Series: The Penhaligon Saga
Genre: Historical Saga
Release Date: 07 Dec 2017
1910. Anna Garvey and her daughter are still
running the Tin Streamer's Arms in Caernoweth, Cornwall, and it finally seems
like she has left her tumultuous history behind in Ireland. Meanwhile Freya
Penhaligon has blossomed and is now the object of increasing affection of Hugh,
the elder son of the wealthy Batten family.
After the dramatic events of the previous months,
it feels like everything is finally getting back to normal. But when Anna
inadvertently reveals something she shouldn't, she finds herself at the centre
of a blackmail plot and it seems like the past she longed to escape is coming
back to haunt her. To make matters worse, the tiny fishing hamlet is battered
by a terrible storm and shifting relationships find themselves under more
scrutiny than ever before.
With the Penhaligon family at
breaking point it will take enormous strength and courage to bring them back
together - but is it already too late?
Extract
from Penhaligon’s Pride.
(Matthew Penhaligon is
working in the tin mine, and his old adversary David Donithorn, his shift
captain, has been uncharacteristically distant all morning. The men are on
their lunch break.)
Alan had broken off from
talking to cough; a deep, hacking sound, appalling enough in an old man, never
mind in a nineteen-year-old. Matthew swallowed hard, wondering if he was
imagining the tickle in his own throat, and determined not to cough himself… it
sounded as if Alan would never stop. He’d surely returned to work too soon, but
during his time working with Tommy, Matthew had learned the Trevellicks had no
living parents, just aging grandparents Esther and Joe. There had been little
choice in the matter, Alan’s wage was needed.
At thirty-eight, Matthew was
probably one of the oldest men working the underground levels, particularly
down this far; most had succumbed to injury or illness long before they reached
such an advanced age, but then most of the others had been doing it all their
lives. He wondered, with a returning bleakness, how long it would be before he
too sounded as if he were tearing himself apart inside. The tickle in his
throat grew, and he cleared it, tasting rock dust. A swig of water helped, but
as he pictured the dust swirling down his throat he wished he’d spat instead.
Donithorn came back, and
picked up the coil of fuse and the tamping bar. ‘Time.’ He started back down
the tunnel, but Alan spoke up.
‘Powder, Cap’n? Or be we not
botherin’ with that today?’ The sarcasm made Tommy visibly flinch, and
Donithorn stopped. Matthew couldn’t see his face properly, but he gave a little
shake of his head, as if coming back from some other place his mind had been
inhabiting. ‘Yes. And, um... bring the bar.’
‘You’ve got that,’ Alan
pointed out.
Donithorn looked down at his
hand. ‘Right. Swab stick then.’ Irritation crept in. ‘Just make haste.’ Then he
was gone into the dark again, and Matthew and the others put their water
bottles and lunch tins back in their bags.
‘Well he’s changed,’ Alan
observed. ‘Time was you couldn’t speak to ’un like that without getting a right
ear-bashin’ back.’ He nudged his brother. ‘Why din’t you tell me he’d turned
into a purring kitten? I’d have come back sooner.’
‘He’s only been like it
today,’ Tommy said. ‘And you wouldn’t anyway, you’ve been too sick.’
‘I was joking,’ Alan pointed
out patiently. ‘Come on, boy, grab what’s needed, and let’s get this bloody
stuff out.’ As they started down the tunnel he caught at Matthew’s shirt. ‘You
take this. Nature’s callin’ an’ she’ve got a bleddy loud voice.’
He pushed the swab stick into
Matthew’s hand, and went back out to one of the worked-out tunnels to relieve
himself, while Matthew and Tommy rejoined their captain.
When they reached him he had
already cut the three fuses, and was neatly re-coiling what was left. He looked
up, and dropped the depleted coil of fuse on the floor, then nodded at the
cart. ‘Tommy, finish getting that loaded, and get it out.’
‘Yes, Cap’n.’
‘On you go, Pen’aligon,
since you’ve got the stick.’
Matthew cleaned the loose
grit and dust out of the three holes, and Alan arrived and began pouring the
gunpowder into the scraper. When he and Donithorn started to pack and tamp the
shot-holes, Matthew turned to help Tommy push the almost-full cart back out to
the main shaft.
‘Get in,’ he said, when he
was sure they were out of Donithorn’s hearing.
Tommy looked at him,
puzzled. ‘What?’
‘Get in!’ Matthew knocked
the side of the cart, and grinned.
Tommy gave a snort of
surprised laughter, and climbed into the cart, where he huddled down on the
lumps of ore, making himself as small as possible. Matthew pushed, enjoying the
sound of Tommy’s chuckling as they went, and only just remembering in time to
duck his own head to avoid an ear-ringing collision with the low, rocky roof.
The boy worked so hard it was easy to forget he was still a child, and it was
good to be able to give him a rest, even a brief one, though the ground was
almost impossible to navigate without stopping every minute or so to kick
rubble out of the way.
Together Matthew and the
cart rattled and slid around the last bend, where the tunnel opened up and the
ore could be unloaded onto a kibble for its journey to the surface. Tommy
climbed out, and Matthew manoeuvred the cart into position. He glanced around
as the boy started back up the tunnel.
‘Where are you going now?
Alan’s here, there’s no need for either of us to go back.’
‘My coat,’ Tommy said. ‘I
tied it around one of the props. It’s the only one I got,’ he added, almost
apologetically. He needn’t have; Matthew was only too well aware of the
consequences of losing clothing, when you earned so little money.
‘I’ll fetch it. Stay put.’
Donithorn was removing the
candle from his helmet as Matthew returned to the end of the tunnel. ‘What’re
you back for?’
‘Tommy’s coat.’ Matthew
stepped past him and saw the coat, tied by the arms around one of the roughly
sawn props.
‘Get it then, and be quick.’
Donithorn touched the candle to the end of the first fuse. ‘Fire in the hole!’
Alan quickly lit the other two, and flashed a grin at Matthew, who swore and
ripped the coat sleeves free. Turning to follow, Matthew’s foot slid on loose
rubble, and, as he reached out to steady himself on the wall he glanced at the
nearest burning fuse and blinked. Something was… then he froze. Almost burned
through…
‘Run!’ It came out weak and
dismayed, so he snatched a short breath and bellowed, ‘RUN!’
Donithorn half-turned to
question the sudden panic, but there was no time to explain. Matthew’s heart
hammered against his ribs, the sweat of terror mingled with that of the natural
heat, and made his free hand slip and slide on the rock wall. The hand holding
Tommy’s coat gave him better purchase, and he leaned hard to his left, pushing
against the wall to drive himself forward.
Donithorn, still blankly unmoving, looked past
Matthew and, coming to life, gave a low cry of horror. Alan had heeded
Matthew’s urgency and disappeared around the first bend, but Donithorn seemed
locked in place and his face, in the thin light of the candle, was whiter than
ever. ‘How…’
‘Go!’ Matthew shoved at him.
He ducked low beneath the uneven roof, pushing Donithorn ahead of him. Even as
he slipped and slid, and the skin was torn from his hands by sharp rock, he
tried to calculate how long they had left. In his mind’s eye was only the
sparking burn of the safety fuse, working its lazy, but unstoppable way towards
the densely-packed gunpowder.
BUY LINKS
Terri was born in Plymouth, UK. At the age of 9 she moved
with her family to Cornwall, to the village featured in Jamaica Inn -- North
Hill -- where she discovered a love of writing that has stayed with her ever
since. She also discovered apple-scrumping, and how to jump out of a hayloft
without breaking any bones, but no-one's ever offered to pay her for doing
those.
Since publishing in paperback for the first time
in 2002, Terri has appeared in both print and online fiction collections, and
is proud to have contributed to the Shirley Jackson award-nominated hardback
collection: Bound for Evil, by Dead Letter Press.
Penhaligon’s Pride is her eighth novel to be
published.
Terri also writes under the name T Nixon, and
has contributed to anthologies under the names Terri Pine and Teresa Nixon. She
is represented by the Kate Nash Literary Agency. She now lives in Plymouth with
her youngest son, and works in the Faculty of Arts and Humanities at Plymouth
University, where she is constantly baffled by the number of students who don't
possess pens.
One
lucky winner will receive signed paperbacks of Books 1 & 2!
(UK
& Ireland only)
a Rafflecopter giveaway
My Review
Terri Nixon has a great ability to recreate a sense of time and place. I enjoyed going back to Cornwall and catching up with Anna and the Tin Streamer's Arms. Freya and the bookshop are another thread to the story that was well explored. What I enjoyed most though was the suspense element of the death of a young pregnant woman. The blackmail and suicide/murder themes really gripped me. All in all some great characters and a story that stays with you long after you finish the book.
![Penhaligon's Pride: a stirring, heartwarming Cornish saga (Penhaligon Saga Book 2) by [Nixon, Terri]](https://images-eu.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/51tfXhKpgmL.jpg)
