The Forgotten Sister

Praise for Nicola Cornick

“I was hooked from the first pages... I can’t remember when I last read a book so fast, just to find out what happens next. A twisty and deceptively clever book...[with] a wonderfully satisfying conclusion.”

—Gill Paul, bestselling author of The Secret Wife

“A fascinating tale with intriguing twists which kept me reading late into the night.”

—Barbara Erskine, Sunday Times bestselling author

“Atmospheric and compelling, I was gripped from beginning to end.”

—Sarah Morgan, USA TODAY bestselling author

“A rising star.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Nicola Cornick is the mistress of keeping you up way beyond lights out because you just can’t put it down. Brilliant!”

—Katie Fforde

“A gorgeous novel, so fresh and original. And the tension! I was on the edge of my seat.”

—Jenny Ashcroft

“With its intriguing premise and engaging characters, this fresh take on the time-slip novel completely won me over.”

—Kate Riordan

“A lively, entertaining read... The story kept me turning the pages right to the very end.”

—Katherine Webb

Also by Nicola Cornick

THE WOMAN IN THE LAKE

THE PHANTOM TREE

HOUSE OF SHADOWS

Nicola Cornick

The Forgotten Sister

This book is dedicated to my grandmother
Doris Clark, whose shelf of Tudor-set
historical novels started me on my journey.

NICOLA CORNICK is a historian and author. She studied at London University and Ruskin College, Oxford, and works for the National Trust as a guide at the seventeenth-century hunting lodge Ashdown House in Oxfordshire. Her award-winning books are international bestsellers and have been translated into twenty-six languages.

Contents

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

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Amy Robsart, Cumnor Village

They came for me one night in the winter of 1752 when the ice was on the pond and the trees bowed under the weight of the hoar frost. There were nine priests out of Oxford, garbed all in white with tapers in hand. Some looked fearful, others burned with a righteous fervour because they thought they were doing the Lord’s work. All of them looked cold, huddled within their cassocks, the one out ahead gripping the golden crucifix as though it were all that stood between him and the devil himself.

The villagers came out to watch for a while, standing around in uneasy groups, their breath like smoke on the night air, then the lure of the warm alehouse called them back and they went eagerly, talking of uneasy ghosts and the folly of the holy men in thinking they could trap my spirit.

The hunt was long. I ran through the lost passageways of Cumnor Hall with the priests snapping at my heels and in the end, exhausted and vanquished, my ghost sank into the dark pool. They said their prayers over me and returned to their cloisters and believed the haunting to be at an end.