A Divided Inheritance by Deborah Swift

Releasing in Paperback tomorrow, out on Kindle now!
'There is everything to admire in this novel - the crisp writing, the fully-realized characters -- but it's Swift's sensitive and vivid portrayal of the Moriscos that especially sets this novel apart. A Divided Inheritance achieves what all stellar historical fiction must: through the voices of imagined characters, important lessons from the past linger and haunt long after the book is finished.' 

Langum Prize winner Ann Weisgarber
EXTRACT from Chapter 2

After an hour they were back at West View House, unlacing
muddy boots in the hall. Elspet hung up her cloak, and heard the
door creak open behind her. She paid it no mind, accustomed as
she was to the servants coming and going with coals for the grate.
But a hand on her shoulder made her swivel round, startled.
‘Father!’
He was never back from work this early. From the corner of her
eye she saw Martha dip a ragged curtsey, both dogs were growling
and barking and pulling at her.
‘What a din,’ Father said. ‘Martha, take those wretched dogs
out the back, to the stables.’
Martha bobbed and pulled the dogs away. Elspet heard Jakes
barking all the way to the back door.
‘Elspet, may I introduce your cousin, Zachary Deane.’ It was
only then that she saw him, the stranger hanging slightly back in
the doorway, his eyes casting quick, sidelong glances about the hall.
‘Oh,’ she said, pulling off her muddy gloves in haste and putting
them aside. ‘I wondered what was the matter with the dogs.’
‘You’re too soft with them,’ her father reproached.
‘They look like fine animals,’ Zachary, the young man, said. He
placed one hand on his sword as he made a small bow.
Father’s fingers pulled nervously at the edge of his robe. The
newcomer was still bent over and she saw his hair was tangled and
damp with perspiration. He swung back to upright with a brisk
wave of his hat.
Father nodded to her to prompt a response.
‘Oh – your servant,’ she murmured, dipping her head first to
the newcomer, and then to her father, ‘Forgive me, Father, you
caught me by surprise.’
She tried to catch the young man’s eye and smile, but he glanced
away, finding something of interest in the yard.
‘Zachary is my sister’s boy,’ Father said in a rush. ‘But Magda—
’, he broke off. ‘I mean to say, Zachary’s mother and I have been
estranged for some years. Unfortunately, she has passed away.’
Zachary smiled thinly at Father, his lips compressed, and then
looked at the ground.
‘I did not know she was gone,’ Father said, ‘and Zachary and I
have only just found each other.’
‘My condolences, Cousin.’ Elspet’s first impression was that
Zachary did not look like a man in mourning – not wearing that
shoddy rust-coloured doublet and cloak worn to grey at the hem.
She wondered if he was ill-fed; his hose sagged at the ankles.
‘With his mother gone, it is right and fitting we do our duty and
look to our own,’ Father said. ‘Zachary will lodge in the lower
chambers, and I know you will make him welcome.’
In the distance Diver was yapping. Elspet gathered herself. She
regretted not being warmer or more welcoming, especially as her
cousin had been bereaved. He must think her lacking in courtesy.
She smoothed her ruffled hair and said, ‘What a terrible thing. I am
so sorry to hear of your loss, I hope you will feel at home here.’
Father turned to him. ‘The lower chambers are not much, but —’
‘They will be better than I am used to, I’m sure,’ Zachary interrupted
him. ‘Do not go to any trouble on my account.’ His voice
was pleasant and neutral, though his eyes darted restlessly round
the hall.
Father patted him on the arm sympathetically. An unusual gesture,
for he was never much given to outward shows of affection.
He must be trying hard, Elspet thought.
‘Good.’ Father exhaled a long sigh. ‘I’ll take Zachary down,
and Coleman will help him fetch his trunk from the carriage.’
‘No need,’ Zachary said. ‘It’s paltry few things. I can do it
myself.’
‘Coleman will assist you. No point having servants else.’
Zachary was about to speak but then closed his mouth. Instead
he gave a curt nod. He cast Elspet a long appraising look before
turning and going back out of the door.
When he was out of earshot, Father said, ‘You will grow to like
him, I know you will.’
‘I like him already.’
‘No you don’t. It is written clear as clear on your face. You
looked him up and down as though he were a servant you were
about to hire.’
Indignation rose up in her. Father had described exactly the way
Zachary had looked at her.

www.deborahswift.com

The Lady's Slipper - orchids, obsession and murder

Top Pick! Swift's eye for detail and language augment this atypical debut. Compelling and intriguing, this is a

well-told story full of wonderful prose and surprising events. It's a vivid addition to the genre. 

RT BookReviews

Realistic dialogue, an author's obvious love for history, and characters that leap off the pages, THE LADY'S SLIPPER is a brilliant saga set in a time of confusion in England as it recovers from years of civil strife.
Romance Reviews Today

The story behind the Lady's Slipper Orchid and the book

In this excerpt you will notice that the Quaker, Richard Wheeler, speaks in the traditional old-fashioned Quaker way with 'thee' and 'thou.' Quakers believed in telling the truth, even to the degree that addressing a single person as 'you' - the plural form of address - was an untruth.

EXCERPT

Alice did not often get to Kendal town, for to her regret, hiring a hackney was expensive, and could only be done once in a while. But today she had a number of errands to run that could not be trusted to anyone else. She had Thomas’s letters to deliver to the post and was to collect some other documents from the notary. It was chilly, and she was wearing a closed bonnet and a black woollen cape, but she was anxious not to be away from her work or the lady’s slipper for too long, so she made haste down the narrow streets, clutching the bundle of letters in her cold hands.

The town was thronging, for today was the meat market, and there were many horses and carriages from neighbouring villages, anxious to secure salt beef and bacon for the coming winter. She side-stepped a man carrying a shoulder of mutton, and headed down the cobbled hill towards the notary’s office.

On the counter in front of the ironmonger’s board, a bright copper kettle caught her eye and she paused to look at it, idly contemplating the other items – flat irons, crimpers, goffers, and tongs, scoops and ladles. She picked up a pretty doorknocker embossed with a rose, and held it up into the light to see the pattern. As she did so, she caught sight of a familiar figure in a brown felt hat, just rounding the corner. He was striding purposefully up the hill, his head bent down into the wind, a bulging canvas bag slung over his shoulder.

She bolted inside the shop, the doorknocker still in her hand, and turned her back to the door, feigning interest in the hanging scuttles, brushes and pokers. The shopkeeper followed her inside,

“Yes, mistress?”

She kept one eye fixed on the road outside as she held out the door knocker and asked,

“Have you more of these?”

“More?” He looked at her as if he did not understand.

Of course, people usually only needed one doorknocker. She saw Wheeler’s tall figure flash past the open awning.

“Well, yes, I do have more, mistress. How many would you like?”

Distracted, she said, “No thank you. Nothing at all. Good day.” And she put the doorknocker down on the table, leaving the shopkeeper staring down at it, nonplussed.

Scanning left and right as she came out of the dingy interior of the shop, she saw Wheeler’s broad back wending uphill between the other pedestrians. She crossed the road, for she did not want a battle of wits with him again if she could avoid it, and made her way quickly to where the overhanging buildings provided a shadow. She set off walking in the opposite direction.

She stopped briefly at the hosier’s, where she had ordered some new stockings in knitted silk. The weave was very fine, practically transparent. She put her hand inside one of them and admired the white silk look of her skin through the fabric, and the almost invisible seam, with its tiny fairy-like stitches. They were costly, but Thomas had never been close-fisted and she always had tokens in her purse, despite hints from acquaintances that his money lending business was teetering.

She had a few minutes very pleasant conversation with the hosier, who told her about Geoffrey’s wife, Emilia, and her latest order for long hose with tiny beads sewn up the back, and lace garters. Naturally these would be unsuitable for a woman in mourning, such as herself, but she enjoyed hearing about them before she swung out of the door, the thin wrapped parcel under her arm. She was still smiling as she launched herself up the street and straight into the solid chest of Richard Wheeler.

Agitated, she stepped back.

“Mistress Ibbetson, I beg pardon.”

“Mr. Wheeler.” She assessed the width of the path to see if she could make her excuses and leave, but he was blocking her way. She was sure it was deliberate. Curse the man.

“Thou art not at thy easel today, then?”

“No. No, I had some business in town,” she lifted the letters into his view.

He looked casually away, tapping his boot on the ground. “The rare orchid that was taken from my wood. There has still been no word of it.” He returned his gaze to her face, which by now had grown hot under her bonnet. “But if it were to be replaced, returned to its natural growing place, then I assure thee, that would be the end of the matter.”

She steeled herself. “I have said before, I know nothing of it. Excuse me.” “Besides, it has a sentimental value to me. I desire its return most fervently.”

“Then I sincerely hope you will find it, but I say again, it has nothing to do with me.”

Again she made to pass him, but he would not let her by. His face was stormy now, his eyebrows lowered. His voice came out loud and harsh. One of his hands was balled into a fist. He looked as though he might grab hold of her. Astonished, she backed away.

“Mistress Ibbetson. I do not like to be taken for a fool. I tell the truth and I would seek the same courtesy from thee. What wouldst thou have me do? Shake thee? Send for the Constable?”

“You must do as you think fit.” She turned on her heel and left him standing in the street behind her. She did not turn, just hied away as fast as she could. When she had put a good distance between them, she stopped to catch her breath, leaning against the warm stone wall of the bakehouse.

She was appalled at herself. She knew she had somehow crossed a line, that there would be no going back now. Her heart throbbed at her throat. Patently, there could be no more polite conversations with him. What had got into her? Partly she knew that it was stubbornness. But he got under her skin somehow, with his refusal to see her point of view. And to think, she had thought him pleasant, a man with a kind heart.

A few months ago she had stood behind him in a queue at the miller’s when a lad had come in for a bushel of corn. The miller had upped the price by a third for the lad, from the price it had been for Kendall’s steward, and Wheeler had stepped forward,

“Everything has a fair price,” she overheard him say, “And if it is a fair enough price for the steward, then it is a fair enough price for the lad.”

It had made her smile, the lad’s face open-mouthed with glee at his ‘fair price’ bushel of corn, as he ran out of the shop, and she had caught Wheeler’s eye. He had returned a broad grin. Although not acquainted, this shared incident had meant that they used to nod to each other or exchange greetings if they crossed paths. But all that was finished now. She would have to be more vigilant in the future to keep out of his bounds – and she certainly had no intention of following his suggestion that she should covertly return the lady’s slipper to him. Her first loyalty must be to securing the future of the orchid.

The Gilded Lily by Deborah Swift - Extract

Westmorland 1660
Netherbarrow

Chapter One 

Anyone else would probably scream – woken in the night like that, with a hand clamped over the mouth in the pitch black. But not Sadie, she knew it was Ella, even though she heard not a single word, for the smell of her sister’s skin was as familiar to her as her own.

A blast of cold air buffeted her through her thin shift as the covers were wrenched back over her feet. Sadie scrambled out of bed. Silently she felt the floorboards for her clothes, shivering as she slipped her arms awkwardly into her bodice and tied on her skirt, with fingers fumbling in half-sleep. She tripped as she put on her clogs and one of them clattered down.

‘Sshh,’ said Ella. They listened in breathless silence for a sound from below. Sadie could hear nothing, except her own heart beating.
A cuff round the ear. ‘Carry them, mutton-head.’
Sadie felt a strong grip steering her shoulder and Ella’s voice hissed in her ear. ‘If you waken him, I’ll do for you.’

Ella half pushed her down the stairs and out of the front door into the wet, before she had time to catch her breath. In the white chalk of the lane Ella was silhouetted in the darkness; Sadie could just make out her dark eyes in the pale oval of her face and the outline of her hair, which had escaped from her cap and sprung into curls from the damp.

‘Is it time?’ whispered Sadie. ‘Have you come for me already? What shall I fetch over?’
‘Nothing,’ said Ella shortly, almost dragging her along the road. ‘Hurry, can’t you.’

Sadie hopped along, trying to fit her clogs on her feet as she went. This was not what she had imagined at all. When Ella had left home to be the Ibbetsons’ lady’s maid she had promised Sadie she would come back for her, as soon as she could find her a position in the household. But surely they wouldn’t be asking for her in the middle of the night.

‘Why are we in such a fret? What’s the matter?’
‘Muzzle it. Or I’ll leave you behind.’ She set off at a run, with Sadie hanging onto her sleeve, haring down the road through the sleeping village, under the shadowy dripping trees. Though at fifteen she was three years younger than Ella, Sadie was almost as tall, but she was not used to running and soon had to let go of her
arm.

Ella did not slow – her skirts were hoisted up over her knees, her feet kicked up gobs of dirt as she ran. Sadie dropped behind,clutching a stitch in her side, but when she saw the flash of her sister’s white calves getting smaller she forced herself to sprint on behind her, pounding through the puddles, her eyes screwed up against the sting of the rain.

The big house loomed up ahead of them. The windows were  blacked-out holes, no smoke came from the chimneys. They stopped on the front step, both of them doubled over and panting.Ella produced a key to open up and thrust Sadie into the hall.

Sadie tried to calm her breathing, expecting to see a housekeeper,a footman or other staff. From long-standing habit she pulled her hair forward over the left side of her face to hide the wine stain on her cheek. Strangers often feared this birthmark as a sign of bad luck. But she need not have worried – there was nobody there.She rubbed her eyes and wiped the drizzle from her face with her sleeve, letting her dark hair fall back. It was the first time she had been inside the Ibbetsons’ house. She peered around eagerly.

Ella took out a tinderbox from the drawer and lit a candle on the side table. Sadie gasped as it illuminated a sudden sheen of polished wood panelling. Ella turned around to face her, holding the candle. She was breathless, her face grim. In the flickering light her eyes were like swimming fish, darting from side to side.

A dread settled on Sadie’s shoulders like a cloak. Something was wrong.


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