Prologue

The Havelock Residence, Glen Path, Sunderland

Christmas Day 1919

A huge, beautifully decorated Christmas tree dominated the grand hallway of the Havelock residence. The air was warm and infused with the smells of Yuletide – pine and cinnamon, and a touch of nutmeg. A mouth-watering waft of roasting goose escaped from the kitchen whenever one of the staff answered the pull of the servants’ bell. A fire had been lit in just about every room in the house, making the place feel cosy and warm.

Everywhere, that was, apart from the master’s study, where the air might have been warm, but the atmosphere was cold. Ice-cold.

‘I know what you’ve done!’ Henrietta rounded on Charles. Her cobalt blue eyes were blazing with anger. Her whole being was filled with disgust. She put her hand on her stomach as though she were about to vomit up the knowledge she had just been fed.

Charles Havelock regarded his wife, but didn’t say a word. Instead, he walked to his desk and sloshed brandy from the decanter into a cut-crystal tumbler.

Taking a large mouthful, he grimaced as he swallowed.

Then he smiled.

A wide, thin-lipped smile, devoid of joy, but full of pure malice.

‘Pray tell me, darling, what am I supposed to have done?’

Henrietta held a lace handkerchief to her mouth, her other hand clutching the side of her long, hooped taffeta skirt, the alabaster white of her skin contrasting with the deep purple-coloured fabric.

‘How stupid I’ve been, not to have realised it before,’ Henrietta said, as she gazed through the large sash window that looked out onto the gravelled driveway. The woman who had just told her of her husband’s evil was crunching through the snow, away from the house. Henrietta watched as the mother of one of her favourite maids wrapped her shawl tightly around herself – as much, Henrietta thought, to combat the after-chill of being under the same roof as the man who had destroyed her young daughter’s life as to keep herself warm.

‘You violated poor little Gracie – ’ Henrietta spat out the words ‘ – and now she’s dead!’ Her stare burrowed into her husband’s black eyes.

‘What do you mean? Dead?’ Mr Havelock asked.

Henrietta was clutching her skirt so tightly that her long, manicured nails were digging into her palms through the thick taffeta. If there had been the slightest hope that what Henrietta had just been told by Gracie’s mother was the fabrication of a grief-stricken mind, the fact that her husband didn’t bat an eyelid after being accused of raping her maid put paid to it.

‘Yes, Charles. Little Gracie is dead because you defiled her in the worst possible way.’

Mr Havelock sighed impatiently. ‘You’re not making any sense.’ Another sigh of irritation. ‘Being defiled, as you put it, does not equate to a loss of life.’

Henrietta swallowed, fighting hard not to retch. Not only was he not denying such a heinous act, he clearly saw no wrong in it.

‘You impregnated her!’ Henrietta managed to push the words out despite her heart hammering and making her breathing sharp and shallow. She looked at the man she had married and for whom she had borne two children and did not think it was possible to hate a person more.

Mr Havelock shook his head as though confused. ‘Am I to guess that she died in childbirth?’

Henrietta took a step towards her husband.

‘No, the baby – a boy – was given up for adoption.’ Henrietta hissed the words. ‘A few months later her mother found little Gracie hanging from the bannisters. Dead.’ Henrietta took another step across the Turkey-red Persian carpet towards her husband. She was so angry. Angry and disgusted with this man now inches from her. Angry with herself for being so blind. So naïve. So caught up in her own world, her books, her drinking and her pill-taking, that she had been oblivious to what had gone on in this very house.

Charles struck Henrietta hard across the face with his open palm. ‘Calm down!’ He looked at the woman he had married – not for love or for money, but because he knew she would be easy to manipulate. How dare she challenge him now.

‘Who’s dead?’ Miriam asked.

They both turned on hearing the door to the office creak open.

‘Miriam! Margaret! What are you doing here?’ Henrietta looked at her two grown-up daughters, shocked by their sudden appearance. They were not expected until later in the afternoon. They were both holding large, boxed-up presents, beautifully wrapped and tied with gold bows.

‘We thought we’d come a little earlier. Give you both your presents before Nanny brings the baby,’ Miriam said, looking from her father to her mother.

‘Who’s dead?’ Margaret asked. She could see the red print of her father’s hand on her mother’s cheek.

‘No one’s dead, darling. No one you know, anyway,’ Henrietta lied. Both her daughters had known Gracie and both had been fond of her.

‘Mother, are you all right?’ Miriam asked.

‘Yes, darling, I’m fine. Your father and I are just talking.’

The two sisters looked anxiously at their parents.

‘Why don’t you both go into the front parlour? I’ll come and see you in a little while,’ Henrietta said, putting her cool hand to her burning-hot cheek.

The two sisters didn’t move.

‘Leave us!’ Mr Havelock bellowed.

Startled, the two women quickly turned and left. They had just reached the sitting room when the door to their father’s study slammed shut. The whole house shuddered.

That would be the last Christmas they would ever spend with their mother. And one of the last times they would see her for many, many years.