Dilly Court - The Christmas Card - The perfect heartwarming novel for Christmas from the Sunday Times bestseller

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

The News Building

1 London Bridge Street

London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollins Publishers 2016

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Copyright © Dilly Court 2016

Cover layout design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2016

Cover photographs © Gordon Crabb (girl); Shutterstock.com(background).

Dilly Court asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008137380

Ebook Edition © November 2016 ISBN: 9780008137397

Version 2017-05-09

For Georgina Hawtrey-Woore.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

My First Christmas Book

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Dilly Court

About the Publisher

The grandfather clock wobbled dangerously, its pendulum swinging to and fro in a carillon of chimes as it toppled off the carter’s wagon and hit the frosty cobblestones with a resounding crash. With her arm around her sobbing mother nineteen-year-old Alice stood on the pavement outside their home, watching helplessly as the bailiff’s men picked up the splintered wood and hurled it on top of her late father’s favourite armchair. For a moment it was as if Clement Radcliffe was still sitting there, his spectacles balanced on the tip of his nose as he studied the morning newspaper. With his nightcap slightly askew on his balding head and his moth-eaten red velvet robe wrapped tightly around his thin frame, he had always seemed oblivious to the world about him. An academic by profession and inclination, Clement had rarely come down to earth, and when he did it was usually to ask for another lump of coal to be placed on the fire, or another candle to make reading easier. And now he was dead.

‘Gracious heavens, that clock should have come to me.’ Jane Radcliffe clicked her tongue against her teeth. ‘Your father, God rest his soul, knew how much my dear husband wanted it, but Clement was his favourite, even though Robert was the elder son.’ Her thin lips disappeared into a pencil-line of discontent below the tip of her nose, which was glowing red in the cold air. ‘And now the disgrace of having the bailiffs come in and take every last stick of furniture is too much to bear.’ She turned her head, focusing her attention on her sister-in-law. ‘You married an extremely selfish man, Beth. Your husband spent most of his time with his head in a book instead of working to support his wife and child. My dear Robert always said his brother was a fool with money.’

Beth Radcliffe buried her face in her already sodden handkerchief, mumbling something unintelligible.

Alice contained her anger with difficulty. In their precarious situation it was not a good idea to antagonise Aunt Jane, who, despite her strong religious convictions, was notoriously judgemental and quick-tempered. Dressed in unrelieved black Jane seemed to tower over them like a dark cloud. Although it was six years since her husband had died from congestion of the lungs, Jane had clung stubbornly to the role of grieving widow. Her mourning clothes were old-fashioned and now tinged with green, but she wore them like a badge of honour. She shunned all forms of entertainment and spent more time in the church of St George the Martyr than she did in her own home. Jane Radcliffe was well known for her good works, but Alice suspected that her aunt’s charity was handed out with as little warmth as the frozen River Thames during the famous frost fair.

‘As usual it’s left to me to pick up the pieces. My brother-in-law was a wastrel and it’s my Christian duty to take you both into my home.’ Jane folded her hands in front of her, raising her eyes to heaven as if she expected a divine being to acknowledge her good deed. ‘I would have treasured that clock.’

‘I’m sorry,’ was all Alice could think of to say. It was just days until Christmas and her whole life was disintegrating before her eyes, although it was a shame to see the old clock smashed to bits it was the least of her worries. With a feeling close to despair she glanced up at the terraced house in Doughty Street where she had been born and raised. It was not a mansion, but there were two reasonable sized rooms on each of its three floors, plus the basement kitchen and scullery. It was a desirable residence with a pleasant view of Mecklenburgh Square at the front, and a small back garden with a scrap of lawn and an ancient apple tree. In springtime it had showered pink and white petals onto the grass, and in summer she had sat beneath its shady branches reading or sketching. In autumn she had picked and eaten the juicy fruit but she had always been on her own. A shy girl and an only child, she had longed for the company of brothers and sisters, but her mother was delicate and suffered bouts of illness that laid her low for weeks if not months. With only the servants for company it had been a lonely life, but Alice had discovered early on that she had a talent for drawing and painting, and that had been her greatest pleasure.

She gave her mother a comforting hug. ‘We’ll be all right, Mama. I’ll find work so that I can look after you.’

‘Pull yourself together, Beth,’ Aunt Jane said impatiently. ‘Stop snivelling and pick up your valise. There’s no point in loitering about here.’ She started off along Doughty Street, heading for the gated entrance despite the bitter east wind that tugged at her widow’s weeds. ‘We’ll walk to Queen Square. There’s no need to waste money on a cab.’

Alice picked up the valise and portmanteau, which contained all that was left of their worldly possessions. Her mittened fingers were numbed with cold, but her concern was for her mother, whose pale cheeks were tinged with blue.

‘Are you all right, Mama? It really isn’t too far to Queen Square.’

‘I can walk.’ Beth mopped her eyes on a white cotton hanky that Alice had given her last Christmas, having spent hours embroidering it with tiny rosebuds and her mother’s initials. ‘I won’t allow that woman to get the better of me.’