The Smuggler's Girl

by Jennie Felton

Genres: Marriage & Divorce; Siblings; Sagas; Women's Fiction; Historical Romance

Synopsis

'One of the nation's favourite saga writers' Lancashire Post

In the grand tradition of Josephine Cox, Dilly Court and Rosie Goodwin, comes a page-turning and enthralling new standalone saga from Jennie Felton.

She always knew a piece of her heart was missing...

Cecile has been raised to a life of privilege at Polruan House, by her widowed father and aunt. Now she's of age, they are determined that she make a proper match, but Cecile's heart belongs to their coachman, Sam - most definitely not suitable marriage material.

When Sam turns to his friend, smuggler Zach Carver, for help eloping with Cecile, Zach tells of a recent encounter with Lise, a beautiful but poor girl in St Ives, who is the mirror image of Cecile.

And so a daring plan is born to briefly swap the girls. But bringing Cecile and Lise together will uncover an astonishing family secret of a bold escape from a loveless marriage, a treacherous shipwreck and a sister thought lost to the sea long ago...

For more heartwrenching, heartwarming saga, look out for The Stolen Child and A Mother's Sacrifice, out now!

And don't miss Jennie's Families of Fairley Terrace series, which began with Maggie's story in All The Dark Secrets and continued with Lucy's story in The Miner's Daughter, Edie's story in The Girl Below Stairs, Carina's story in The Widow's Promise and Laurel's story in The Sister's Secret.

(P) 2021 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: September 16, 2021

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 400

Sample

‘Well, miss, you’re in a tidy state and no mistake.’

Bessie, Cecile’s maid, crossed her arms across her ample chest and regarded her mistress sternly. She’d been in the employ of the Pendinnicks ever since they had moved into Polruan House and, as she had cared for Cecile as a child, it had been a natural progression to become her lady’s maid when she was old enough to need one.

Tears sprang to Cecile’s eyes. ‘Oh, don’t be cross with me, Bessie, please! It was just awful, and I was so frightened! Lady bolted and I couldn’t stop her. I thought we were both going to die.’

‘Heaven be praised you didn’t. But you shouldn’t have been up on the cliffs. You know you’re no horsewoman. And don’t think I don’t know what you were doing up there, because I do. You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, missy.’

Cecile dropped her chin, the guilt written plainly on her face.

‘All this creeping about – mark my words, it’ll come to no good,’ the elderly maid went on. ‘You used to be such a good girl, eager to please, and timid as a church mouse. I don’t know what’s got into you lately. Well,’ she sniffed, ‘I suppose I do. It’s that Sam. He’s turned your head. And you haven’t got the good sense to realise it can’t end well.’

‘But I love him, Bessie!’ Cecile cried, scrubbing at her wet cheeks with her fingers and leaving muddy streaks. ‘If I wasn’t able to see him sometimes, I couldn’t bear it!’

‘I know, I know.’ Bessie sighed heavily. Cecile had no secrets from her; they were as close as mother and daughter, and her heart bled for the girl. She had no life here, no life at all, the only young person in the household, and between them her father and aunt had drummed all the spirit out of her. Bessie was only surprised she dared to carry on this affair under her father’s nose, and was able to put aside her fear of riding in order to creep out and meet the man she was clearly in love with.

‘Come on, let’s get you out of those dirty clothes and make you presentable.’

Cecile’s hands flew to her skirts, pressing them against her thighs, and hot colour flooded her cheeks. ‘My hoop – I had to take it off to sit on Mr Carver’s horse. But he swore he didn’t look.’

Bessie clucked. ‘I’m sure he didn’t. He’s a gentleman, that one. Handsome too. You’d do better to set your cap at him instead of the stable lad.’

‘Sam isn’t a stable lad. He’s the coachman,’ Cecile protested.

‘But still a servant. Not someone your father would ever let you wed.’ Bessie sighed, realising she was wasting her breath. ‘Where is your hoop then?’

‘Up on the cliff path. Would you fetch it for me, Bessie?’

‘It’s likely ruined by now.’

‘But still . . . I can’t leave it there for all to see . . .’

‘Course I’ll fetch it.’ Bessie reached out and untied the flounced bow of Cecile’s cravat. ‘Now, are we going to get you cleaned up, or are you going to stay in those filthy things all day?’

By the time Bessie had washed Cecile’s face, dressed her cuts and grazes and helped her into a fresh gown, Godfrey and Zach had concluded their business, so that when Cecile went to his study, her father was alone. Still badly shaken from her fall, she was nervous about facing him. Aunt Cordelia would have told him what had happened by now, and he would not be best pleased, to say the least of it. But she couldn’t avoid him for ever, and the longer he had to think about it, the angrier he was likely to be.

‘Papa . . .’ She stood hesitantly in the doorway picking at the fine lace on the fancy sprigged apron she wore over her hooped and flounced skirts.

For what seemed to her never-ending moments, Godfrey continued with his work, his refusal to acknowledge her presence his way of showing his displeasure. Then he replaced his quill pen in the ink pot, pushed the ledger to the back of his desk, and looked up at her unsmiling over the top of his eyeglasses.

‘Well, Cecile. What do you have to say for yourself?’

She cast her eyes down to the Persian rug beneath her slippered feet. ‘I’m sorry, Papa.’

‘What were you thinking?’ His stern tone matched the expression on his paunchy face. ‘You know you should not be out riding alone.’

‘But Papa—’

‘Sam knows very well you are not to take Lady out without someone to ensure you come to no harm. For two pins I’d give him his marching orders.’

‘Sam wasn’t there, Papa,’ Cecile said swiftly. It was the truth – he had left the stables first, and she had followed later.

Godfrey’s hooded eyes widened in disbelief. ‘You saddled Lady yourself?’

Cecile was silent, biting her lip. In fact, Lady had been tacked up and ready and waiting for her – Sam had made sure of it before leaving himself. But she couldn’t admit to that, of course, or her father would dismiss the coachman on the spot.

‘Small wonder you took a tumble.’ Godfrey gave an impatient shake of his head and powder flew from his wig, settling on the polished surface of the desk like fine dust. ‘The girths, the bit and bridle – what do you know of such things? Except for watching as the horse is prepared for you, perhaps. I ask again – what were you thinking?’

‘It’s such a lovely day, I felt like being out in the sunshine,’ Cecile offered.

‘But to ride alone on the clifftop? You could have taken a turn in the grounds. The walled garden is always a suntrap at this time of day. If you wanted to take the air, that would have been by far the more suitable choice. Why, I didn’t think you even cared much for riding.’

‘I . . . well, I just felt like it, that’s all,’ Cecile said, with all the humility she could muster.

Godfrey shook his head again, and more powder flew, making Cecile’s nose tickle.

‘You might have been seriously injured, my girl. Killed, even. Promise your father you will never attempt something of the sort again, however inclined you feel to do so.’

Cecile crossed her fingers in the folds of the apron. ‘I promise.’

‘Very well. We’ll say no more about it. Now, come here and give me your hand so I can be sure it is really you, unharmed, and not a ghost come to haunt me.’

She did as he asked, and he pulled her close, slipping an arm around her slender waist and resting his forehead against her shoulder.

‘Oh, my dearest daughter, if I should lose you . . . I cannot abide the thought of it.’

The study door opened, and Cordelia stood there. Godfrey released Cecile, patting her hand and smiling.

‘Run along now, and be sure to heed what I said.’

‘Yes, Papa.’

Cecile crossed the room and slipped hastily past her aunt, who was regarding her with pinched lips and a cold stare.

As the door closed after her, Cordelia turned her gaze on Godfrey.

‘You are too soft on that one. No wonder she thinks she can do as she pleases.’

‘She’s a good girl.’ Godfrey’s tone was defensive.

‘She may play meek and mild, but she needs a firm hand.’

‘Which I am sure you administer on my behalf.’

‘Someone has to,’ Cordelia said sharply. ‘She’s her mother’s daughter, don’t forget, and if you are not careful, she will break your heart, just as Marguerite did.’

Furious at the mention of his late wife, Godfrey raised his hand and brought it crashing down so sharply on the desk that the crystal inkwell juddered in its brass stand, his eyes flashing icy anger. ‘That’s enough, Cordelia. You go too far.’

Cordelia shrugged. She was too accustomed to her brother’s sudden rages to be discomfited. ‘You may refuse to allow Marguerite’s name to be spoken, but you cannot deny she lives on in her daughter. It’s why you insist on keeping Cecile close, yet forgive her follies, such as today’s reckless escapade. But you would do well to remember it may not be just in her physical appearance that she resembles your sainted wife. She may also have inherited her wild and faithless ways. The best thing for all of us would be to marry her off so that we can be sure she will not bring trouble to our door.’

She turned away having delivered her parting shot and left the room before Godfrey could make any response.

Cordelia Pendinnick knew her brother only too well. As the two middle children of Squire Wilbur Pendinnick, they had always been close. With their elder brother Christopher heir to the entire estate, which encompassed six tenant farms and the village, and their younger sister Eliza babied and indulged, they had forged an alliance that had survived good times and bad.

Cordelia had never married, nor wanted to. When, as a young man, Godfrey left to go to sea, she remained at home, assisting her father and Christopher with the running of the estate, but living for the times when Godfrey had shore leave. And when he made captain, she often went to sea with him, standing at the prow, hair streaming out behind her in the salty wind, for all the world as if she were the painted figurehead that rode the storm beneath her. Those were the days when she was young and free, when she dressed in breeches, waistcoats and buckled shoes and wished she had been born a boy.

Those early trips were legitimate trading between England and France, but it wasn’t long before Godfrey had realised the opportunity for making an income to supplement the wages he was paid by the ship’s owner. Whenever there was room in the hold, he purchased tea, tobacco or rum to fill it, and sold his booty on in the inns and taverns of Penzance, his home port.

At first Cordelia had counselled against it. If Godfrey was caught, he would at the very least lose his livelihood – no honest trader wanted to be associated with a known smuggler. But when she saw the riches he was making, she agreed he was on to a good thing. She began to help him then, often taking on the negotiations with the French tradesmen and securing even better terms than Godfrey could manage. They were taken with her, those Frenchmen, this spirited English girl who was afraid of nothing and no one.

As he became more practised, Godfrey also became more ambitious. He wanted his own ship and his own gang, and before long he had found a way to get it.

Though smuggling was rife all around the Cornish coast, Mount’s Bay, east of Penzance, was awash with the illegal trade. From Lizard Point to Land’s End, the coast was peppered with hidden coves and inlets that provided perfect landing sites.

One of the most successful – and notorious – operations in the bay had been run in Porthmeor by the legendary Amos Fletcher. Tales abounded of his exploits, and of the grand house he had built on the cliffs above the village with the proceeds of his enterprise, which served both as his home and a hub for his illicit activities. Miraculously, he had never been brought to justice.

He was an old man now. His gang had long since been disbanded and he had become something of a recluse, alone in the great house but for an elderly housekeeper – who had once, some said, carried out duties that went beyond feeding him and laundering his bed sheets and linen. It was also rumoured that he was sitting on a small fortune. ‘He does nothing these days but count his money,’ Godfrey had heard it said, and it had whetted his appetite.

One November afternoon, he and Cordelia had paid the old man a visit. Sea mist had rolled in, so that only the bell tower and the chimney pots of Polruan House were visible, and the track that led up from the road below was slippery with a carpet of fallen leaves. They exchanged approving glances: Fletcher had chosen the perfect spot. Small wonder he had managed to keep his business hidden from the authorities for so long.

Cordelia reached for the bell pull beside the heavy oak front door and heard it ring somewhere inside the depths of the house. For a while there was silence but for the cawing of the rooks in the trees overhead, and she had begun to wonder if the house was unoccupied when she heard a faint shuffling sound, like slippers on flagstones, and the creak of bolts being drawn. The door juddered, but when it became obvious that the person on the other side was unable to get it open, Godfrey put his weight on it, and it gave grudgingly, scraping over the uneven floor.

An old woman stood in the hall beyond. Small, beady eyes seemed to have disappeared into folds of pallid flesh, multiple chins melted into the neckline of her gown.

‘Yes?’ Her tone was heavy with suspicion.

Godfrey removed his hat, holding it between his gloved hands like an offering. ‘Would it be possible to speak to Mr Fletcher?’

‘Mr Fletcher doesn’t entertain visitors.’ She made to try and close the door again, but once more her efforts were in vain and Cordelia managed to insinuate herself into the narrow gap.

‘We won’t detain him for long, I promise. But it is a matter of the greatest importance.’

Still the old woman stood her ground. Then, to Cordelia’s surprise, the figure of a man, wizened and bent, leaning heavily on a cane, appeared in the hallway behind her.

‘Who is it?’ The voice was as scratchy as the cawing of the rooks. ‘For the love of God, Hetty, I might as well be in a prison cell for all the company you allow me. That sounds like a pretty young voice from what I can hear of it. And fortune will surely be smiling on me if there’s a pretty young face along with it.’

‘How d’you know they don’t mean you harm?’ the woman, Hetty, demanded. ‘How d’you know they won’t rob you blind, or worse?’

‘We just want to talk to you, Mr Fletcher,’ Cordelia said in her sweetest tone. ‘We are in the same line of business as you once were. Your success is legendary, and we’d so like to hear the stories you must have to tell.’

‘Is that so?’ The old man harrumphed loudly, then chuckled, his chest wheezing. ‘Get out of the blasted way, Hetty, and let them in before I break my cane on your fat backside.’

Cordelia threw a triumphant glance at Godfrey over her shoulder. He thrust the door open wider, then closed it behind him as he followed his sister and Amos Fletcher into the house.

They didn’t achieve their objective immediately, of course, any more than Rome was built in a day. But Amos Fletcher was only too delighted that their visits became a regular thing. He enjoyed recounting tales of his long-ago escapades and close-run brushes with the revenue men, chuckled at Godfrey’s own stories – many highly embellished – and was flattered by Cordelia’s rapt attention to every word he had to say. So when Godfrey eventually mentioned that he was looking to be able to buy at least one ship of his own, Amos was quick with his advice.

‘What you need, my boy, is a backer. That’s how I started. A local landowner put up the capital – I’ll name no names, though his lordship’s long gone to meet his maker. He took his cut but never did involve himself in the trade, except to have a word in the ear of the local magistrate if any of my gang looked like ending up before the bench for their trouble.’

Godfrey assumed a downcast expression. ‘I don’t know any landed gentry, I’m afraid.’

‘Well, maybe I can help you there. I’ve got a nice little nest egg salted away, and no one to leave it to when I slip my mortal coil. Like I said, I was helped myself, so I reckon the least I can do is give something back. This house is ideally situated, too. There’s enough bays and inlets on this coast to put the revenue men off the scent, and plenty of hidey-holes.’

‘Oh – I couldn’t take your money!’ Godfrey protested.

‘Nonsense, my boy! You’ll be doing me a favour, as long as you cut me in. I’ll have more fun than I’ve had in years!’

It was true, Amos Fletcher seemed to take on a new lease of life as he explained to Godfrey what was required to mastermind a successful smuggling ring. It seemed only sensible that Cordelia should act as overseas agent, since she was already a familiar face amongst the foreign merchants, and Godfrey himself would be the banker and clerk. But he would also need a ‘lander’, who would be responsible for assembling pack animals – mules and horses – and human porters to move the contraband, and some brawny men to act as security guards.

A cutter was purchased, paid for by Amos, and the story was put about that she was to be used as a privateer – a ship that would give chase to smugglers and earn a reward for any contraband she was able to recover. Godfrey recruited a crew for the ship from amongst seamen he’d sailed with, and visited farmers and innkeepers drumming up support. Some of those who made up the land gang he was able to put together were the children and grandchildren of Fletcher’s original enterprise. But Godfrey was careful to keep his distance from the landing site at Porthmeor in those early years. He and Cordelia took possession of an old rectory in Penzance, and he was able to live the life of a respectable shipowner. It was only much later, when Amos died at the ripe old age of eighty-four and left his entire estate to Godfrey, that he moved into Polruan House.

But by then his heart had been broken by Marguerite, the daughter of one of the French merchants he and Cordelia dealt with. Godfrey had fallen madly in love with her; so obsessed was he that he brokered an arranged marriage and brought her home to Penzance. Inevitably, everything had gone disastrously wrong, and now he was left with nothing but their daughter Cecile.

Cordelia had been desperately hurt when Marguerite had taken her place in her brother’s life and his affections. He was no longer the man she had thought she knew so well, with whom she had shared everything, and she had come to loathe and despise the woman who had come between them.

She had been there for him, nevertheless, when his world had been torn apart, stepping seamlessly back into her old role, supporting him in every way. But to her chagrin, she had had to stand by helpless as Godfrey transferred his obsession with Marguerite to their daughter. He barely let Cecile out of his sight for fear of losing her too. Now, the jealousy Cordelia had felt towards her rival for Godfrey’s affections was directed at her niece, and her bitterness manifested itself in her treatment of the girl.

Cecile was still trembling, and close to tears, when she returned to her own sitting room. The fall had shaken her badly and unleashed all the despair she usually tried so desperately to ignore.

Their situation was hopeless. Bessie was right when she said Godfrey would never allow her to wed Sam, and would most likely dismiss him on the spot if he came to suspect there was something between them. They’d talked about running away together but, as Sam had pointed out, with all Godfrey’s connections they’d never even make it out of Cornwall unless they had a proper plan, and Godfrey would make sure they never saw one another again. He’d find a way, he’d promised, but deep down Cecile couldn’t imagine what that might be. She feared she and Sam would never be together.

Oh, if only her mother were here! But she had died when Cecile was so young that she had only the most fleeting memory of a soft voice singing a lullaby, while sometimes the scent of the lavender bushes in the garden evoked a bittersweet recollection of warmth and love.

Thanks to Cordelia, there was not a single portrait of Marguerite on the walls of the house, and Cecile possessed just one memento – a locket she had found in a dresser drawer amongst keys and half-burned candles and other odds and ends. Somehow she had known she must keep her find secret. She had slipped it into her pocket, brought it to her room and hidden it in a blue silk reticule that she no longer used. Whenever she felt sad or in need of comfort, she would take it out and look at it.

She felt that need now. She fetched it from its hiding place, went to the brocaded chaise that stood beneath the window and sat, her back resting against its head, her feet drawn up beneath her skirts. Then she uncapped her hands and gazed at the locket, sterling silver on a length of black velvet ribbon, before carefully undoing the clasp and opening it to reveal the two tiny miniatures it contained.

Her mother must have loved her very much, Cecile reasoned, for both miniatures were of herself as a tiny child, one showing her right profile, the other her left, so that she appeared to be facing herself. Marguerite must have wanted to capture her daughter from every angle. Cecile’s only regret was that she hadn’t used one half for a picture of herself. That would have made it doubly precious.

No matter. She closed the locket, cupped it once more in her hands and pressed it to her heart.

‘Help me, Mama, please help me,’ she whispered. ‘I love him so much.’

A feeling of peace enveloped her. She lay back, still clutching the locket, and closed her eyes. It never failed to work its magic. At times such as this, she could almost believe her mother was here with her. For that, she was truly grateful.



‘Hey, me lovely – you be at it again!’

The young man swaggering along the harbourside with the rolling gait of a seaman came to a stop as he reached the girl who sat gutting pilchards on the steps leading up to one of a row of fisherman’s cottages.

She looked up, dropping the fish into one pail and dusting the blood and gore from her knife into another. ‘Well, Billie Moxey, and aren’t you the clever one!’

He grinned, and in the bright sunlight the furrows that had already begun etching themselves into his weather-tanned face deepened. ‘I keeps me eyes open. Specially if they might light on the prettiest girl in Cornwall.’

‘Oh, get along with you!’

Lise Bisset was well used to the Moxey boys – all five of them. She’d lived next door to them for as long as she could remember, and they’d grown up together. They were all rascals with a wicked twinkle in their eye, even Marco, the youngest at just twelve years old, but apart from Aaron – a year younger than Billie and a year older than her – who had an unpleasant side to his nature, they also possessed hearts of gold, just as their parents did. Lise thought of them almost as brothers, though she knew that beneath his tomfoolery and teasing, Billie, at least, would have liked it if her feelings for him had been more than that.

He leaned back casually against the low wall beside the stone steps, hands thrust into the pockets of his worn, salt-stained breeches, but his expression now was concerned.

‘So if you be here cleaning the fish, Annie’s no better then?’

Lise shook her head, and brushed back some of the thick chestnut hair that fell over her face. ‘No. She can’t seem to shake off this bad chest of hers. The Trevelyans have given me time off so I can be here with her.’

‘That’s kind of them.’

‘They’re good people. I was lucky to get a position with them and, as you know, I’ve worked my way up to parlourmaid. But if Annie’s sick for long, well, they’ll have to replace me, I should think.’

Even as she spoke, the wheezing and hawking of a coughing spasm could be heard from inside the house, and Lise dropped her knife into the bucket of fish guts and stood up, wiping her hands on the coarse sacking apron she wore over her skirts.

‘I’d better go to her. Sometimes it’s all she can do to catch her breath.’

‘Yeah. You go on.’

Billie was unsure what else to say. His mother Gussie reckoned Annie was not long for this world, and from what Billie could hear of it, she wasn’t far wrong. But he knew that Lise would be devastated if she lost her. It had been just the two of them since Annie’s husband George had gone down with his fishing smack in a bad storm ten years or more since. Lise had no mother or father; but for Annie, she was alone in the world, and if Annie died, he didn’t know what she’d do.

Unless . . .

Might it be he’d stand a chance with her if she had no one else? He quickly pushed the thought aside, ashamed of thinking such a thing for even a moment. But for all that, he couldn’t help the spark of hope that flared. He’d fancied Lise for as long as he could remember, but she seemed to think of him only as a friend. There was no one else as far as he could tell – for all the admiring glances she attracted from men and boys of all ages, he’d never seen her walk out with any of them. He couldn’t understand it. But then that was Lise all over. A puzzle it was impossible to solve. A girl totally unlike any other he’d ever known.

Perhaps it was working for the Trevelyans, who lived in one of the big houses on the hill overlooking the town, that had made her different, he mused. Living cheek-by-jowl with the gentry, some of their fine ways had rubbed off on her. But Lise never affected airs and graces. Never thought she was better than anyone else. Never looked down on Annie, the fishwife, or on Billie’s family.

She was just different. He couldn’t say why, but she was. And it was that that drew him to her like a moth to a flame. He’d get his wings burned, he knew, but it made no difference. If ever Lise needed him, he’d be there. That was the way it had always been, and the way it would always be.

Billie sighed deeply, took one last look at the door through which Lise had disappeared, and headed for his own home.

‘Annie?’

Lise hurried through the tiny kitchen to the living room beyond, where Annie lay on a bed Lise had made up for her on the sofa so she would not have to tackle the steep and narrow stairs. Annie’s gnarled hands clutched her chest like claws as her body was racked with a fit of coughing, and her eyes, sunken in their dark-rimmed sockets, were closed.

Lise braced herself against the sofa, slipped her arms under Annie’s and managed to haul her to a sitting position. As the coughing fit lessened and Annie sank back, exhausted, she fetched a cup of water and held it to the old woman’s lips.

‘Have a sip of this, and then you can have some of your medicine.’

Annie managed to drink a little, and Lise wiped away some water that had run down her chin. The medicine was on a small side table, and she uncorked the bottle and dribbled some of the potion into a spoon. But she couldn’t help noticing that there was very little left.

‘Have you been helping yourself to this?’ she asked.

‘No!’ But Annie’s expression was tinged with guilt, like a naughty child who’d been caught stealing biscuits.

‘I think you have,’ Lise reprimanded her gently. ‘I think you’ve been drinking it straight out of. . .