Chapter One
Northumberland, England, December, 1816
âIs my wishing candle still burning, Mama?â
Ellie kissed her small daughter tenderly. âYes, darling. It hasnât gone out. Now, stop your worrying and go to sleep. The candle is downstairs in the window where you put it.â
âShining out into the darkness so Papa will see it and know where we are.â
Ellie hesitated. Her voice was husky as she replied, âYes, my darling. Papa will know that we are here, safe and warm.â
Amy snuggled down under the threadbare blankets and the faded patchwork quilt that covered them. âAnd in the morning he will be with us for breakfast.â
A lump caught in Ellieâs throat. âNo, darling. Papa will not be there. You know that.â
Amy frowned. âBut tomorrow is my birthday and you said Papa would come.â
Tears blurred her eyes as Ellie passed a gentle work-worn hand over her daughterâs soft cheek. âNo, darling, that was last year. And you know why Papa did not come then.â
There was a long silence. âBecause I didnât put a candle in the window last year?â
Ellie was horrified. âOh, no! No, my darling, it had nothing to do with you, I promise you.â She gathered the little girl into her arms and hugged her for a long moment, stroking the childâs glossy curls, waiting until the lump had gone from her throat and she could speak again. âDarling, your papa died, thatâs why he never came home.â
âBecause he couldnât see the way, because I didnât put a candle out for him.â
The misery in her daughterâs voice pierced Ellieâs heart to the core. âNo, sweetheart, It wasnât the candle. Papaâs death was nobodyâs fault.â It wasnât true. Hartâs death had been by his own hand, but gambling and suicide was too ugly a tale for a child.
âNow stop this at once,â said Ellie as firmly as she could. âTomorrow is your birthday and you will be a big girl of four. And do you know what? Because youâve been such a good girl and such a help to Mama, there will be a lovely surprise waiting for you in the morning. But only if you go to sleep immediately.â
âA surprise? What surprise?â asked the little girl eagerly.
âIt wouldnât be a surprise if I told you. Now go to sleep.â She began to hum a lullaby, to soothe the anxieties from her daughterâs mind.
âI know what the surprise is,â murmured her daughter sleepily. âPapa will be here for breakfast.â
Ellie sighed. âNo, Amy, he wonât. Papa has been dead for more than a year. You know he is, so why do you persist with this?â
âItâs a special candle, Mama. The lady said so. A wishing candle. It will bring Papa, youâll see.â She smiled and snuggled down under the bedclothes, curling up like a little cat.
Ellie frowned. That wretched gypsy woman with her false tales! Unbeknown to her mother, Amy had traded half a dozen eggs and some milk for a thick red candle. A wishing candle, indeed! More like a rather expensive Christmas candle. And a hurtful candle, if the old woman had put the notion in Amyâs head that it could bring her father back.
Amyâs few memories of her father were idealised fairy tales. The truth was too painful for a little girl. Hart had never been an attentive father or husband. Sir Hartley Carmichael, Baronet, had wanted a sonâan heir. A small, spirited girl with tumbled dark curls and bright blue eyes held no interest for him. Was quite useless, in fact, and heâd said so on many occasionsâin front of Amy herself.
Ellie looked at her sleeping daughter and her heart filled. There was nothing more precious in the world than this child of hers. She picked up the candle and went into her own room. Shivering in the bitter December cold, she hurriedly slipped into her thick, flannel nightgown and climbed into bed.
She was about to blow the candle out when she recalled the one burning in the downstairs window. Candles were expensive. She couldnât afford to let one burn down to a stub for no purpose. No practical purpose, that is. She recalled her daughterâs face, freshly washed for bed and luminous with hope as she placed the candle in the window. A lump filled Ellieâs throat. She got out of bed, slipped her shoes back on and flung a shawl around her for warmth. She could not afford the happy dreams that came so easily to children.
She was halfway down the steep, narrow staircase, when suddenly a loud thump rattled the door of her cottage. She froze and waited. Bitter cold crept around her, insidious drafts of freezing air nibbling at her bare legs. She scarcely noticed.