Her mother looked at her through her lashes, reminding her of her former schoolteacher. ‘Yes you have.’

Grace pressed her lips together and returned her attention to the accounts. She would not speak of Mr Talek Danning ever again. She noticed her mother’s attention was back on her sewing and was thankful the conversation had come to an end. Or at least she thought it had.

‘Why was he carrying his sister?’

A vivid memory of him carrying Amelia came to her mind. She had blurted out the very same question at the time. Silence had hung in the air before the arrogant man had replied. Even now, sitting alone with her mother, she still experienced the same flush of heat she had felt when his eyes had dropped to the sodden hem of her dress, lingered there and finally replied.

Grace sniffed noisily. ‘He said he was protecting the hem of his sister’s dress.’

‘That was very gentlemanly of him.’

Grace snorted. Her mother looked up in surprise.

‘Do you have a cold?’

Grace shook her head.

‘Ahh . . . You don’t believe him. Strange. Your father quite liked him.’

Grace shut the book noisily and leaned back in the chair. Her back felt stiff and she had a sudden need of fresh air. ‘I’ll finish this tomorrow, when I sort out the wages.’

Her mother frowned. ‘You look out of sorts, Grace. What is the matter?’

In truth, Grace didn’t know. She felt restless and dissatisfied with her lot, and although she often felt the former, she had never felt the latter before. All she could muster in reply was a childish shrug, which was not like her at all.

‘I know what it is,’ replied her mother, selecting a reel of thread and withdrawing a length. ‘You want to set up a home of your own. It is only natural. I was married and had you by the time I was twenty-five.’

Grace was horrified. ‘I don’t want to get married. Besides, there is no one around here that interests me and you need me.’

‘Of course you want to get married. Everyone wants to get married. It’s the natural way of things.’ Her mother lined up the needle and thread, and with one well timed movement, she threaded it with ease. ‘I know it is not easy for you. As the daughter of the owner of Kellow Dairy it is difficult to find a suitable husband in these parts. Too rich and they look down on us, too poor and a man feels you are above his station. I worry you may have missed your chance of marriage.’

‘It is I who have not found a man I wish to marry. I have had offers.’

‘Of marriage?’

‘No. I didn’t mean that. I mean men expressing an interest in me . . .’ Grace sighed ‘. . . but they don’t interest me. I want a marriage like yours, not one to simply make do and mend. I don’t want to end up like the old couple in the village who can barely look at each other.’

Her mother watched the long thread trailing from her needle as she pulled it taut. ‘Every marriage is different, Grace. They start differently and they end differently. I did not love your father at first sight.’

‘But it did not take you long.’

‘It took me a while.’ Her mother noticed her puzzled expression. ‘Your father had a reputation. People were scared of him.’

‘But it wasn’t true though, was it?’

‘Well, let’s just say he had been in a fight or two at school and mud sticks.’

‘Father? Fighting?’ Grace found that hard to believe. ‘He is always so calm and measured.’

Her mother nodded. ‘He is now. Let’s just say that it took me a while to trust him.’

‘And then you did and you married him. And then I came along.’

Her mother smiled. ‘And then you came along,’ she repeated indulgently.

‘I walked out with Alfred a few times last year.’

‘Alfred? The blacksmith who moved back here? I didn’t know.’

Her mother didn’t seem too pleased to hear it.

‘Nothing came of it. It was only a few times.’

Her mother made a face. ‘He isn’t good enough for you. I want you to be married, but not to just anyone.’

‘I have no plans to rush into marriage. You both need me here. Who would do the accounts?’

Her mother rested her sewing on her lap. ‘We love you, Grace. We want you here and you’re a great help, but we managed before you came of age and we’ll manage when you decide to leave us.’ Her mother smiled to soften the words. ‘Don’t grimace so. I am just saying if there is a new man you wish to court, don’t let us hold you back. You’re growing more unsettled and less reliable by the day. You spend hours wandering the moors and goodness knows where else.’ A thought struck her. ‘Are you seeing someone?’

‘No!’ She thought of Alfred again. Alfred had not taken the end of their relationship well and had pestered her for months to walk out with him again. She had hidden his pestering from her parents as she knew they would have had words with him. The experience of their break up was enough to put Grace off courting for good. The feeling of dissatisfaction rose up inside her and brought her to her feet. Her mother looked up in surprise when she heard her chair scrape back.

‘I think I’ll go for a walk,’ said Grace. ‘Do you mind if I leave the rest of the accounts for another day?’ Her mother slowly shook her head, her eyes narrowing in concern. Grace offered a shaky, reassuring smile, before quickly striding from the room. It was some time later, when her thoughts finally began to clear of the arrogant Mr Danning, that Grace realised that she had left her mother with a table full of scattered paperwork to file and an account book to complete. It was so unlike her. Normally, she was fastidious in her bookkeeping habits. Talek Danning had a lot to answer for.

* * *

Grace looked about her. She had set out with no destination in mind, but now she was at a crossroads and the familiar urge to follow a particular route was calling to her . . . as it had done so many times before. It felt stronger today, as if the destination at the end of the road was pulling her by an invisible thread. It was a place that fed her curiosity, yet strangely always left her hungry for more. Today she needed such a diversion and as she took the road leading to the building in the distance, her footsteps grew faster and more determined with each stride.

Bosvenna Manor, her mother’s former home, silently greeted Grace’s arrival. To her eyes, it appeared forlorn and in waiting, desperate for someone to love it again and illuminate its windows with warm yellow light. The surrounding land had long since been sold, while its abandoned parkland and gardens had been left to Mother Nature’s demanding clutches. Only the building itself retained its historic identity, dominance and the aura of romantic mystery that had drawn Grace to it, time and time again, as she was growing up.

The large, grey building, with its tall lead framed windows, extensions and far reaching climbing ivy, had enticed Grace away from her chores many times over the years. The attraction of the building began on the day she discovered her mother had once worked there as a lady’s maid before she fell deeply in love with her father and left to marry him. The information had been a precious morsel, as her mother rarely spoke of her past and had forbidden Grace to set foot on the land. However, her wishes did not stop Grace’s secret visits as the gardens provided hours of exploration and fed a desire to learn more about her mother’s past. When Grace had questioned her father about her mother’s reluctance to speak of her time at Bosvenna, he had reluctantly told her that it had not been a happy time for her. His reply held a hidden meaning that warned her not to ask again.

Grace had resigned to ask no more questions. The mystery of her mother’s life left a void that could not be breeched. As a child, Grace’s active mind had filled it herself to the extent that she had even wondered if her mother was of royal blood, escaping a life of duty and isolation to live a normal life with her father.

Imagining her mother’s past life was not hard to do. Grace had plenty of practice as her father was also unwilling to discuss his own childhood before arriving in Cornwall. ‘My life started here, when I met Zachariah and Amy,’ her father had once said. ‘They saw the good in me and treated me like a son. Before I met them my childhood was about surviving . . . not living, and I’ve no wish to dwell on it.’

Grace approached the old building. Despite her numerous visits over the years, she had never been inside. Around the time her mother had left, it had been sold, but a family tragedy meant that the new owners had never made claim to the building. So the formal building, with its gothic touches, had been left abandoned and forgotten for twenty-five years — until now. If gossip was to be believed, the absent owner had now died and his London based children were in the midst of the unenviable task of sorting out his estate. Cornwall was too far away for the new beneficiaries and the house was to be sold. The new owners, whoever they might be, would not take kindly to a stranger wandering around their property, using the feeble excuse that her mother had once been a servant there. She would soon be seen off the grounds and the thought saddened her. Grace had a sudden urge to explore inside and see where her mother worked, ate and slept, before the chance was denied her forever. She skirted the building for a way in and soon found one by way of a broken window, which helped her gain access to one of the main kitchens. She slipped, rather ungainly, inside.

Grace found herself in what she suspected was a dairy room, for it was cold, north facing, with a large marble workbench in the centre. It was the start of a rambling exploration of the empty house, which took her past empty food pantries, through two large abandoned kitchens and into a dark narrow servant’s hall that led to the main grand hall. A sweeping staircase, elegant empty drawing rooms and a large silent dining room, were each visited in turn. They appeared all the same, with no furniture to distinguish them, no paintings to adorn them, no inhabitants to breathe life into them. Grace wandered around for an hour, touching the cracked, peeling paint on the doors and imagining the paintings that had once filled the shapes on the faded, wallpapered walls. Every silent empty room came to life before Grace’s eyes. Elegant balls, fine dining, scurrying servants hurrying about their duties played out before her. The images were so real she could hear the rustle of the exquisite gowns, the tuneful melody of an expertly played piano and the hushed tones of the staff as orders were given and received out of sight of the Brockenshaw family.

In all of her exploration, Grace only came across one painting that represented the family who had employed her mother all those years ago. It was on the floor, propped up against a wall of one of the main bedrooms, as if it had been removed from the hook for packing, but in the last minute forgotten and abandoned. The room was flamboyant and feminine in its decorative taste, leading Grace to believe that it was once Lady Brockenshaw’s. In the corner of the painting was an inscription of her name, confirming that the young elegant lady, with rich auburn hair decorated with bejewelled combs befitting her standing in society, was Lady Brockenshaw herself. Grace marvelled at her intricate hairstyle as she absently touched her own auburn curls. The brushstrokes were exquisite, highlighting each strand, twist and jewel with skill, if not devotion.

‘We share the same colour . . .’ thought Grace aloud, as her fingers grazed her own casually bound hair. Her gaze dropped to the woman’s lips and she smiled. ‘Even the same lips.’ A thought struck her. ‘Perhaps I would look like you if I had your wealth and class.’ She lifted her gaze to the woman’s eyes as if expecting a reply. The woman looked back at her from the depths of the past. Grace believed she would have answered if she could, if she wasn’t frozen in time by the bonds of oil paint, canvas and portrait varnish. Grace’s smile faded. Why did portraits have to make one feel so sad? She carefully replaced it where she had found it, took a deep breath and turned away. It was her mother’s life she yearned to learn about, not the titled woman who had employed her.

Eventually Grace climbed the servants’ stairs, which she suspected would lead to the servants’ quarters and her mother’s bedroom. Grace felt confident that she would know which of the rooms would have been her mother’s, for she had been a lady’s maid and had earned the privilege of not having to share.

At the top of the stairs stretched a dark, windowless corridor lined with closed doors. Grace opened each door in turn, working her way along until only two doors remained. One, she discovered, was a storeroom, still cluttered with old chairs, perambulators and a wicker chair with wheels that had seen better days. Grace turned away and reached for the door opposite. As soon as she opened it, she knew it had been her mother’s.

The room was the same size as the others, but this time there was only one bed inside. She expected the room to be empty, like the others, but it wasn’t, as if in the hurry to vacate the property the room had been overlooked. A lady’s maid’s uniform, covered in a fine layer of dust, still hung from a coat hanger on the wardrobe door, whilst a delicately embroidered cushion and a servant’s lace cap lay on the neatly made bed. A pair of strange wooden shoes were lined up against the wall, the sort women used to protect their boots in years gone by. She couldn’t imagine her mother walking in them as those kind of unwieldy shoes had not been used for years.