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  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2012

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © Tara Hyland, 2012

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

  The right of Tara Hyland to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  1st Floor

  222 Gray’s Inn Road

  London WC1X 8HB

  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  Simon & Schuster Australia

  Sydney

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Hardback ISBN 978-1-84737-700-5

  Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-84737-701-2

  eBook ISBN 978-1-84737-702-9

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset by M Rules

  Printed in the UK by CPI Mackays, Chatham ME5 8TD

  To my parents

  Pam and John Hyland

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank the following:

  All my readers, especially those who took the time to get in touch to say how much they enjoyed Daughters of Fortune.

  My wonderful editors, Suzanne Baboneau and Libby Yevtushenko in the UK and Sarah Durand in the US, who read a very rough first draft of this manuscript – and an even worse second draft! – but still saw something worth pursuing, and whose ongoing encouragement, extraordinary patience and insightful suggestions shaped this into a much better final book.

  An amazing agent, Darley Anderson, who I will always be grateful to for giving me this opportunity in the first place, as well as for everything he has done for me over these past three years. Also at the agency, Foreign Rights Team, Maddie Buston and Kaisa Thompson, as well as Caroline Kirkpatrick, Rosanna Bellingham and Sophie Gordon.

  The hardworking, talented team at my publishers, who I’m still getting to know, but at the risk of leaving someone out, I’d like to mention a few names. At Simon & Schuster UK: Kerr McRae, Dawn Burnett, Emma Harrow, Amanda Shipp, Emma Lowth, Sara Jade-Virtue and Rumana Haider. Also, Web Mistress and fellow Buffy fan, Ally Glynn, and the amazingly gifted Rafaela Romaya, who has designed the most wonderful book jackets I think I’ve ever seen. And at Atria in the US: Judith Curr, Sarah Cantin and Jessica Purcell.

  Fellow author Milly Johnson, for her witty, warm-hearted writing and for being such a genuine friend – I think I owe you several coffees now! And Lesley Pearse, whose books have entertained and inspired me for the best part of twenty years, and who has been so graciously welcoming and encouraging to a newbie like me.

  The many family and friends who have supported and encouraged me. My dad, the most prolific reader I know, who always took me to the library as a child; and my mum, a wonderful storyteller in her own right. My oldest friend, Amanda O’Connor, for taking a beautiful set of wedding photos, and for being so genuinely pleased for me when I finally got published. In Ireland, my uncles, Father Ray and Father Donald, as well as my uncle and aunt, Damian and Alysha Hannon. In England, my aunt, Maureen Golden, and cousin, Catherine Roper. The Tiffin Girls: Liga Millers, Laura Martin, Lucy Taylor, Gemma Crane, Katie Fox, Sarah Burows, Lucille Pearson, Nicola Grant and Jo Kapourta. The Bentalls bunch: John Pitts, John Foley, Matt Boyle, Richard Jones and Adele Stevens. From Cambridge: Pia McGee, Andrew Besford, Reema Faridi, Jason Moss and Kristy Cooper, Sanjay Ojah and Anjla Patel. At Newton: Raj and Meena Shant, and Fred Moore. The M&S Retirement Group in Kingston-upon-Thames, for inviting me to speak and giving me such a warm welcome on the day. As well as Diana Pigg, Jenny Worsfold, Sandra Hendry and Shirley Hunt.

  And, as always, my most heartfelt thanks go to my intelligent, witty and devilishly handsome husband, Tom Beevers, for reading far too many drafts of this manuscript, and being prepared to endlessly discuss plot points over Saturday brunch. I hope you know how much you mean to me.

  Contents

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  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

  PART TWO

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Tweenty-one

  Chapter Tweenty-two

  Chapter Tweenty-three

  Chapter Tweenty-four

  Chapter Tweenty-five

  Chapter Tweenty-six

  Chapter Tweenty-seven

  Chapter Tweenty-eight

  PART THREE

  Chapter Tweenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  PART FOUR

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  PART FIVE

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Chapter Sixty-three

  Chapter Sixty-four

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  San Francisco, December 1958

  Sister Marie scurried along the dark corridor, as fast as her pudgy little legs would carry her. Even though she would never admit it to the other nuns, alone in the cloisters at night she often got scared. This evening was worse than usual. An earlier storm had knocked the electricity out again, and the flame from her candle cast eerie silhouettes on the stone walls, as though shadow demons lined the path on either side, lying in wait for her to pass.

  ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,’ she murmured under her breath, trying to draw courage from the words. ‘He makes me lie down in green pastures.’

  As she continued to recite the Psalm, Sister Marie shivered, this time from cold rather than fear. Even the heavy wool habit
couldn’t keep her warm at this time of year. Just before Thanksgiving, last week, the weather had finally turned. The cold, bright sun set earlier these days, and then the infamous San Francisco fog rose up from the sea, covering the thick legs of the Golden Gate Bridge before rolling in towards the shore, the white mist creeping across the city and snaking its way up here, to the Sisters of Charity Orphanage on Telegraph Hill. Sometimes, lying awake in her eight-by-ten-foot cell, Sister Marie imagined the fog oozing in through the keyholes and under the doors, like something from one of those monster movies her younger brother liked to watch.

  Stop that, she scolded herself. It was this overactive imagination that had led the Abbess at her last convent to suggest that she might not be suited to life as a nun. But even though she had struggled through her postulancy – the six-month period to determine whether she should take the veil – Sister Marie hadn’t wanted to give up. It had finally been agreed that she should be allowed to continue with her novitiate – the training to take vows – but on the condition that she went outside of the Closed Order. Moving to the orphanage had seemed like the best option. She adored children and had always known that motherhood would be the hardest aspect of secular life to renounce. Now she wouldn’t have to.

  The orphanage had been founded by the Sisters of Charity back in the nineteenth century, funded with donations from the city’s upper-class Catholics. At present there were ninety-seven children in the institute’s care – and tonight there was about to be one more. A call had come through late that evening, just as the nuns were about to retire, asking if they had room for another child. It was a baby, apparently, only a few days old. Apart from that, no other details had been imparted about the new arrival: not its sex, nor the reason for it being abandoned here. It was most curious.

  Sister Marie had been assigned to stay up with Mother Superior while she waited for the child. But as the hours dragged on, she’d begun to grow bored. Tired of her fidgeting, the Reverend Mother had eventually sent her to fix them both a late-night supper. It had been bad enough getting down to the kitchen in this creepy building. Now, on the return journey, the nun’s progress was slower, as she was carrying a tray laden with mugs of cocoa and a plate of thickly sliced bread, spread with butter and jam. It would have been slower still, if a gust of wind hadn’t blown through the corridor at that moment, extinguishing her candle and plunging the cloisters into blackness. With a little squeal of fright, Sister Marie let go of the tray. The crash of metal and china on the floor echoed around the vast walls, sending her scuttling the last hundred yards to Mother Superior’s office.

  She burst through the door without knocking.

  ‘Reverend Mother,’ she panted, hardly able to get the words out, ‘you’ll never guess what happened . . .’ Without pausing for breath, she launched into an explanation of her adventure. It was only as she started to calm down that she took in the scene properly: Mother Superior was on her knees, clutching a string of rosary beads, and had been in the midst of praying. ‘Oh, my goodness!’ A hand fluttered to her chest. ‘I interrupted you! I’m sorry, really I am. About supper, too.’

  ‘Enough of your apologies, my child.’ Mother Superior’s voice was low and calm. ‘I have no need for refreshment. Just, in future perhaps, you could make your entrance a little less dramatic. My old heart can’t take the excitement.’

  There was the barest hint of amusement in the rheumy eyes – the novice was renowned throughout the Order for her histrionics. Using the desk, the old nun hauled herself up, her joints creaking as she stood. She winced.

  ‘Are you all right, Mother?’ Sister Marie rushed over to take her elbow.

  ‘’Tis nothing.’ She waved the younger woman away. ‘The cold brings out my arthritis.’ She lowered herself slowly and painfully into the wooden chair, and then nodded at the seat opposite. ‘Sit yourself, child. We still have a long wait ahead of us, I fear.’

  With that, Mother Superior bowed her head and fell into a contemplative silence. Sister Marie opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it again, knowing she ought to resist the urge to talk. That was something else she found hard to deal with – only speaking when she had something worthwhile to say. A natural chatterer, these periods of quiet went against her nature. It was so much easier for the Reverend Mother, she thought enviously. There was a stillness about her, a sense of serenity that the novice was certain she would never possess, no matter how many years she was here.

  In the dim candlelight, Sister Marie studied the older woman’s face, soft and lined, as fragile as crepe paper. She was well over seventy now, and still going strong. She spoke little about herself, although there were rumours of a decade spent in the Missions in Africa, her time cut short after contracting a disease that weakened her heart. But despite her physical fragility, there was still an unmistakable inner strength about her.

  Sister Marie sensed that, like the Abbess at her last convent, Mother Superior had doubts about her suitability to take the veil. Secretly she did, too. Life as a nun was even harder than she had imagined. The tiny cell, starkly furnished with only a wooden bed, writing desk and dresser; rising every morning at 5.30 a.m. to go to chapel for an hour of prayer. But although the Superior was free to dismiss a novice at any time, Sister Marie guessed that the decision of whether to continue would ultimately be left to herself. The Reverend Mother was one of those rare people who did not sit in judgement, and truly believed the words ‘let him who is without sin cast the first stone’.

  The two women continued to sit in silence, with the younger nun trying hard not to fidget, alternately wishing for the visitors to hurry up and arrive so that she could go to bed, and feeling guilty for the thought crossing her mind. Eventually, she must have nodded off in the chair, but the sound of a car drawing up on the street outside jerked her awake.

  Sister Marie jumped to her feet. ‘That must be them.’ She couldn’t keep the relief out of her voice.

  A moment later the bell rang, confirming she was right. Only then did Mother Superior stand, too.

  Outside, whoever had rung the doorbell had retreated to the warmth of the car. It was a fancy car, too, Sister Marie noted. Black and sleek, a Lincoln Capri, and this year’s model, 1958. That the car was expensive surprised her. Usually when a newborn came to the orphanage, the mother was an unmarried girl who’d got herself in trouble, and the baby would simply be left on the doorstep. But this was clearly a very different situation. Sister Marie wondered if Mother Superior knew any of the details; unfortunately, even if she did, she was unlikely to divulge them to her gossipy underling.

  Sister Marie looked on with undisguised curiosity as the driver stepped out of the car. He was a tall, distinguished man in his late forties, with dark hair, dark eyes and a navy cashmere coat that must have cost more than it did to feed the entire orphanage for a year. The collar was pulled up, as though he wished to disguise his identity – or maybe she was just being fanciful again. He walked round to the back of the car and opened the rear door, reaching in as though to retrieve a bag. From her position on the stone steps, Sister Marie couldn’t see inside, but she thought she heard a woman weeping softly. Perhaps she was mistaken and it was just the newborn, because a moment later the man emerged carrying a small bundle of blankets, which promptly started to howl.

  Without making any attempt to soothe the crying child, he crossed the drive to where the Reverend Mother stood. His face was blank and he didn’t say a word, leaving Sister Marie to assume that all relevant information had been imparted over the telephone earlier. Mother Superior took the child from the man’s arms. The baby was obscured by the blanket it had been wrapped in, so the older nun pushed the material back. As she caught her first view of the child’s face, she frowned, as though something wasn’t quite right, and then a moment later her expression softened.

  ‘God love you,’ Mother Superior murmured tenderly. Her composure recovered, she looked up at the man and said, ‘You can be sure that the child will be r
aised as a good Christian.’

  The man nodded once to acknowledge her words, then headed back to the car.

  Sister Marie followed the elderly nun inside. Goose bumps covered her arms, and the hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end. She still hadn’t laid eyes on the baby, but she sensed that something was amiss with the child. Whatever was wrong, it had been enough to unsettle the normally unflappable Mother Superior. And that knowledge disturbed her more than anything else.

  PART ONE

  1946–54

  Small Beginnings

  ‘Mighty things from small beginings grow.’

  John Dryden, British poet, 1631–1700

  Chapter One

  County Cork, Ireland, July 1946

  ‘Stop! Not here – someone might see!’

  Franny broke from the man’s embrace, struggling to sit up in the long grass. Her breaths were coming short and fast, although it wasn’t all due to the fear of being caught. Wanting was written across the girl’s flushed cheeks. But she was determined not to give in to her desire. Before marriage, it was a mortal sin, and while she liked to think she was too sophisticated to believe the Church’s teachings, it was hard to ignore seventeen years of sermons.

  Still lying on his back, Sean reached up with one large, callused hand and brushed a lock of auburn hair from her face. The rich red colour reminded him of the glossy coat of the sika deer that roamed the Irish countryside, he was always telling her. He had a way with words, did Sean.

  ‘Ah, come on now, my pretty little colleen. There’s nothing wrong with what we’re doing.’

  That was easy for him to say. If her parents found out about them, there would be hell to pay. Canoodling with a boy from the neighbouring farms would have been bad enough, but Sean was a labourer, a hired hand toiling on her father’s land. To the snobbish minds of those reared in smalltown Ireland, that would be the worst crime of all.

  Sensing her fears, Sean gave her the hangdog look she had grown to know so well over the past few weeks. ‘All I’m wanting is a bit of a kiss and a cuddle. You wouldn’t deny a hardworking man like me a little peck on the lips now, would you?’