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The Sweethearts Collection
About the Authors
LINDA FINLAY trained as an Image Consultant and has an avid interest in people, especially the synergy between appearance and perception and the effect it has on self-esteem. She has always loved writing, her first success was winning a competition in the local paper in Surrey. A move to the spectacular Devonshire coast combined with her passion for local history inspired her to write her novels.
LINDA FINLAY lives on the Devonshire coast and is the author of seven novels. From lace-making to growing Devon violets, each one is based on a local craft which, in order to write authentically, she has learnt to do herself. However, it is people and their problems that make for good story writing and, with so much interesting material to work with, it is easy for Linda to let her imagination run as wild as the West Country landscape which has inspired her writing.
S. C. WORRALL was born in Wellington, England and spent his childhood in Eritrea, Paris, and Singapore. Since 1984, he has been a full-time freelance journalist and book author. He has written for National Geographic, GQ, The Times and the Guardian. He has also made frequent appearances on Radio and TV, including the BBC’s From Our Own Correspondent; NPR and PBS. He speaks six languages and has lived in or visited more than 70 countries. The Very White of Love is his debut novel.
LIAM CALLANAN is the author of the novels The Cloud Atlas and All Saints. His work has appeared in Slate, The New York Times, The Washington Post, San Francisco Chronicle, Forbes, Good Housekeeping and elsewhere. He lives in Milwaukee with his wife and three daughters, and teaches in the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee’s creative writing program and at Warren Wilson. Visit Liam’s website at www.liamcallanan.com
PAM JENOFF is the author of several novels, including the phenomenal international bestseller The Orphan’s Tale, and Kommandant’s Girl, which was also an international bestseller and earned her a Quill Award nomination. Pam lives with her husband and three children near Philadelphia where, in addition to writing, she teaches law school.
Also by Linda Finlay
The Royal Lacemaker
The Girl with the Red Ribbon
A Family For Christmas
The Sea Shell Girl
Monday’s Child
Orphans and Angels
The Flower Seller
The Royal Lacemaker
The Girl with the Red Ribbon
A Family For Christmas
The Sea Shell Girl
Monday’s Child
Orphans and Angels
Also by Pam Jenoff
Kommandant’s Girl
The Diplomat’s Wife
The Ambassador’s Daughter
The Winter Guest
The Last Embrace
The Orphan’s Tale
The Sweethearts Collection
The Bonbon Girl
Linda Finlay
The Flower Seller
Linda Finlay
The Very White of Love
S. C. Worrall
Paris by the Book
Liam Callanan
The Lost Girls of Paris
Pam Jenoff
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
The Bonbon Girl © 2018 Linda Finlay The Flower Seller © 2018 Linda Finlay The Very White of Love © 2018 Simon Worrall Paris by the Book © 2018 Liam Callanan The Lost Girls of Paris © 2019 Pam Jenoff
Linda Finlay, S. C. Worrall, Liam Callanan and Pam Jenoff asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for 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.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9781474095365
Version: 2020-03-02
MILLS & BOON
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Table of Contents
Cover
About the Authors
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
The Bonbon Girl
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
The Flower Seller
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Acknowledgements
The Very White of Love
Dedication
Epigraph
Foreword
Part One
19 SEPTEMBER 1938: Whichert House
14 OCTOBER 1938: Oxford
22 OCTOBER 1938: Whichert House
12 NOVEMBER 1938: London
CHRISTMAS EVE 1938: Whichert House
12 FEBRUARY 1939: Oxford
25 APRIL 1939: The Oxford Union
25 JUNE 1939: The River Isis, near Oxford
3 AUGUST 1939: Whichert House
5 AUGUST 1939: Whichert House
6 AUGUST 1939: High Wycombe Railway Station
3 SEPTEMBER 1939: Blythe Cottage
23 SEPTEMBER 1939: Whichert House
3 DECEMBER 1939: Whichert House
13 DECEMBER 1939: Levant, Sussex
CHRISTMAS DAY, 1939: Blythe Cottage
16 JANUARY 1940: Newbury Racecourse
18 JANUARY 1940: The English Channel
1 FEBRUARY 1940: Wahagnies, France
21 FEBRUARY 1940: Wahagnies
10 MARCH 1940: Wahagnies
11 MARCH 1940: Wahagnies
13 APRIL 1940: Mousehole, Cornwall
21 APRIL 1940: Whichert House
22 APRIL 1940: Northern France
6 MAY 1940: Wahagnies
12 MAY 1940: Wahagnies
14 MAY 1940: A Road Near the River Ath
15 MAY 1940: Waterloo, Belgium
19 MAY 1940: A Road Near Gaurain-Ramecroix
19 MAY 1940: Tournai, Belgium
20 MAY 1940: The Escaut Canal
22 MAY 1940: The Escaut Canal
23 MAY 1940: The Road to Hazebrouck
24 MAY 1940: The Road to Hazebrouck
25 MAY 1940: Hazebrouck, northern France
Part Two
3rd SEPTEMBER 1940: Blythe Cottage
9 SEPTEMBER 1940: Blythe Cottage
22 SEPTEMBER 1940: Blythe Cottage
6 OCTOBER 1940: Blythe Cottage
11 NOVEMBER 1940: Blythe Cottage
CHRISTMAS DAY 1940: Blythe Cottage
19 JANUARY 1941: Blythe Cottage
9 FEBRUARY 1941: London
29 APRIL 1941: Blythe Cottage
27 MAY 1940: The Orphanage
27 MAY 1940: The Orphanage
6 SEPTEMBER 1941: Thurlestone Sands, Devon
Afterword
Acknowledgements
Paris by the Book
Dedication
Epigraph
PROLOGUE
PARIS, WISCONSIN
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
PARIS, FRANCE
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The Lost Girls of Paris
Back Cover Text
Praise
Dedication
Quote
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Questions for Discussion
About the Publisher
The Bonbon Girl
Linda Finlay
To my Bonbons, Jack, Heather, Darcey and Chloe.
With special thanks to Darcey for naming this novel.
Prologue
Colenso watched as the rising tide advanced towards the Devil’s Frying Pan. The turbulence created by rough seas surging through its entrance was legendary. Her father had chosen his spot well. Desperately she tugged at the ropes binding her hands, only to wince as the damp hemp tightened, cutting deeper into her flesh.
As white-tipped waves swirled ever closer to her feet she shuddered. In the distance she could hear the sounds of the organ from the travelling fair. Loud and brash, its purpose was to attract the crowds, and judging from the shrieks of laughter coming from the villagers on the green it was doing its job. Nobody would hear her screams and Kitto, dear unsuspecting Kitto, would be waiting for her.
The light was fading, the wind rising, bringing with it a thick bank of rolling mist. She licked her salt-coated lips. The crescendo from the waves pounding the tidal cave and reverberating around the serpentine rock was deafening now, blotting out all sound of the fair. Her father had promised to return for her decision before the tide was in full spate but, intent on his mission and wishing her scared witless, she knew he was deliberately cutting it fine. He’d have a wasted journey though, for she had no intention of changing her mind. Her heart belonged to Kitto, and without him her life would serve no purpose. She would take her love to the grave if need be. And if it was deemed to be a watery one then so be it.
Spray from the advancing swell covered her feet before receding to allow her respite, albeit momentarily, and she gave a laugh that came out as a high-pitched shriek. How ironic that her name Colenso should mean ‘from the dark pool’ for now it looked as if she would be returning to it much sooner than she’d thought.
Chapter 1
Cadgwith, The Lizard, Cornwall
‘An’ it harm none, do what thou will’
Wiccan Rede
With these words ringing in her ear, Colenso put the bread to bake then set about making the pastry for her pasties. Today was a special day and she had a plan. Excitement bubbled up as she mixed swede, potato and onion with the scraps of meat old Buller the butcher had given her in exchange for helping him earlier that morning.
‘Don’t forget the herbs, Colenso. Marjoram for love, rosemary to stimulate the heart, sage for wishes, and best put in a pinch of parsley for lust.’
‘Really Mammwynn,’ Colenso chided, colour flooding her cheeks. Her grandmother believed her beloved herbs were the answer to everything, nurturing varieties that by rights shouldn’t even grow let alone flourish on this wild peninsula. Then she remembered and looked up with a start. Sure enough, the room was empty for her beloved Mammwynn had passed on at Samhain last October. Being the festival that marked both the end and beginning of their year and a time of celebration for those who’d gone before, Mammwynn would have thought it perfect timing. But Colenso had loved her grandmother dearly and still felt her loss keenly.
‘Oh Mammwynn, I do miss you so,’ she murmured, dashing a tear from her eye. ‘The weather’s been bitterly cold this winter and many of your plants are lying dormant so I’ll have to use the ones I’ve dried.’ As she reached up to take a handful from the clothes pulley above her head, she felt the slightest of touches on her shoulder and knew her grandmother approved. Crumbling them into the mixture, she finished making the pasties adding a decorative finish to the biggest with a flourish. She hoped Kitto, her beloved, would appreciate it.
As the aroma of baked dough filled the air, she removed the loaves to cool, added the pasties to the tin and slid it back into the hot recess of the Cornish stove that was her mamm’s pride and joy. It had been her father’s wedding present to her and about the only thing he’d ever bought her, she thought, staring around the room with its hand-me-down dresser and rickety table and chairs. The tiny window let in very little light even on the brightest day and there wasn’t enough space to swing a rat. Imagine the luxury of living somewhere with room to put her things, not that she had many, Colenso sighed, as she set about tidying up. Mamm worked on call as the Sick Nurse and after sitting in with old Mrs Janes would appreciate returning to a clean room with their evening meal prepared. Her Father and elder brother, Tomas, laboured long hours at the works and were forever hungry.
She wondered how her younger brother William was faring. How she missed him. With only thirteen months between them, they’d always been close until the dreadful night he’d taken their father to task for squandering his entire weekly wage on drink. The fight that had ensued still made Colenso shudder and she didn’t blame Will for running off to make a better life for himself. Tomas was hardly home these days either.
Pushing the door of their tumbledown cottage closed, Colenso shivered and pulled her bonnet down tighter as a gust of February wind threatened to send it spinning down the lane. Checking the cloth was still covering the pasty, she hefted her basket over her arm and made her way down the rutted track and on past the huddle of thatched cottages. Their thick serpentine, stone and cob walls were designed to keep out the worst of the squalls and misty weather that frequently swept over The Lizard. The shoemaker’s shop with its array of boots, rang with the sound of scutes and nails being hammered into heavy leather soles. She stepped over the wooden bridge that spanned the stream and across the Todden, which divided Little Cove from Fishing Cove. It was a fair walk to Poltesco and the serpentine factory where Kitto was employed as a trainee marble turner, but if she hurried she should be in time to join him for his noontime break. She’d have to dodge her father though, for he disapproved of their association, wanting better things for his daughter. However, she had an excuse for visiting the works as she’d been told there was a new batch of cuttings waiting to be collected. Extra money to eke out the family budget was always welcome, and with Kitto’s help she would fashion them into buttons and souvenirs ready to sell to the visitors that swarmed to the area in the summer months.
Since Queen Victoria and Prince Albert had purchased items of serpentine for their Osborne House home on the Isle of Wight, the local stone, which displayed the brightest colours of green and red when polished, had proved popular.
Waves pounded the shore and she wrinkled her nose at the oppressive odour of fish and bait emanating from the cellars below. Gulls screeched as they circled the few fishing boats bobbing in the bay, their nets cast wide. Thankfully it was too early in the year for the pilchards to arrive. She far preferred working the Lizardite, as the rock was known locally, to salting and pressing the silver fish that, whilst providing the necessary food and oil for lighting, tainted her hands and clothes.
‘Morning, maid. ’Tis a fine day for it.’ Colenso jumped as the West Country burr broke into her thoughts.
‘Good morning, Mr Carter, Mr Paul,’ she replied, stepping to one side to let the two fishermen pass carrying their gulley laden with nets and baskets. Dressed in their customary blue ganseys and flat caps, they eyed her quizzically.
‘Taking your young man something nice, I ’spect, this being a special day an’ all,’ the second man grinned, sniffing her basket appreciatively.
‘Really, Mr Paul, I’m not sure what you mean,’ she demurred, feeling her cheeks colouring. The two men gave her a knowing look.
‘Listen to ’em birds, maid,’ Mr Carter called. ‘They be choosing their mates too.’
‘Wish I were a youngster again. Give him a good run for his money for a beautiful maid like thee, I would.’ As their guffaws of laughter rang around the cove, Colenso felt her cheeks growing hotter.
‘If you’ll excuse me, I must get on,’ she muttered, hurrying on through the village and out the other side. Honestly, was nothing around here secret? She remembered Mammwynn saying you only had to sneeze at the top of the hill for someone to be enquiring after your health by the time you reached the bottom. Her hand strayed to the star-shaped necklace at her throat.
‘Heed what it tells yer, maid, ’tis never wrong,’ her grandmother had whispered, fixing her with that gimlet stare before her eyelids fluttered closed for the last time. Well, it hadn’t told her anything yet, she thought climbing the steep hill towards Ruan and skirting the ancient church dedicated to Saint Rumonus, nodding to villagers as she passed. Hearing the clock chime the half hour, she quickened her pace, her mind racing along with her steps. She and Kitto had been walking out for some months now and although he’d been loving and more attentive of late, he hadn’t mentioned taking things further.
‘Just needs a bit of encouragement.’ Mammwynn’s voice urged. Well hopefully today would give him that.