The Swan Maid
The brand new compelling novel from the Sunday Times bestseller, Dilly Court.Lottie Lane is all alone in the world. As a chambermaid at one of London’s busiest inns, condemned to a life of drudgery and at the mercy of a vicious landlady, Lottie is too worn out to even dream of a better life.Until one night an injured soldier is brought to The Swan. Lottie nurses him back from the dead and suddenly everything changes. She finds herself following the drum of the soldiers, all the way from the docks of Chatham to the darkness and despair of a far flung battlefield.When tragedy strikes, Lottie is alone once more and thrown back into the jaws of London’s streets. With the threat of destitution nipping at her heels, Lottie is in dire need of a miracle . . .
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Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
The News Building
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London, SE1 9GF
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016
Copyright © Dilly Court 2016
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016
Cover photographs © Gordon Crabb (woman); Chronicle/Alamy (background scene)
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: 9780008137441
Ebook Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9780008137458
Version 2017-05-09
For Teresa Chris, my excellent agent and trusted friend.
Table of Contents
Cheapside, London, 1854
‘Lottie, you wretched girl, where are you?’ Mrs Filby’s strident voice echoed around the galleries of The Swan with Two Necks, and the galleried coaching inn seemed to shake on its foundations.
Lottie was in the stable yard and had been emptying chamber pots onto the dung heap, which lay festering in the heat of the late summer sun. She had been up since five o’clock that morning and had not yet had breakfast, but the rooms had to be serviced, and the guests must be looked after. Their needs came before those of the inn servants, and the mail coach from Exeter would be arriving at any moment.
‘Lottie, answer me at once.’ Prudence Filby leaned over the balustrade on the first floor, shielding her eyes from the sunlight. ‘Is that you down there in the horse muck?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Lottie had hoped that the short-sighted landlady might not see her, but it seemed that her luck was out. It was better to answer, and receive a tirade of abuse, than to hide, only to be accused later of every shortcoming and misdemeanour that came to Mrs Filby’s mind.
‘That’s where you belong, you idle slut, but I have need of you in the dining parlour. Come in at once, and wash your filthy hands.’
‘Coming, ma’am.’ Lottie hurried indoors, leaving the chamber pots in the scullery to be scoured clean when she could find the time. She washed her hands in the stone sink and was about to dry them on her apron, when she realised that this would leave a wet mark, which would be enough to earn a swift clout round the head from her employer. Mrs Filby had a right hook that would be the envy of champion bare-knuckle fighters, and had been seen to wrestle a drunk to the ground on many an occasion. Her husband Shem, who was by no means a small man, treated her with due deference, and spent most of his time in the taproom, drinking ale with his customers.
Lottie hitched up her skirts and raced across the cobblestones to the kitchen on the far side of the stable yard. The heat from the range hit her with the force of a cannonball, and the smell of rancid bacon fat and the bullock’s head being boiled for soup made her feel sick.
She acknowledged the cook with a nod, and hurried on until she reached the dining parlour, where she came to a halt, peering at her hazy reflection in a fly-spotted mirror on the wall. Strands of fair hair had escaped from the knot at the nape of her neck, and she tucked them under her frilled mobcap. She straightened her apron, braced her shoulders and entered the room.
Prudence Filby stood by the sideboard, arms akimbo. She glowered at Lottie. ‘You took your time,’ she hissed. ‘Clear the plates and don’t offer them more coffee. The Exeter mail coach is due any minute, and I want this lot out of here.’
‘More bread, girl.’ A portly man clicked his fingers. ‘And a slab of butter. I paid good money for my breakfast.’
Lottie hurried to his side. ‘I’ll do what I can, sir.’
‘You’ll do more than that. Bring me bread and butter, and a pot of jam wouldn’t go amiss.’
‘Is there jam?’ A woman seated with her husband at the next table leaned over to tug at Lottie’s skirt. ‘Why didn’t we get any jam? I don’t like dry bread, and I’ll swear the flour had chalk added to it. My mouth is full of grit.’
