The Secret Child

Book 0: The Margate Maid

by Lynne Francis

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas

Synopsis

Molly's story continues in this gripping saga of love, betrayal and secrets that can't stay hidden . . . perfect for fans of Dilly Court, Libby Ashworth and Rosie Goodwin.

Kent, 1814

Molly Dawson, now a respectable married woman, lives with her husband, head gardener Charlie, on the Woodchurch Manor estate, where they have brought up three delightful daughters. Her life appears idyllic . . . but she has suffered the torment of a secret since she was eighteen years old.

When George Smith - a young stranger fresh out of the Navy - appears at the estate's annual garden party, Molly's life is set to change again . . .

Could he be a suitable match for one of her daughters? Or is this charming young man a threat to her hard-won happiness?

Can Molly ever overcome the consequences of a decision she made long ago to find true joy and fulfilment at last?

Praise for Lynne Francis:

'An impressively researched Cinderella tale of a sweetly ambitious country girl, deserving of a better life than being her aunt's drudge. I loved this five star book' Kay Brellend

'An engaging, thoroughly researched tale of youthful naivety and courage in the face of adversity, full of rich detail and imagination. Highly recommended!' RoNA award-winning, bestselling novelist Tania Crosse

'A compelling and captivating historical saga rich in atmosphere, emotion and heart . . . a poignant tale of broken promises, devastating betrayals and triumph over adversity from a master storyteller' Goodreads Reviewer

Release date: March 25, 2021

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 368

Sample

Molly looked at her three daughters, each bent over their needlework, and bit her lip to suppress a smile. She felt quite sure that Catherine, the youngest and possessor of wild chestnut curls, would be the first to fling aside her embroidery with a wail. She would undoubtedly have pricked her finger, knotted her thread or discovered that she had run out of space to complete the word she was stitching.

Sally, the eldest and named after Molly’s mother, had inherited her father Charlie’s height and dark eyes and was guaranteed to carry on methodically until she was told to stop. If she was given a task, she liked to complete it, and it went without saying that the work would be neat, the stitches precise.

Agnes, aged almost ten, exactly fifteen months older than Catherine and fifteen months younger than Sally, had stopped to gaze out of the window. Molly guessed that she was wondering what creative touch she could add to her sampler. She’d already included an oak tree at the side of the grand building that represented Woodchurch Manor – just visible across the fields from the window of the kitchen where they were sitting. Sally had been shocked by this flight of fancy, while Catherine had been envious. Sparrows were squabbling in the cherry tree outside their own window as they stitched, and Molly had a feeling their likeness would appear in her middle daughter’s work. Indeed, Molly noticed that Agnes had chosen some brown thread from the selection on the table and had bent over her work once more. The thread was almost the exact shade of Agnes’s hair.

‘Thank goodness there are only five of us, Ma,’ Sally said. ‘I’ve added your name, and Pa’s, and there’s just room enough for the three of us across the bottom.’

She held out her work for Molly to see. Under the neatly stitched mansion she had included ‘Molly Dawson’ and ‘Charles Dawson’ in tiny cross-stitches, either side of the year of their marriage, 1792. Below this, she was stitching the names of herself and her sisters, leaving just enough room next to her own name to add the current year, 1805.

Molly smiled to see the unusual formality of the name ‘Charles’ used for her husband, instead of Charlie. Then her lips began to tremble and her eyes filled with tears.

Sally’s own smile faded and she looked down at her work, then back at her mother. ‘Have I done something wrong?’ she asked. She looked rather as though she might cry, too.

Agnes and Catherine had both laid down their samplers and were watching, worry creasing their brows.

‘No, no, it’s beautiful,’ Molly was at pains to reassure her eldest daughter. ‘You’ve put so much work into it. Why, you’ve all but finished.’

She glanced quickly at Agnes and Catherine. ‘You’ve all worked really hard today. Just another half-hour and then we can put them away.’

Molly put down her own sewing and moved to the window to gaze out over the fields. She had been living in this cottage, one of a terrace tied to the Woodchurch Manor estate, for thirteen years now. Charlie was the head gardener and would be hard at work somewhere in the grounds, or perhaps in a meeting with Mr Powell, the owner of Woodchurch Manor, going over the latest plans.

Despite the passage of time she was still, every so often, floored by the terrible memory of the child who wasn’t there, whose name wouldn’t be stitched into the family sampler. Her darling boy, whom she had left at the Foundling Hospital in London, two years before her marriage. Left behind when he was but a few weeks old.

She had never told Charlie of his existence, although when she had given up her baby she had been determined to reclaim him at the first possible opportunity. Indeed, for the first two years she had scrimped and saved, hoping to find enough money to make reparation for his care. But she hadn’t been able to make a respectable home for him, and when her savings were stolen, she had fallen into despair. As time passed she had tried to convince herself that, with a new name and undoubtedly no memory of her, he was better off without her. A small part of her knew, though, that this was no excuse.

How could she explain him to Charlie, to her own family and now, of course, to his half-sisters? She still had her portion of the tokens she had left behind with him at the Foundling Hospital, her unique mementoes that would allow her to reclaim him. She knew that Charlie would have given her the money needed to repay the hospital for her boy’s care, but she had never asked for it. And she had never visited London in all the years since she had left it, although Charlie went frequently on Mr Powell’s business. Molly rarely strayed far from the environs of Woodchurch Manor.

Now, in any case, it was too late. Her son was of an age at which he would have left the school at the Foundling Hospital. He would be apprenticed somewhere, or perhaps he had gone into the Navy. England was at war with France, which lay just a few miles distant over the sea from where they were sitting. Molly knew that many young men had volunteered for the Navy, and many of those who hadn’t had been ‘persuaded’ that it was in their best interests. Would her son be among them? Would his life be at risk?

She had berated herself many times for leaving it too long to reclaim him. Now she feared that she would never know what had become of him. Sally’s rejoicing that there were only five family names to stitch into her sampler had struck Molly hard. Her son’s name – whatever it was now – would be missing for ever from this family record.

Molly gazed out of the window, gripping the edge of the sill as she fought to hold back the sobs that would frighten her daughters if she gave vent to them. It seemed impossible that so many years had passed. So many years since her girls’ first tottering steps, first teeth, first words. And with every new milestone she’d been pierced through the heart that her son would have had these milestones, too, and she’d missed them all. Someone else had mopped his infant tears, held his hand and sung him to sleep. She hoped they had been kind.

Her heart turned over at the thought of him sent back to the Foundling Hospital at the age of five by his foster mother. His life would have changed again: he would have found himself sleeping in a dormitory, going to lessons in the Foundling School in that brown-and-white uniform she’d seen all the children wearing. He’d have had no one to comfort him if he fell over, to soothe him when he had a fever, to tell him that whatever ailed him would pass.

Why hadn’t she gone to reclaim him? It puzzled her, even now. She’d tortured herself with memories, so faded that she couldn’t even remember his face – just the horror of being parted from him. She hadn’t fetched him, she thought, because once she was wed and with children of her own to care for they had been her priority. How would they manage with an older, bigger boy to feed?

But she knew that was nonsense: they would have managed perfectly well. She wondered now whether she had been frightened. Frightened that he would hate her for what she had done by leaving him for others to bring up. And then it had been too late. She’d persuaded herself that it was better they never met, never knew: that the past was buried.

Each year on his birthday, 7 January, she remembered how it had felt to have his small head nestled into her shoulder in those first weeks, his snuffling noises as he stirred, and she wept a few tears, alone. Then she went on and faced the day, and every day after that, but she didn’t forget.

Behind her, Catherine flung down her sampler. ‘Half an hour has gone by. Can we go and see Pa?’

Molly was ready to reprimand her youngest daughter for her impatience, but when she looked at the clock she saw that Catherine was right. ‘It’s a beautiful afternoon,’ she said, moving away from the window. ‘Tidy up your sewing and we’ll walk along the lane. It’s too early to disturb your pa at work but we can see what the spring sunshine has brought to the hedgerows.’

Catherine hastily rolled up her sampler and stuffed it into the workbox, then hurried in search of her shawl and bonnet before her mother changed her mind. Agnes had spread hers on the table to gaze at the effect, and Molly saw that birds were indeed fluttering from the tree, ready to land on the roof of Woodchurch Manor. Sally was reluctant to be dragged away – she had been intent on finishing her sampler that day.

‘We must make the most of the weather,’ Molly told her. ‘It may be raining again by tomorrow. It’s only April, although it looks more like summer out there today.’

She joined Catherine in the doorway, where she was ready and waiting with Molly’s bonnet and shawl in her hands. As Catherine unlatched the door and opened it, a cool, fresh scent wafted in. Molly bent to tie the laces of her boots. It would be good to be outside in the fresh air, away from the memories crowding in on her. She told Catherine – already in the lane – to wait, and turned back to Sally and Agnes to chivvy them along. Then, picking their way around puddles left by the morning’s rain, they set off for their walk. Molly, with the grim determination that had worked for her many times before, attempted to banish all thoughts of her lost son from her mind.



There had been many happy days for Molly since her arrival at Woodchurch Manor thirteen years earlier. Yet the happy memories were mingled with sad ones. Molly remembered when Charlie, made clumsy by anxiety and nerves, had first tried to ask her to be his sweetheart. She was sixteen years old and he was barely seventeen but had recently become an under-gardener on the estate. She had laughed and rejected him. It was only much later she realised how cruelly she had spurned his offer. Her head had been full of nonsense about marrying her handsome cousin, Nicholas Goodchild, and becoming a captain’s wife. Even now, as she walked along with her daughters in the spring sunshine, the thought of it made her shudder.

She was glad she hadn’t told Charlie of her foolish notion. Nicholas had taken his pleasure, then thrown her over without a thought when the chance of an advantageous marriage had come his way. Molly hated to admit it but she had been culpable, too. She had thought his flattering attentions meant he loved her, that she would be raised from her station as the poor relation helping in her aunt and uncle’s household. She had naively believed that she and Nicholas would be married and would live happily ever after.

Disabused of this notion, she’d fled to London and there she had given birth to her son. With barely a penny to her name and too ashamed to come home, she’d been forced to make what she considered the second greatest error of her life: to give up her boy. She’d barely escaped falling into degradation in London, and if Charlie hadn’t stumbled upon her where she’d taken refuge in the Apothecaries’ Garden on the banks of the Thames, she didn’t know what would have become of her.

Molly’s heart swelled with pride as she looked at her daughters, running on ahead of her along the lane, laughing at some shared nonsense. Catherine, the youngest, was fast outstripping Agnes in height and would soon be as tall as Sally. Agnes looked as though she would be petite and fine-boned, like her mother, but surely her creativity must come from Charlie. Molly smiled as she considered how her own looks and attributes had blended with those of Charlie in each of their daughters, along with their own unique personality. Then she frowned: their boots and the hems of their pinafores were smeared with mud already.

She was lucky, she knew, to have help at home in the form of Ellen, their maid-of-all-work. In times past, before she was married, this was a role that Molly had fulfilled. She might not have achieved the status of a captain’s wife but she was very fortunate to be in the position she was in. When sadness afflicted her, she reminded herself of this.

Their walk had brought them to the little church on the estate, which lay midway between their house and Woodchurch Manor. Although the leaves were still sparse on the trees and the flowers in the hedgerows were the fresh yellows and whites of spring, rather than the pinks and blues of summer, Molly’s thoughts took her back to that June day when she and Charlie were wed there.

She came to a halt, oblivious to the girls running on ahead, and felt as if she was enveloped by the warmth of the summer sunshine once more. The trees then had been in full leaf, making a bridal archway of the lane. Molly remembered how, as she’d walked up the little pathway to the church, she’d turned to Charlie and gripped his hand, and the smile he gave her in response had melted any remaining doubts that she was doing the right thing. She had been twenty years old, fresh-faced and seemingly untouched by all that had gone before, but that was due solely to Charlie and his devotion to her.

He’d brought her back from London and looked after her while she recovered her wits after what she supposed was a nervous collapse. He’d put no pressure on her to repay her debt of gratitude by marrying him. It had taken a good few weeks before she had come around to that way of thinking, but his care for her, and the devotion with which he tended the garden, had convinced her. She smiled as she remembered how the conviction that they should marry had grown after he had shown her the pomegranate tree, newly planted in the walled garden at Woodchurch Manor. He’d brought it back with him from London on the same trip that had thrown him together with Molly once more. He’d been so proud of how well it had overwintered and she’d known then that his nurturing, loving nature made him a far worthier man than her vain and selfish cousin. In any case, Nicholas had already proved his unworthiness by abandoning his wife and his ship and exiling himself in the West Indies, bringing disgrace on his family.

On the day of their wedding, Molly and Charlie had walked up the path and entered the church hand in hand. There were hardly any guests in attendance, just a few of the Woodchurch Manor workers who could be spared from their posts on a Saturday morning. Charlie had no living family, and while Molly had intended to visit her own, only five miles distant in Margate, to tell them of her return and make peace with them over her abrupt departure, she had delayed, putting off the moment until finally it was too late. She’d told herself that she would visit after the wedding, that it would be easier to smooth things over if she appeared before them as a respectable married woman, rather than the foolish girl who had fled without a word.

Molly had looked down at the bunch of flowers in her hand and smiled with happiness. Charlie had presented it to her that morning. He’d gone early to the gardens and picked them for her – a simple posy of pale pink rosebuds and blue cornflowers.

It was an unconventional gesture, Molly thought, but then their relationship after Charlie had borne her back from London had been unusual. They had shared a house, but not a bed, and Molly had observed how Charlie trod his own path at Woodchurch Manor and was respected for it by workers and Mr Powell alike.

Indeed, as they’d stood before the vicar, Molly trembling a little in anticipation of the vows she was about to make, the oak door of the church had creaked open and the vicar had paused in the proceedings. Everyone, including Molly and Charlie, had turned to look at the latecomer, and when they saw it was Mr Powell, a little flutter of excitement passed through the small congregation.

Mr Powell gestured to the vicar to continue as he slipped into the family pew at the front of the church. Molly noticed the smile he exchanged with Charlie and felt a burst of pride that carried her through the ceremony, so that she found herself outside in the sunshine again with barely any memory of the words she had uttered.

Mr Powell had pressed some coins into Charlie’s hand before taking Molly by the shoulders and declaring her to be a very lucky young woman. She’d blushed and nodded but before she could speak he was striding away down the church path.

The newlywed pair had walked up to Woodchurch Manor with the vicar and the wedding party. Cook had prepared a wedding breakfast for them, which she insisted was simple but seemed luxurious to Molly. They ate freshly baked rolls, ham and eggs and, when this was cleared away, Cook brought out a wedding cake: a rich fruit cake that she’d iced. They drank wine out of crystal glasses and, as the sun shone in through the windows, Molly felt quite giddy with delight.

Not once in the years since her marriage had she regretted her choice. If she’d agreed to be Charlie’s sweetheart when he had first asked her, would their lives have turned out so happily? She wasn’t sure. She had a feeling she would have been restless, wondering what else life might have to offer. She was glad she’d found out, although she would always have to live with the fact that this knowledge had come at a price.

‘Ma! We’ve been calling you! Whatever is the matter?’

Sally had walked back to stand in front of her, her sisters dancing impatiently from foot to foot further up the lane.

‘I was daydreaming.’ Molly shook her head to clear her thoughts. ‘I was just thinking back to when your pa and I got married here.’ She took Sally’s arm and they hastened to join the others. She felt cold and wondered just how long she had been there, lost in thought. She must be more careful: she didn’t want her daughters, and certainly not Charlie, to have any suspicion of her hidden burden of unhappiness.



The girls persuaded Molly that their father would be delighted to see them and she knew they were right. She was always more reserved when they visited Woodchurch Manor: when Charlie had first brought her back with him from London, she had worked as a maid in the house. She still felt a little in awe of the place, and of Mr Powell and his family, but he was never other than welcoming to them if they met him around the grounds.

Mr Powell had sons, somewhat older than her girls, and all of them away at school. In his boys’ absence, he was inclined to treat the girls as the daughters he had never had, but Molly was cautious. She didn’t want their heads to be turned as they got older, as hers had been by Nicholas Goodchild, and she feared them getting ideas above their station.

The girls didn’t view the situation in the same way. To them, the Powells were just their neighbours, albeit very well-to-do ones who lived in a house rather bigger than their own. Indeed, Catherine had been puzzled as to why they were stitching Woodchurch Manor into their samplers, rather than their own house. Molly had to hide a smile as Sally had solemnly explained that it was traditional to include a grand landmark from the area.

‘It looks more refined,’ she had said, startling Molly with her choice of words.

Now, as they approached the walled garden at the back of Woodchurch Manor, Molly noticed Mr Powell and Charlie deep in conversation on the sweeping back lawn.

‘Girls, let Mr Powell finish his conversation with your father,’ Molly said, but her words were lost in the whoops and cries as Charlie’s daughters sought to attract his attention, then made off across the lawn towards him.

Molly flushed as she followed them at a more sedate pace. Whatever would Mr Powell think of her daughters’ behaviour?

‘Heavens, anyone would think we had been parted for weeks instead of sitting across from each other at the breakfast table this morning,’ Charlie exclaimed, as he disengaged himself from Catherine’s embrace. He turned to smile at Molly as she approached.

Molly relaxed a little at the sight of her husband’s familiar, open face – weather-beaten now by daily exposure to the elements so that his brown eyes were set among deep crinkles as he smiled. His untamed curls, still brown and glossy, caught the sun. It was a face that was very dear to her, all the more so for belonging to a man whose goodness she still marvelled at. Out of loyalty to his employer but also to his family, he had chosen to turn down all offers of work far away from Woodchurch Manor at salaries that might have tempted a lesser man.

‘What need do I have of anything other than I have here?’ he’d said to Molly, when she’d wondered at his refusal of the latest offer from a landowner in Scotland.

‘But this must be the fifth or sixth attempt to lure you away from Mr Powell,’ Molly said. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t relish the challenge of taking on some new estate?’

‘There’s enough here to keep me busy until the day I die,’ Charlie stated. ‘And this area is home to us all. Let no more be said on the subject.’ It was the closest they had ever come to a quarrel, but neither of their hearts was in it.

Molly became aware that Mr Powell was addressing her. ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ she said. ‘I was distracted and didn’t catch your words.’

‘I was just saying what a credit your girls are to you,’ Mr Powell said, raising his voice over the excited chatter. ‘They are always so delighted to see their father and always so interested in his work.’

Molly and Mr Powell watched as the girls pulled Charlie in the direction of the gate leading to the walled garden. ‘I do apologise, sir. I hope they haven’t interrupted you in the middle of important business.’

‘It was nothing that I haven’t already said to your longsuffering husband,’ Mr Powell replied. ‘He is always most polite and accommodating with regard to my schemes.’

They watched in silence until Charlie was out of sight, then Molly made to excuse herself and follow.

Mr Powell stopped her, saying, ‘Ah, I almost forgot. We are to receive a visit from someone of your acquaintance: the artist William Turner. I do believe you knew him as a young boy in Margate.’

Molly half stifled a gasp. Will Turner! She hadn’t seen him for fifteen years. The memory of her situation when she had last seen him, in Covent Garden, caused her to cast an involuntary glance towards the walled garden. She wouldn’t like Charlie to know any details of that time. She caught Mr Powell’s quizzical look and quickly tried to disguise her alarm.

‘What brings him to these parts, sir?’ she asked, praying her heightened colour wasn’t obvious.

‘I purchased a painting from his studio on a recent visit to London,’ Mr Powell answered. ‘We fell into conversation about where I lived and I mentioned I had some of his early works – watercolour sketches done at a very young age. He became quite animated when I described them to him. He told me of the circumstances in which he had made them and said that he had been guided to particular sketching points by a local girl, Molly Goodchild. It took me barely a moment before I realised that, of course, she must have been you, Mrs Dawson.’

Molly still found it odd that Mr Powell, who had known her as Molly when she was a maid in the house, now gave her the courtesy of her married name. She could only hope that Will Turner hadn’t mentioned their subsequent meetings in London to Mr Powell. When she had arrived in Covent Garden, she had been quite unaware of the reputation of the area and of the nature of the house in which she had taken a room. She wanted to laugh now at her naivety, but at the time the place had suited her. Mrs Dobbs, the landlady, had kept her busy with errands for her girls in the market, which was where she had chanced upon Will. It had transpired that he lived locally, around the corner in Maiden Lane with his father, a barber, and was studying at the Royal Academy. She had been happy to see him again: he was a link – but not a close one – with her past in Margate. She was reminded, all at once, of the little painting he had given her that Christmas, which she had been forced to leave behind when she fled. Uneasily, she also remembered telling the Foundling Hospital that Will Turner, the artist, could vouch for her good name. Had they written to him? she wondered.

That two-year period spent in London was one she didn’t care to dwell on. She had hidden the details from everyone, passing it off to her father, aunt and uncle as a time spent mainly working in low-paid jobs, which wasn’t so far from the truth. She didn’t think that admitting to living in a brothel, or working behind the bar of an inn that offered additional services to its customers, would be well received by the good folk of Margate.

Oh, heavens – could Will Turner be relied upon for discretion? Molly had been expecting a baby when she’d last seen him, and they hadn’t met since. Would he enquire after her child?

Molly’s attention was caught by her husband emerging from the walled garden with their daughters in tow. Charlie also knew nothing of her London history, other than that she had been in some distress when he came across her, and he had never pressed her to enlighten him.

Mr Powell was speaking again: ‘You will join us, I hope, when Mr Turner visits? I’m sure he will be delighted to see you again. Such a coincidence that you should be living here.’ Mr Powell’s expression suggested pride, as though he himself had engineered this.

‘A coincidence indeed,’ Molly said. ‘It would be delightful to be reacquainted. I am, though, expected to visit my aunt shortly. I do hope the visits won’t coincide.’ She thought she’d done well to prepare the ground for excusing herself. She saw no need to share the fact that the aunt she referred to lived just a few miles away and wasn’t expecting a visit from her niece in the immediate future.

Mr Powell looked disappointed and Molly felt contrite. She would dearly have loved to see Will but feared she couldn’t risk it. She was glad that the timely reappearance of Charlie and the girls now put paid to any further discussion of the visit. They could make their farewells and head for home.

Molly tried not to let her preoccupation show but the glances Charlie cast her way told her that her silence on the walk back hadn’t gone unnoticed. To ease any suspicions, once they were home she made a show of taking a powder. . .