She shook her head.
‘Please don’t lie to me,’ begged Grace. ‘Did he have red hair?’
‘No. His hair was fair, but red ran in his family.’
‘Am I like him?’
‘No.’ Her mother attempted to pass her, but Grace stepped in front of her.
‘I am. I must be.’
Her mother’s shoulders sagged. ‘He was . . . impulsive and restless at times, but that is all. You are kind and caring, he was thoughtless and selfish.’
‘I can be thoughtless and selfish.’
Her mother stroked her arm. ‘Don’t do this, Grace. Don’t look for traits you don’t have. Don’t question yourself. You are you. He was another person.’
‘Was?’
‘He died. He means nothing to us now.’
‘But he was my father, not the man who claimed to be!’
Her mother’s gaze lifted behind her. Grace knew, from her despairing expression, who was standing there. She turned to see her father in the doorway, his face stricken with the news Ann had brought him. The years he had spent caring for her had been swept away in one afternoon as the lie it had been. She saw the pain in his face, but she was unable, or unwilling to console him. It was she who had the greater pain to bear.
They had talked into the night and, bit by bit, Grace learnt the details of her conception. Fuelled by brandy, bad luck and an obsession that refused to go away, her real father had abused his position of power and forced himself on her mother. Her mother had wanted to die, until the day she had felt Grace move inside her.
‘I knew then, that I had to survive, because you were as much a victim as I was,’ her mother told her.
Her father, who was always sparing with words, tried to provide comfort too, but he knew, perhaps better than her mother, that they had lied to her all her life and that was hard to forgive. Eventually the evening had ended. Ann and Ben had emerged from their rooms to say goodnight, but to Grace they now appeared as strangers. Her mother, who was always so trustworthy, could no longer be trusted, and her father, who was good and reliable, had no real connection to her at all. She was a cuckoo in the nest they had built, a reminder of a time best forgotten and the weight of the truth crushed the joy out of her.
Grace looked at the stranger in the mirror. She had always felt loved, yet there was always a part of her that felt different. She assumed it was her red hair. It seems now that her instinct was closer to the truth than she had ever envisaged. She didn’t know who she was any more. She was no longer Daniel Kellow’s daughter. How will she face the villagers, or the Kellow Dairy workers, knowing they would be whispering about her? What right did she have to delegate jobs, when she came from such a sordid beginning? She felt like a ship out at sea, with its sails torn and its anchor cut adrift. How could she walk proud again, if she did not feel worthy to walk the earth now? The vicar’s sermon last month had focused on the sins of a father being passed onto the next two generations. Now she finally understood what he meant, for she felt the chill of the shadow it cast and its heavy burden as keenly as if she had committed the sin herself.
Grace stared at her reflection until her eyes began to smart. She thought she knew her place in the world — a place of respectability and wealth. But she was just a fool living in a deluded world.
Her gaze dropped to her mother’s dressmaking scissors on the dressing table in front of her. Grace had hidden them beneath her shawl when she had bid her parents goodnight and carried them to her room. She reached for them and slowly slid them towards her across the polished wood. They were old and worn, but sturdy. Grace lifted them up into the light. They were heavy — and sharp. She selected a lock of her red hair and slowly, methodically, sliced it off. She felt a rush of relief surge through her body at the sound it made. She breathed in deeply. For the first time Grace felt in control of the events playing out and it helped numb the pain. She looked at the hair lying limp in her hand and discarded it onto the dressing table with a gentle wave of her fingers, before methodically selecting another.
Chapter Six
Talek saw St Austell train station come into view, with its familiar twin verandas projecting over the platform on either side of the tracks. The journey from Staffordshire had been long and tiresome, but it had been a necessary one and, as it turned out, a lucrative one. Talek had struck a deal that would keep the momentum of his business flowing and workers in their jobs, but it was still good to be back in Cornwall again.
The rhythmical chug chug of the wheels began to slow, culminating in a cloud of hissing and spitting steam rising up to tumble over the roofs of the carriages as the train finally rolled to a stop. Talek collected his bag, stepped down from the train and walked briskly along the platform, cutting a swathe through the passengers rushing to embark. Conveniently placed signs directed the travellers through the station to the preferred exit where they would not inconvenience the heavy goods traffic that also used the station. Talek smiled at the familiar sight of the wooden architecture, noise and expectant faces, a mixture of humanity amidst industrialisation. It was good to be home.
He was glad to see his coach and horses waiting patiently for him, although he was surprised to see his sister inside it.
Talek opened the carriage door. ‘Have you grown brave in my absence?’
‘No, I grew bored,’ replied his sister. ‘Robert sat with me.’
Talek looked upwards to see the cooper sitting stiffly by the driver. He looked very out of place, being more at home by a blacksmith’s forge than sitting in a carriage with his sister. ‘Did you give him a choice?’
She smiled sheepishly. ‘No.’ She threw up her hands in exacerbation as he lifted an eyebrow. ‘What would you have me do? I wanted to meet you off the train and was not happy to travel alone. Besides, Robert had a splendid time.’
‘He should be working.’
‘He is one of many. No one will miss him.’
‘The workers at Stenna Pit will miss him. Did you allow him inside?’
‘Of course.’ She waved above her head in the vague direction of the coach driver and his passenger. ‘He would be no help to me if he was up there. You should be congratulating me rather than looking so stern.’
‘I don’t look stern.’
‘Miserable then.’
‘I always look like this.’ Talek climbed in and sat opposite her. ‘What are you looking at?’
‘I’m looking at you. It wouldn’t hurt you to smile once in a while. Was the trip successful?’
‘They were impressed by the grade and have increased their order.’
‘That’s good news. An excellent reason to leave that stern look in the train,’ replied Amelia, turning her attention to the window. Talek silently watched her. Amelia did not pretend to understand the business or understand that with each new contract came added responsibility that all should run smoothly. He could not blame her. She did not need to. Talek, on the other hand, had little choice but to learn and had spent every year since inheriting Celtic Clay learning about the clay business. It was a legacy he never expected to have; but thanks to his cousin’s untimely death from influenza in the late winter of 1888, he and Amelia became his uncle’s only relatives. His uncle died three years later in 1891. His death was sudden, but then 1891 was a year of surprises as it was when he had first met Margaret. Even now her name gave him a painful jolt to the chest. His future had turned out very different to how he had once planned it since meeting her. Now he was living someone else’s life and everyone was satisfied with the arrangement but him.
The chill of loneliness caught Talek off guard. His sister was right. Although he was efficient in business, he was gloomy company, growing more maudlin and self-pitying as each day passed. It was also time they went home. He was about to give the command when his sister stopped him.
‘Wait! Look. Is that Miss Kellow?’ She frowned, forcing Talek to follow her gaze.
‘It’s hard to tell,’ replied Talek, non-committally. It was her. He would recognise her anywhere, despite the shawl covering her hair.
