Miranda's Mount
Authors: Phillipa Ashley
Award-winning author
Phillipa Ashley
loves writing lively, sexy, funny romantic fiction. After studying English Language and Literature at Oxford University, she worked as a copywriter and journalist.
Phillipa lives in Staffordshire with her husband and daughter.
Visit her website at
www.phillipaashley.com
www.facebook.com/phillipa.ashley
www.twitter.com/PhillipaAshley
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 978-1-4055-1893-2
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 Phillipa Ashley
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
For John. ILY
Acknowledgements
Miranda’s Mount was one of those books that was a total joy to write but I couldn’t have finished it without the writers and friends who helped me with research tips, encouragement and cakes including Nell Dixon, Elizabeth Hanbury, Rosy Thornton, Moira Briggs and Hilary Ely. I’d also like to give a huge thank you to Donna Condon, Piatkus Entice and the Little Brown team for making me welcome. Finally, to my agent Broo Doherty, my husband John and daughter Charlotte – thank you for your support and faith in me.
Miranda
Marshall leaned her elbows on the stone battlements and took a deep breath. This was her favourite spot on the whole of St Merryn’s Mount and even though she’d seen the view thousands of times before, she still felt a thrill when she looked at it.
Above her, white clouds chased across the sky and the wind tugged at her hair, making her scalp tingle. More than a hundred feet below, Atlantic breakers crashed onto the rocks, their white foam spraying so high Miranda could almost taste it. The tide was in and the causeway that connected the island to civilisation shimmered beneath the sea like a mermaid’s road. When the waters receded, the causeway would be uncovered so visitors could invade the island again.
Which would be good otherwise she’d be out of a job.
But until morning, the pubs and shops, roads and pylons of the Cornish mainland, might as well be a whole world away.
‘
Holy crap, Miranda, are you in la-la land again?
’
Even above the
waves and the wind, Miranda heard her colleague’s voice squawk down the radio fixed to her belt. She snatched it up and called back. ‘I’m up on the battlements, Ronnie.’
‘That’s a relief. I’ve been trying to call you for the past ten minutes. Can you please get down to this quayside? The last boat’s about to leave.’
‘What? Already? Are you sure?’
Miranda glanced at her watch and her mouth opened. It really was almost five o’clock. Today had whizzed by faster than Usain Bolt after a super-strength vindaloo.
‘The boatman wants to load the last few stragglers. Are you coming down to see them off?’
As property manager of St Merryn’s Mount, Miranda had made it a tradition that she always saw the visitors off on the last boat of the day, no matter how tired or busy she was. There were days when she didn’t get out of her office, and she thought it was important to get some direct feedback from the punters, even if some of it was a little too ‘direct’ at times.
‘Just give me one minute, Ronnie. Don’t let the boat sail without me.’
‘One minute to get from the top of the castle to the harbour? Have you grown wings, then?’ Ronnie was unable to keep the grin from her voice.
‘Of course, didn’t you know I sprouted them at the same time I had the broom fixed to my bottom?’ Without waiting for a reply, Miranda clipped the radio back on her belt, allowed herself a last glance at the view and dashed down the steps. She staggered onto the quayside just as the castle clock struck five, hoping she’d have the breath to wish the day’s last visitors goodbye. Around a dozen of them stood in the queue for the boat that would carry them to the mainland. As usual, this early in the season, it was a mixed bunch. There were a couple of middle-aged heritage buffs clutching their Mount St Merryn carriers, several German backpackers, a bloke wearing ill-advised combat shorts and a towering, hawk-faced woman whose tight-lipped expression threatened trouble. Miranda steeled herself, but still felt confident. After almost a decade working on the island in various roles, she’d been there, done that and got the T-shirt, bra and knickers.
As she
walked towards the queue, trying to catch her breath, her attention was drawn to another more intriguing visitor. At the very end of the line was a teenager, which Miranda thought was unusual enough in itself. Only geeks like herself loved places like the Mount, at that age, in Miranda’s experience. It was also out of the school holidays and the girl looked too young for a student, though she supposed it was always possible. But the girl’s age wasn’t the thing that made Miranda curious. It was something else.
Miranda always knew when a person had something to hide. She recognised the signs: the Guilty Shuffle, the Casual Saunter, the Toothy Smile. The teenage girl had gone for the Shuffle. She’d pulled her hood over her head, shoved her hands in the pocket at the front of her sweatshirt and joined the end of the queue, dragging her feet reluctantly.
The queue moved forwards and the teenage girl shrank even deeper into her hoodie. Miranda helped the hawk-faced woman climb down into the boat. ‘Have you had a good visit, madam?’
The visitor
glared at Miranda, her moustache on her top lip bristling like a walrus. ‘It was quite interesting I suppose,’ said the woman, ‘but the scones in your café are rather dry. You should use best butter. I’ll be writing to your chef with a recipe.’
‘Thank you, I’ll tell him to watch out for it,’ said Miranda, knowing the scones that day had been shipped in from the local superstore because the island baker was off work with shingles.
A middle-aged man with a bushy beard and binoculars dangling from his neck was next to get onto the boat. It was, decided Miranda, turning into a bumper day for impressive facial hair.
The man glanced around him then he lowered his voice. ‘Did you know you’ve got choughs, love?’
Miranda gave a startled gasp. ‘Really, sir? Choughs you say?’
‘Yes, but for goodness’ sake, keep it quiet, or the place will be swarming with twitchers.’
Miranda winked. ‘I won’t tell a soul, sir.’
The birdwatcher climbed on board, smiling at his secret. He wasn’t to know that Miranda was well aware of the rare choughs nesting on the island and had shown around six parties from the RSPB that week alone. The girl in the hoodie was only a few feet away now. Miranda smiled at her, feeling like the crocodile in Peter Pan. Any moment now she was going to open up her jaws and swallow the teenager whole. The girl shuffled forwards, hands in her pockets, desperate to avoid being spoken to.
‘Have you
enjoyed your visit, madam?’
The teenager grunted.
‘I’m so glad to hear it. Is there anything you think we could do to improve it?’
‘Wha’?’
‘I just wondered if you had any suggestions for making your visit here even better.’
The girl glanced up, nose wrinkling in surprise. ‘No.’
She stepped forwards but Miranda was even quicker, slipping between the girl and the gangway to the boat. ‘Even so, maybe you can still help us. Is there anything you want to tell me?’
The girl shook her head, her sharp little chin bobbing from side to side. ‘I said not, didn’t I?’
The girl closed her eyes and seemed to sway as if she might faint. Perhaps it was cruel to torment her, but Miranda had to know what she was hiding in the pocket of her hoodie, even if it was only a spoon nicked from the café.
Miranda went for silky yet menacing, part Bond villain, part Clinique counter assistant. ‘Are you absolutely certain I can’t help you with anything else, madam? Before it’s too late?’
The girl opened her mouth, snapped it shut and gave a long, drawn-out sigh which morphed into a weary, ‘Oh, fuck it.’ She dragged her hands out of the pocket and withdrew a small parcel, wrapped in a serviette from the café. Miranda took the parcel from the teenager, feeling ever so slightly sick. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re gonna call the police, aren’t you?’ The teenager sounded resigned as if this wasn’t the first time this had happened to her.
Miranda
opened her mouth to say ‘Yes, what else did you expect?’ then hesitated. Carefully, she unwrapped the serviette’s folds, brushing off crumbs. Inside was a small bound book. She recognised it instantly as a medieval bestiary and she didn’t have to open it to know what she’d see inside. The thick vellum pages were decorated with animals and mythical beasts, burnished with gold leaf and jewel-like colours. It was one of the Mount’s biggest treasures and it should have been kept under lock and key in the library.
‘I haven’t damaged it. I only wanted to look at it.’ The girl’s eyes brightened as if she was about to cry.
Miranda saw the dark shadows under her eyes, the hollow cheeks and the fear under the bone-hard expression. Was the wobbling lip all an act or was the girl genuinely scared of getting caught?
‘Why did you take it?’ she asked.
The girl shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
‘Why this particular thing? There are a lot of lovely things on the Mount. Pieces made of gold and silver and beautiful jewellery. Why this book?’
‘Dunno. S’pose I like the animals. I’ve seen these books on the internet, you know? With all the wild beasts and dragons. I like the gold letters and the old writing. I know I shouldn’t have taken it but … it was just there.’ She subsided into silence, obviously ashamed of showing any kind of enthusiasm for anything at all.
‘You mean it wasn’t in its cabinet?’
The girl shook her head. ‘It was just lying about on the table. I didn’t think it could be that important, just left there like that.’
Miranda just stopped herself from blurting out a four-letter word, even though it would have been Anglo-Saxon.
‘There were so many old books in the castle; I thought you wouldn’t miss it,’ said the girl.
‘Wouldn’t miss it?’
‘Yeah. I know I shouldn’t have took it. I’m sorry. I really am. Please don’t call the police. I’ll try and pay for any damage.’
Miranda now
knew the true meaning of being caught between a rock and a hard place. If the book was damaged, they’d have to call in a specialist conservator and the restoration work could cost a fortune. At first glance, it looked unharmed apart from a few cake crumbs on the cover and calling the police would lead to a mountain of trouble for the Mount and the girl.
There’d probably be a court case, the girl would get a criminal record and a stretch in a young offenders’ institute because the bestiary wasn’t a paperback from Smith’s, and it was a treasure of, perhaps, national importance, worth thousands of pounds. The story would be sure to get in the tabloids and they’d act all outraged and publish pictures of the feral girl and her feckless mother flicking the ‘V’s outside some court. Or her family might get evicted or kick her out, if she had a family at all, if she even had a mother.
The girl sniffed. ‘You gonna call them?’
Miranda made a split-second decision. ‘Get on the boat.’
The girl’s eyes widened. She must think Miranda had gone crazy, which was probably true.
