Cover

Title

Mary Nickson

Dedication

To my grandchildren:
Arabella, James and Geordie,
Hermione, William and Freddie,
Octavia and Charles
with great love and gratitude for their friendship
and shared laughter

About the Author

Mary Nickson has three children and having lived in Yorkshire for many years, she now lives in Perthshire, Scotland. She is also the author of The Venetian House and her website address is www.marynickson.co.uk

Also by

Also by

FICTION

(Writing as Mary Nickson)

The Venetian House

(Writing as Mary Sheepshanks)

A Price for Everything

Facing the Music

Picking up the PiecesOff-Balance

NON FICTION

The Bird of My Loving – a personal response
to loss and grief

POETRY

Patterns in the Dark

Thinning Grapes

Kingfisher Days

Dancing Blues to Skylarks

Acknowledgements

My thanks go to all those who have generously helped me with information and encouragement during the writing of this book, especially Steve Blaylock, Belinda Cox, Hilary Johnson, Nicolas and Diana McAndrew, David Nickson, David and Squibbs Noble, Marshall Roscoe, Alice Sheepshanks, Susannah Tamworth and Stephen Wade.

Special appreciation to my agents Sara Fisher and Sarah Molloy and my editors Kate Elton and Georgina HawtreyWoore. Thank you for having faith in me.

Part One

Luciana

Chapter One

If she lay with her eyes half-closed, Luciana discovered she became invisible – invisible that is to all except the child. She was uncomfortably aware that the child not only observed her, but was in no way fooled by her. But she doesn’t know I’m in disguise, thought Luciana. None of them know that.

Carlos would have known, and she sent him a venomous message. You should not have left me, she told him. It was always understood that you would look after me. Always. You have reneged on our agreement, and I do not even know where you are.

There were new arrivals at the hotel. The small plane that flew them from the larger island had arrived earlier, sliding along the strip of tarmac that served St Matt’s for a runway, as casually as a duck skids along the surface of water, though pilots had to be careful there were no goats lying on the airstrip. The drive up to the Old Sugar Plantation took ages because the road was rough in places, the better stretches suddenly coming to such an abrupt end that speeding was foolhardy, but anyway the taxi drivers who plied their trade between the airport and the island’s hotels usually drove their battered cars with the animation of a funeral cortège. Urgency was not a state of mind with which the population of St Matt’s was familiar.