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A loving supportive family provides a firm foundation on which to build the rest of our lives.

I would like to dedicate Daniel’s Daughter to my family for the unwavering love and support they have shown me.

Acknowledgements

At one time Cornwall was the leading producer of China Clay. As a writer of historical fiction set in Cornwall, it would seem amiss of me not to use it as a backdrop to one of my novels. The industrial revolution during the Victorian era inevitably changed the way clay was assessed and mined over the 19th century. My research into the subject led me to the experts I would like to acknowledge now:

Wheal Martyn Museum, Cornwall. Wheal Marty is the UK’s only China Clay museum. Their help and support, and their unique Victorian clay works, were both inspirational and educational.

Ivor Bowditch, China Clay Historian. Ivor’s knowledge on the subject is vast, only equalled by his patience with my persistent questioning. If there are any mistakes with the historical accuracy on how the clay was assessed, mined, produced and sold, the mistakes are all mine.

I would also like to acknowledge and thank my publisher, Choc Lit, and their amazing team — with special thanks to the following Tasting Panel readers for selecting Daniel’s Daughter for publication: Stephanie H, Dimi E, Jenny M, Melanie A, Wendy S, Sally SD, Rosie F, Alma H, Joy B, Barbara P, Hannah T, Anne E, Luise P, Jenny K, Helen C, Maureen W, Lucie W,

Daniel’s Daughter is the sixth novel in the Cornish Tales Series and I will be eternally grateful to Choc Lit, and their amazing team, for bringing these stories to a wider audience.

And finally, thank you to my writer friends, especially Morton S. Gray, who has travelled this publication journey with me and been only a text message away.

Chapter One

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Cornwall, 1895

The first time Grace Kellow saw Talek Danning, she was terrified. Tall, handsome and sombre, he was striding across the weather-beaten grass of Bodmin Moor towards the rugged outcrop of Hel Tor. She watched him, wide eyed and her heart hammering, from the summit of the tor. His figure would have been a pleasing sight for any woman, if it had not been for the lifeless body he carried in his arms.

Grace crouched behind a large granite boulder and sat with her back pressed against the stone’s hard, cold surface. A far-reaching view of Cornwall lay at her feet, nature’s gift for those motivated to reach the summit of Hel Tor, but Grace did not see it. Her mind was on the stranger heading her way. The isolated rock formation, with its large, weathered boulders of granite, had been her playground as a child. Today, Hel Tor had been spoilt for her, as it now had a new, macabre purpose — it appeared a good place to hide a body.

She stared at her empty basket tilted precariously on its side. Until now she did not realise how quickly life could change. Only an hour ago her only concern was not being caught doing a good deed by Widow Smyth. The widow had struggled to feed her children since her husband’s death so Grace had begun to leave packages of food on her doorstep when the widow was out. An hour ago she had been hiding from a woman reluctant to accept charity, now she was hiding from a man who had killed.

Grace strained to listen to the man’s movements, her eyes darting at each unfamiliar sound. As frightening as it was to see the murderer, at least she had known where he was. Hiding had put an end to that as she had quickly lost track of his movements. There was now a strong possibility he could suddenly emerge from behind a rock and find her. The thought sent Grace’s pounding heart into a wild frenzy. The man had killed once — he could kill again. She had to find out where he was.

Grace twisted her body around, pressed her chest against the boulder and eased herself upwards, inch by inch. Finally she was able to look over the top and down onto the banks of the tor. Her eyes searched for movement — a head — a shadow — any sign that would tell her his whereabouts. Nothing.

A light, northerly breeze stroked the hair from Grace’s face, reminding her of how exposed she was now. Something dark — perhaps a man’s shoulder — caught her attention as it passed between two large boulders. The man had remained at the base of Hel Tor and for the moment had come no closer. He disappeared and Grace was forced to crane her neck to search for him again. This time she saw a fleeting glimpse of his dark, bowed head as he looked down on the woman resting against his chest. Grace watched, mesmerised, as he carefully navigated his route before disappearing from view again. Was he aiming to climb to the top? She slowly retreated behind the smooth granite, her mind whirring as to what she should do. Should she lie low and wait for him to leave or escape while she still could?

Despite the distance between them, his presence surrounded her and tightened every nerve in her body. The isolation that she had sought was now her enemy, she realised with mounting horror. She had told no one where she was going. If she was murdered, her body would not be discovered for days. It would lie between the rocks, beaten by all weathers as wild animals scavenged off her bones. She would never see her parents again, or her brother, Ben, or sisters, Ann and Mary. Or Uncle David and dear Aunt Molly. She looked at the view in front of her, with its patchwork of sweeping hills and scattered villages nestling in the depths of dark, lush valleys. She would never see this view again. The sound of a dislodged rock, bouncing and tumbling down the other side of the tor, snared her attention. He was coming closer. Grace scrambled to her feet, grabbed her empty basket and fled for home.

* * *

Grace entered Kellow Dairy yard, out of breath and a little dishevelled. She arrived at the same time as several horse-drawn, empty dairy wagons. They had just returned from the railway station, their produce of cheese and butter now safely on board a London bound train. Grace skirted the boundary to keep out of their way, as they pulled up in a line for the drivers to dismount. One of the drivers noticed her and lifted his hand in acknowledgement. She waved back, but strode on, her eyes searching the hive of activity that always formed the backdrop to her parents’ business. It was her father she wanted to see right now, not Uncle David. She headed for the cheese house, a large stone building to the left of the yard, and went inside.

The cheese house was divided into two main sections to reflect the two main parts of the cheese-making process. The first room was vast and nicknamed the working room. Large milk vats took up much of the centre, while around the edge hardworking dairymaids turned the white milk into a solid form as they boiled, stirred, strained, cut and, eventually, pressed it in the numerous cheese presses that lined the far walls. One by one they noticed her entrance, her bright auburn hair a stark contrast to the pale milk, white hats and long aprons that surrounded her.

Grace’s steps slowed, as she felt their watchful gazes settle on her. It would not do to see their boss’s daughter worried. It would fuel gossip, a cause would be found and the inevitable anxiety for their jobs would spread like an infection around the workforce. Grace reassured them with a slight nod and a smile, and tentative smiles were returned as she passed each one.

Grace always knew she was fortunate. Her mother had been a servant and her father an illegitimate runaway, but thanks to a mixture of luck and hard work, her parents had built up a profitable business producing quality butter and cheese for towns and cities far and wide. Grace was their eldest child and enjoyed a comfortable existence compared to the hardworking dairymaids who watched her. Her father’s reputation of being a no-nonsense businessman and employer of many of the local folk, and her mother’s gentle, caring ways, ensured the Kellow name was well respected in the community. By default of being one of their offspring, Grace received the same respect. She had never questioned her position in life, but as Grace dragged her eyes away from their watchful gazes, she could not help wondering what they really thought of her as she strode purposely from the room.

Grace entered the curing room, where long, straight rows of maturing cheese silently greeted her. The shelves were taller than a man and stretched the length of the well ventilated, but pungent smelling room. Between each row was a narrow path, which provided a much-needed corridor for regular inspection and testing of the batches of cheese. It was in one of these corridors, Grace found Aunt Molly. Just like Uncle David, she was a long-standing family friend, rather than a true blood relation, but Grace loved her as dearly as if she was her kith and kin.

‘Where is Father?’ asked Grace through a gap in the maturing cheese. Her aunt gave a start and looked up from the stock book she had been writing in. She searched between the cheeses for the origin of the voice until she found Grace on the other side of the shelf.

‘Where have you been, Grace?’ she whispered. ‘Your mother has been looking for you.’

Grace remembered her promise to look at the ledgers today. It was a task her mother had always done, but in recent months her mother was keen to pass the chore onto her. ‘It will give you purpose and involve you in the business more,’ her mother had told her. In truth, Grace’s aptitude for figures meant she found the daily accounts, which took her mother all afternoon to complete, an easy one. The task would take Grace barely an hour and she did not find it challenging enough to occupy her inquisitive mind. However it did mean that she was contributing to the success of Kellow Dairy and, perhaps, she would deserve the respect the community showed her by being the child of Daniel Kellow.

‘She will want me to do the accounts. I have not forgotten.’

Aunt Molly noticed Grace’s windswept hair for the first time. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Where have you been, Grace?’

‘I’ve been visiting Mrs Smyth, but don’t tell anyone. You know she doesn’t like charity. Have you seen Father?’

Aunt Molly’s face disappeared. Grace heard her brisk footsteps behind the row of stacked dairy and anxiously followed the sound, catching fleeting glimpses of her aunt’s body between the wheels of cheese until they met at the end of the row.

Aunt Molly looked at her over her reading spectacles. ‘It doesn’t take that long to drop off some packages. You’ve been to Hel Tor again, haven’t you? Aren’t you a little old to be playing at Hel Tor?’

‘You can never be too old to play on Hel Tor.’

Molly shook her head in despair. ‘Look at your hair falling loose from its pins. Your mother would have a fit.’

Grace tucked a stray curl behind her ear. Perhaps Aunt Molly was right. If she had spent the afternoon with her head in the account book she would not be in such a predicament right now.

‘I will finish the books by tonight but first I need to speak to Father.’

‘You look as if you have had a fight with a gorse bush,’ her aunt teased, breaking into a smile as she removed her spectacles.

‘Where is he?’

Her aunt grew concerned and her smile faded. ‘Have you looked in the butter house?’

‘No. I’ll go there now.’ Grace left through the back door of the curing room before her aunt could question her further.

On her way to the butter house, Grace had to navigate her way past a delivery of empty elm boxes. They had just arrived and would be used to protect the matured cheeses during transportation. Someone grabbed at her arm and halted her.

‘Your mother is looking for you.’

Grace felt a surge of relief when she saw it was her father. He was in the midst of receiving the order and was not best pleased she had gone missing. Her father’s grip was firm and tight on her arm, but it did not hurt her. Everyone knew that Daniel Kellow could fell a man, but he would never hurt his family. His stern expression changed to concern as his dark, brown eyes searched her face. She felt herself relax as she read his thoughts. Her father was also intuitive and sensible, which was why she loved him so much.