Kate Morton - The Clockmaker's Daughter

PRAISE FOR KATE MORTON

Mortons writing is consuming crisp and terrifically satisfying. Good Reading

Mortons finesse with family secrets increases with each novel. Kirkus Reviews

Morton has obvious star power Her novels are Australias most successful exports since Colleen McCulloughs Thorn Birds.New York Times Book Review

Kate Morton is the Aussie queen of historical drama.Sunday Telegraph

Carefully applied layers of family, history, and moral conundrum make [Mortons books] perfect for just about every reader.Library Journal

Morton weaves an intriguing mystery.People Magazine

Morton writes with such page-turning ease, you can easily lose yourself in her world for days a pace thats more mystery than thrillerperfect when you really dont want a book to end.The Pool

[Morton] sustains an atmosphere of quiet dread rivaling that developed by Sarah Waters in The Little Stranger A rich treat for fans of historical fiction.Washington Post

Kate Morton is a true talent. Her language and tone are delightful, her characters real, warm and lovable. A truly mesmerising tale that has it all.Australian Womens Weekly (Dymocks Pick of the Month)

Morton is adept at weaving her stories together.Adelaide Advertiser

Mortons elements of mystery are always tightly wound and expertly plotted.Readers Digest

Secrets told with exquisite timing.The Australian

Compelling Mortons plotting is impeccable, and her finely wrought characters are as surprised as readers will be by the astonishing conclusion.Publishers Weekly

KATE MORTON was born in South Australia and grew up in the mountains of south-east Queensland. She has degrees in dramatic art and English literature and lives now with her husband and three young sons in London and Australia. The Shifting Fog, published internationally as The House at Riverton, The Forgotten Garden, The Distant Hours, The Secret Keeper and The Lake House have all been number one bestsellers around the world. You can find more information about Kate Morton and her books at katemorton.com or Facebook @KateMortonAuthor and Instagram @katemortonauthor.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

First published in Australia by Allen & Unwin in 2018

Copyright 2018 Kate Morton

The Author asserts the Authors Moral Rights in this work throughout the world without waiver.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin

83 Alexander Street

Crows Nest NSW 2065

Australia

Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

Email: info@allenandunwin.com

Web: www.allenandunwin.com

ISBN 978 1 74237 652 3 (pb)

ISBN 978 1 76052 700 6 (hb)

eISBN 978 1 76063 653 1

Cover design and illustration: Lisa White

Cover images: Shutterstock / botanicalillustrations.org / Biodiversity Heritage Library

To Didee, for being the sort of mother who took us to live on a mountaintop and for giving me the best piece of writing advice Ive ever received.

Contents

PART ONE: THE SATCHEL

I

Chapter One

Chapter Two

II

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

III

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

IV

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

PART TWO: THE SPECIAL ONES

V

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

VI

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

VII

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

VIII

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

IX

PART THREE: THE SUMMER OF BIRCHWOOD MANOR

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

X

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

XI

PART FOUR: CAPTURED LIGHT

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

XII

Authors Note

PART ONE

THE SATCHEL

I

We came to Birchwood Manor because Edward said that it was haunted. It wasnt, not then, but its a dull man who lets truth stand in the way of a good story, and Edward was never that. His passion, his blinding faith in whatever he professed, was one of the things I fell in love with. He had the preachers zeal, a way of expressing opinions that minted them into gleaming currency. A habit of drawing people to him, of firing in them enthusiasms they hadnt known were theirs, making all but himself and his convictions fade.

But Edward was no preacher.

I remember him. I remember everything.

The glass-roofed studio in his mothers London garden, the smell of freshly mixed paint, the scratch of bristle on canvas as his gaze swept my skin. My nerves that day were prickles. I was eager to impress, to make him think me something I was not, as his eyes traced my length and Mrs Macks entreaty circled in my head: Your mother was a proper lady, your people were grand folk and dont you go forgetting it. Play your cards right and all our birds might just come home to roost.

And so I sat up straighter on the rosewood chair, that first day in the whitewashed room behind the tangle of blushing sweet peas.

His littlest sister brought me tea, and cake when I was hungry. His mother, too, came down the narrow path to watch him work. She adored her son. In him she glimpsed the familys hopes fulfilled. Distinguished member of the Royal Academy, engaged to a lady of some means, father soon to a clutch of brown-eyed heirs.

Not for him the likes of me.

His mother blamed herself for what came next, but shed have more easily halted day from meeting night than keep us apart. He called me his muse, his destiny. He said that he had known at once, when he saw me through the hazy gaslight of the theatre foyer on Drury Lane.

I was his muse, his destiny. And he was mine.

It was long ago; it was yesterday.

Oh, I remember love.

This corner, halfway up the main flight of stairs, is my favourite.

It is a strange house, built to be purposely confusing. Staircases that turn at unusual angles, all knees and elbows and uneven treads; windows that do not line up no matter how one squints at them; floorboards and wall panels with clever concealments.

In this corner, theres a warmth, almost unnatural. We all noticed it when first we came, and over the early summer weeks we took our turns in guessing at its cause.