The Mistletoe Seller: A heartwarming, romantic novel for Christmas from the Sunday Times bestseller
**You can pre-order Dilly’s brand new heartwarming Christmas novel now**It’s Christmas Eve. Flurries of snow fall on the cobbled streets of Whitechapel and an abandoned baby, swaddled in a blanket, is found on a doorstep in Angel Lane . . .Named after the street on which she was found, Angel Winter was blessed to be taken from the harsh streets into a loving home. But fate deals a cruel blow and she’s torn from the only family she has ever known, and thrown onto the cobbles of Covent Garden to fend for herself.With winter closing in, Angel scratches a living selling mistletoe to the City gentlemen who pass through the market, hoping they will take pity on her as she shivers in the snow. The only way she can survive is to make her own luck. She will never sell the one treasure that could feed her for a month, the gold and ruby ring that was hidden in her swaddling – it could hold the key to the secrets of her past . . .
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017
Copyright © Dilly Court 2017
Cover photographs © Gordon Crabb/Alison Eldred (Girl); Shutterstock (background)
Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Dilly Court asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008199555
Ebook Edition © November 2017 ISBN: 9780008199579
Version: 2017-08-09
Table of Contents
St Mary Matfelon Church, Whitechapel, London – Christmas Eve 1859
‘I found her in Angel Alley, Vicar.’ The verger cradled the infant in his arms, protecting her from the falling snow. ‘She was all alone and no one else in sight.’
‘Bring her into the warmth, Fowler, before she freezes to death.’ The Reverend John Hardisty stood aside, ushering the verger into the candlelit church. The bells were ringing out to summon worshippers to midnight mass, and the first of the faithful were already starting to arrive.
‘What will we do with her, Vicar?’ Jim Fowler gazed down into the blue eyes that regarded him with an unblinking stare. ‘She must be cold and no doubt she’ll be hungry soon. Where will we find someone to care for her at this time of night, and at Christmas, too?’
‘Take her to the vestry. My wife will know what to do.’
A married man himself, with nine little Fowlers to raise, Jim carried the infant to the vestry and as he pushed the door open he was greeted by the sound of female chatter, which stopped abruptly when the assembled ladies spotted the baby.
‘Good gracious, Jim, what have you got there?’ Letitia Hardisty surged towards him, peering at the baby with undisguised distaste. ‘Not another foundling, surely?’
‘Oh, Letty, that’s not a very Christian attitude.’ Cordelia Wilding, a plump woman wearing a fur-trimmed velvet bonnet and matching cape pushed past her to snatch the infant from the verger’s arms. ‘What a beautiful child. Just look at those soft golden curls and big blue eyes. She’s a little angel.’
The third woman, Margaret Edwards, the deacon’s wife, plainly dressed in serviceable grey linsey-woolsey with an equally plain bonnet, leaned over to take a closer look at the baby. ‘A Christmas angel, to be sure. I believe she’s smiling, Cordelia.’
‘It’s probably wind.’ Letitia stood back, frowning thoughtfully. ‘If you’ll stop cooing over her, ladies, you’ll realise that we have a problem on our hands.’
Margaret touched the infant’s cheek with the tip of her finger. ‘Where did you find her, Fowler? Was there a note of any kind?’
Jim puffed out his chest, pleased to be able to tell the deacon’s wife something she did not know. Margaret Edwards was notoriously opinionated and very conscious of her husband’s standing in the community. ‘I took it to be of the female gender, ma’am. Judging by the lace dress, which must have cost a pretty penny, in my humble opinion.’ He glanced round the small group and he realised that they were unimpressed. He cleared his throat. ‘Ahem … I was taking a short cut through Angel Alley and I heard a sound. She weren’t crying, but sort of cooing, as if to call out to me.’
‘Very interesting,’ Letitia said sharply. ‘But was she on a doorstep? If so, the mother might have intended the householder to take her in. Or was she in some sort of shelter? It’s been snowing for several hours.’
Cowed by her supercilious stare and the caustic tone of her voice, he bowed his head. ‘She was left in a portmanteau, ma’am.’
‘A portmanteau?’ Margaret tapped her teeth with her fingernail, a habit that never failed to annoy Letitia.
