Previewing The Wrecker's Daughter

Available for preorder. Release date: January 6, 2025

My new novel, The Wrecker’s Daughter, will be released on January 6, 2025. It’s available for preorder here. Here’s a preview.

First, the tagline:

Sailors call her the Black Witch of Cornwall, but the wrecker's daughter lives one step ahead of the Devil.

Next, the blurb:

Hannah Pendarves killed a gentleman, believing him to be the rightful victim of the sea. But when fate places her as a spy in the house of her victim's kindly brother, she is left with an impossible choice between her own people, who feed themselves by wrecking ships and stealing their cargoes, and the man she is coming to admire and secretly, though hopelessly, love. Poldark meets Jamaica Inn in this story of drowned maidens, riotous weddings, fleeing lovers, righteous sailors, and a wrecker's daughter who makes herself up to be the queen of the Falmouth underworld and earns the moniker, The Black Witch of Cornwall.

Now, the cover:

Finally, the first chapter:

The children’s hearts were free of rancor as they followed the path up out of St. Rose Bay, having no purpose in mind but to be free and wander. It was a fair day, as a day is fair only after a storm has passed. Their father had sent them out of the house with liberty and a generous slice of rum cake. They were about their own concerns with none to tell them different.

Hannah was scouring the horizon for a rich ship on a perilous course. The coming of her womanhood was upon her and before the year was out she meant to prove her worth by shouting the news of an impending wreck to the village before Davy Hardwick could steal the chance from her. This she had promised herself, must she waste every spare hour in watching, come fair weather or come foul. But on this bright day, with the skies so fair and the sea alight with sunshine, she would have greeted even the wretched Davy Hardwick with a wave and a smile. Simon was striking the heads off daisies with a stout stick, but he was feeling no urge to fling stones at the circling gulls or capture the flittering butterflies and pull off their wings. Destruction of flora alone was enough to sate him this bright day. Marion trailed behind, her thoughts lost in the memory of a silk sleeve and a genteel hand that she had seen through the window of a passing carriage that had got temporarily stuck in the ford near the village. Her heart was untroubled by thoughts of sibling secrets to be quietly discovered and secretly betrayed.

“Father’s proper merry this morning,” Marion said, startled from her silken reverie by a tern starting from its nest in fierce defense as they passed.

“It’s that new horse he got,” Simon said.

“Tain’t that,” Hannah replied. “The Widdy Chegwidden is out of mourning today. He’s after marrying she.”

“I ain’t taking no mothering from the Widdy Chegwidden,” Simon said, sending a head of Queen Ann’s Lace spinning out over the cliff face with a splendid blow.

“I ain’t taking no more mothering from any woman,” Hannah said. “I’m past needing it. Marion can have the lot of it for all I care.”

“I don’t want it neither,” Marion protested, blinking a traitorous tear out of the corner of her eye. She was quite fond of the Widow Chegwidden and reckoned she would find her mothering a welcome complement to the rough brothering and sistering that were her daily lot. But to have admitted it would have earned her a bruising tumble in the rough gorse, with a day or two of torment and ridicule to follow.

As they came out of the valley and onto the high clifftop, they passed the small alcove in the cliff that was Creggen Cove. Something there caught Hannah’s scanning eye. She stopped in her tracks, and Marion, her thoughts once again on tufts of lace and the sheen of a velvet glove, almost cannoned into the back of her.

“There’s something on Creggen Beach,” Hannah said.

“What if there is,” Simon said, tossing a pebble into the air and sending it rocketing seaward with a mighty blow of his stick.

“It might be salvage,” Hannah said. “Flotsam belongs to him who’s first to lay hand to it. That’s the law.”

“It won’t be nothing worth carrying up the cliff,” Simon said, not minded to fill this idle day with labor.

“It’s not flotsam,” Marion said, squinting downward. “It’s a body.”

Hannah and Simon both made a tube with their hands to make do for a spyglass and examined the thing on the beach.

“It’s a seal,” said Simon.

“Perhaps it’s a mermaid,” said Marion, copying her siblings’ makeshift spyglasses but not finding much improvement in her vision. She glanced sideways at them to see if she was doing it right.

“Seals don’t have boots on,” Hannah said. “Neither do mermaids.” A body was more interesting than a seal or a mermaid or any other sort of flotsam. Bodies have pockets.

“You can’t tell boots from flippers,” Simon said, sending another stone seaward with a sharp crack. “Not from this distance.”

“I’ve better eyes than you,” Hannah said, her old accustomed scorn rising in her for being crossed.

“Have not.”

“Come on then, I’ll show you.”

“I’ll go if I want.”

“Don’t then. Marion, you’re coming with me.”

“She can stay here with me if she’d rather,” Simon said.

“No she can’t. I’m in charge.”

Hannah took Marion by the hand and dragged her towards the steep path. Marion followed willingly enough. Between her brother and her sister, Hannah had the rougher tongue, but Simon had the rougher hands.

The path down from the cliff top to Creggen Beach was hardly used, and every storm would wear away here or tumble a rock down there. They picked their way down, their hardy feet not minding the sharpness of the stones but wary of a twisted ankle or a scraped knee. In some ways, it was easier for Marion than for Hannah. With her small, nimble body and the easy, childish way she used her hands to climb, Marion kept her balance far better. Hannah had grown too tall and too proud to easily put a hand to the ground and was too much on her dignity to scramble on her bottom.

There was soon a racket of disturbed stones from above, and Simon came barreling down after them, using his stick to aid his descent. “Said I’d come if I wanted,” he said when Marion glared at him for pushing by her and flattening her against the cliff face to make room. Hannah, ahead, picked up the pace, leaping from rock to rock with little thought to where her next foot might fall or how she might check her descent. She reached the beach first, with Simon close behind her.

“Wait for me,” Marion cried plaintively once her brother and sister had reached the bottom of the cliff and stood on the sand.

“Oh, hurry up,” Hannah said.

“You’re not supposed to leave me behind!”

“That was Mamm’s rule,” Simon replied. “Father don’t care.”

“He does care!” Marion protested, sliding down a patch of rock that pulled at her skirts so that her smalls were shown as she landed. Hannah and Simon guffawed at the sight. “I’m his baby girl,” Marion said, pulling her skirts down furiously. “He likes me better than either of you!”

“He’s welcome to you, then,” said Simon. “You should have stayed at home to bring him his pipe and his beer when he calls for it. You’re useless to us.”

“I’m not useless!” Marion cried. “I’m just little.”

“Well, hop down that last bit then, and don’t keep us waiting!”

Marion hopped, stumbled, and fell. She rose, biting back tears and pretending not to look for blood on her bruised hands.

“Come on,” said Hannah, not waiting for her sister to inspect her bruises.

They emerged from the alcove onto the small beach. They saw at once the thing that Hannah had seen from the clifftop. It did indeed have boots. It also had a rich man’s breeches and topcoat, all of them black. It was lying at the edge of the tide, silver buttons glinting in the sunlight.

They set off at a dead run. Simon tried to keep his stick in his hand as he ran, but its weight threw off his balance and slowed him down. By the time he cast it angrily aside, Hannah had three steps on him, and he could not make them up in the distance remaining.

Marion, knowing her cause was helpless from the start, ran anyway, hoping that some fairy curse or incantation would turn her brother’s legs to reeds and cover her sister’s feet with boils. But the fairies disappointed her, and she gave up the hopeless pursuit, summoned her dignity, and walked the last part of the race with her chin in the air like a lady.

“Mine,” Hannah said, diving to slap her hand on the dark broadcloth of the sleeve. “Salvage belongs to the first to touch it. That’s the law.”

Simon turned to the sea and swore mightily. He knew he could have beaten Hannah if he had started first and left the stick. But he was a man of the law.

“You thought it was a seal,” Hannah said, “Told you. Better eyes.”

“Someone’s bashed him on the head,” Simon said, turning his eyes back to the prize.

“Bashed it on a rock or a spar, more like,” Hannah said, starting to go through the corpse’s pockets. “Four guineas and a farthing,” she announced, cataloging her finds as she went. “A miniature of a tart. Four bullets. A watch. A ring!”

“Gold?”

Hannah bit the ring, which yielded slightly to her tooth. She stuffed it hurriedly into the pocket of her smock.

Simon pulled a knife out and went to cut the buttons off the coat.

“Mine!” Hannah insisted. “You know the law.”

“You got a knife?” Simon asked.

“I’ll bite them off. You leave him be, or I’ll bite you.”

“I’ll let you use the knife for two buttons.”

“One button.”

“No.”

“Get off him then. I’ve got good teeth.”

“Don’t cut the buttons,” Marion said, trying to introduce a tone of dignity into the proceeding, “take the whole coat and the breeches. That’s fine cloth.”

Hannah paused and looked at her sister. Hannah knew silver, but Marion had an eye for gentry rags. This was no common sailor in his slops. This was a gent. He was oddly dressed for a gent. Everything he wore was black. His coat was black. His breeches were black. His shirt, his waistcoat, his stockings, even his cravat was black. This was why, to Simon’s inferior eyes, he had looked like a seal. But a gent’s clothes, even if all black, were certainly worth more than the buttons alone.

She undid the buttons with strong, lean fingers and tried to peel the coat over the shoulder. The arm in the sleeve made it impossible to pull the coat free. He was a muscular, well-built man, and his clothes fit tight. “How am I supposed to get them off him, then?” she asked Marion.

“Roll him over,” Marion replied. “The three of us together could manage it.”

“You’ll have to touch him then, you baby.”

“I’m not a baby. I don’t mind touching him if you don’t. Long as I don’t have to touch the skin. Same shares on the clothes, though, if we all help.”

“Including the buttons,” Simon said.

“The law says his comrades must help a man secure his prize,” Hannah said.

“And he must do the same for them,” Simon said.

“Go find your own prize then,” Hannah said. “Anything you can find, if you touch it first, I’ll help you carry it.” She took hold of the ornamental cuff of the gentleman’s jacket and attempted unsuccessfully to drag it from his arm by setting her heels firmly in the damp sand.

“There ain’t nothing else,” Simon said, scanning the beach to prove his point. There was usually flotsam enough for all from a wreck, but today the beach was empty except for the gent.

“Fair shares makes good companions,” Marion said.

“That ain’t the law,” Hannah said, giving up on the sleeve and taking a step back to survey the problem. “That be just a saying. Sayings ain’t the law.”

“Sayings is clever,” Marion said.

“That ain’t even a saying,” Hannah said. She took hold of the sleeve again, stepped over the corpse, and attempted to roll it over by pulling the arm across the body.

“Widdy Chegwidden says…” Marion began, but she did not have a chance to finish.

“Hurrrruh!” came a great shuddering cry from the body. Hannah dropped the arm, and the three children took a step back.

“He’s not dead!” Marion squeaked as the body on the sand emitted another groan, and the head moved from one side to the other.

“You’d notice a pig in the parlor,” Simon said. “You’re that clever!”

Hannah ran up the beach to the place where large stones lay, fallen from the cliff above. She picked up the largest she could carry. Hugging it to her bosom with both hands, she staggered back down the beach.

The body moved one of its arms and emitted a loud cry as if of fear or pain. A hand began groping its way toward the head. The eyes opened, pale blue and staring. Simon and Marion took another step back. But Hannah completed her journey and stood, her feet athwart the head, one bare foot beside each ear.

“It’s terrible luck to deprive the sea of what’s hers,” she said. “She’ll be revenged on thee thrice fold. ‘Do not rob the sea of her own, lest ye die.’ That’s the Bible.” She heaved the stone upward, her arms trembling at the limit of their strength, then let the stone fall. She leapt back as she dropped it. The stone fell with a terrible crack and rolled off the side of the head, landing in the spot where her toes had been a moment before.

There was no further movement from the body. Slowly, they advanced on it again. Simon surveyed the corpse up and down.

“Is he dead now?” Marion asked, her voice sounding very small.

“The sea is jealous,” Hannah said. “What she takes, she keeps, or she will have her recompense. Ye rob her, she’ll rob thee thrice.”

Simon stood at the edge of the sea, looking at the corpse’s boots. He went and stood over a leg, facing the sea, and took the black boot in both hands by the heel. Slowly, he eased the leather over the heel until suddenly the boot came free. Still holding the leg out of the water, he turned the boot over to empty it. But no water came out of the boot. Simon undid the garter and slid the black stocking off the foot. He dropped the leg and the boot at the edge of the tide and brought the stocking to Hannah. Marion reached out a hand to feel the fabric. But it was not the quality of the fabric that was on Simon’s mind.

Hannah took the stocking from him. It was dry and slightly warm.

“Dry as a bone,” Simon said. “He never come from the sea. He weren’t wet at all, ’cept where the tide reached him. The sea weren’t jealous for him.”

“But someone will be,” Marion said quietly.

Hannah shrugged and said, “It’s done now. And I’m having them buttons.”

---

The Wrecker’s Daughter follows Hannah’s adventures in the wrecking trade from the ages of 14 to 22 as she rises to become known as The Black Witch of Cornwall. But the Devil is always at her heels. And if ever she should stumble…

You can preorder now for the release on January 6, 2025. If you enjoy the book, I would deeply appreciate a review, particularly on Amazon. I ask this not for vanity but for the robot overlords. Thanks!