Over the years she has hidden many things, and I’m no longer able to ferret them out using my old methods. Perhaps Bentley can help me find something that would finally free me from the Pocket family. No more being on edge, no more watching my back.
‘You believe she has secrets?’
‘Everyone has. Although I prefer the simplicity of fists, knowledge can be a useful club to batter people with. One of my servants, Joseph, is particularly useful for this sort of labour; have a word with him and he’ll scent it out like a bloodhound. He can work on it when we’re away.’
‘He sounds useful. While he’s at it, have him look into Mariella Featherstonehaugh.’
‘Ah, now I was told something very interesting about her that she wouldn’t want people to know…’
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