The River Maid
The first in a stunning new series from Sunday Times bestseller, Dilly CourtLondon, 1854: twenty-year-old Essie Chapman lives with her father in poverty stricken Limehouse, working on the river as a boatman. Her life seems set before her, never to leave this part of London and forever at her father’s beck and call.Then, one night, she must transport a mysterious man from a foreign ship to the banks of the Thames, a man who ends up renting a room in Essie’s house, identifying himself only as ‘Raven’.When curiosity gets the better of her, Essie follows him and unwittingly becomes involved in something far greater than she could ever have guessed. Finding herself on a ship bound for the penal colonies in Australia with Raven and his cousin Alice, this is only the start of a remarkable journey taking her to the other side of the world and back again…
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Copyright © Dilly Court 2018
Cover photographs: Front © Gordon Crabb/Alison Eldred (Girl); Background © Shutterstock (ships/harbour)
Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
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 authorâs imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008199609
Ebook Edition © January 2018 ISBN: 9780008199616
Version: 2017-12-06
Contents
Read on for an exclusive extract of the next book in this brilliant new series â The Summer Maiden
Limehouse Hole, London, 1854
Essie Chapman pulled hard on the sculls as she rowed her fatherâs boat towards Duke Shore Dock. It was dark and the lantern on the stern of the small, clinker-built craft bobbed up and down, shedding its light on the turbulent waters of the River Thames. Essie fought against the tide and the treacherous undercurrents, but she was cold, wet and close to exhaustion. Her mysterious passenger had not spoken a word since she had collected him from the foreign vessel moored downriver. The task would normally have fallen to her father, Jacob, but he was laid up, having slipped on the watermenâs steps the previous evening. He had fallen badly and had been carried home to Whiteâs Rents on an old door, the only form of stretcher available to the wharfingerâs men at the time. He had lain on the sofa like a dead man for twenty-four hours and when he awakened he could barely move a muscle.
âYouâll have to do my next job for me, Essie, love. Itâs a matter of life and death.â
His words echoed in her mind as she battled against the elements. By day Jacobâs small craft scurried up and down the river doing errands considered too small by the lightermen and watermen, but by night things were different. Sometimes it was the odd barrel or two of brandy that had to be sneaked ashore before the revenue men laid hands on it, or packets wrapped in oilskin, the contents of which would forever remain a mystery. There was always a messenger waiting on the shore to grab the cargo and spirit it off into the darkness. Money changed hands and Jacob would spend most of it in the Bunch of Grapes, coming home reeking of rum and tobacco smoke. Sometimes, when he felt generous, he would give Essie twopence to spend on herself, but the money was usually spent on necessities like bread, coal and candles.
The tide would turn very soon and Essie was anxious to reach the shore before the current took her downriver. She shot a furtive glance at her passenger, who was wrapped in a boat cloak that made him merge into the darkness. His face was concealed by the hood and she could not tell whether he was young or old, although his lithe movements when he had climbed down the shipâs ladder and boarded her boat suggested that he was in the prime of life. Getting him to dry land was uppermost in her mind and she put every ounce of strength into a last supreme effort to reach the wharf. The sound of the keel grating on gravel was like music to her ears, although it was as much as she could do to rise from her cramped position. Then, to her surprise, her passenger was on his feet and had stepped over the side, wading ankle deep in water as he dragged the craft effortlessly onto the mud and shingle.
The top of the wharf towered above them, menacing even by moonlight. The great skeletal ironwork of the cranes was silhouetted against the black velvet sky, and an eerie silence hung in the still air, punctuated only by the slapping and sucking of the water against the wooden stanchions. It had to be well after midnight and yet the river was still alive with wherries, barges and larger vessels heading for the wharves and docks further upstream. It was slack water and soon the tide would turn and the river would churn and boil as it flowed towards the coast. Jacob always said that river water ran in his veins instead of blood, and as a child Essie had believed every word her father said, but now she was a grown woman of twenty and she was not so gullible.
