An immersive historical drama about a young mother who starts a new life with her son in New York after faking their deaths on the Titanic--the U.S. debut of an acclaimed British novelist. Marrying above your social class can come with unexpected consequences, as Elinor Coombes discovers when she is swept into a fairy-tale marriage with the son of an aristocratic English family. She soon realizes that it was the appeal of her father’s hard-earned wealth rather than her pretty face that attracted her new husband and his family. Curtailed by rigid social rules that include being allowed to see her nanny-raised infant son for only moments each day, Elinor resigns herself to a lonely future. So a present from her father--tickets for the maiden voyage of a luxurious new ship called the When the ship goes down, Elinor grasps the opportunity to take Teddy and start a new life--but only if they can disappear completely, listed among the dead. Penniless and using another woman’s name, she must learn to survive in New York City, a brash new world that couldn’t be more different from her own, and to keep their secret safe. But alas, it''s An absorbing historical drama set between the old world of the oppressive English aristocracy and the new world of opportunity and freedom, <The Lost Passenger <is a grippingly dramatic story about starting over in a brand-new world, triumphing over adversity, and finding hope in the face of great loss.

Autorentext
Frances Quinn grew up in London and studied English at King’s College, Cambridge. She became a journalist, writing for magazines including Prima, Good Housekeeping, She, Woman’s Weekly, and Ideal Home, and later branched out into copywriting. Upon winning a place on the Curtis Brown Creative novel writing course, she started work on her first novel, The Smallest Man. Her second novel is That Bonesetter Woman and The Lost Passenger is her third. She lives in Brighton, England, with her husband and three Tonkinese cats.

Leseprobe
Chapter 1

If I shut my eyes, I can still picture the invitation that started it all. Thick, cream-­colored card, embossed with black copperplate.

Lord and Lady Burnham request the pleasure of your company for a New Year’s ball at Chilverton Hall, 12th January 1910

I’d been with my father at Star Mill all afternoon, arguing up hill and down dale with him over dye samples for our spring prints. I won the fight for sapphire blue and a beautiful emerald green—­the ladies’ magazines were going mad about jewel colors—­and while he made out the order, I sorted through the post. Mostly invoices, but then this very swish cream envelope.

His eyebrows shot up as he read the words. Our house, Clereston, wasn’t far from Lord and Lady Burnham’s estate, but we didn’t move in those circles at all.

“Why the heck would they invite us?” He held the card over the wastepaper basket, his eyes twinkling. “We’ll say no, won’t we?”

He knew perfectly well that I’d be for going. I’d been taken with the idea of going to a ball since my mam told me the story of Cinderella, when I was a little girl, and just lately I’d read all Jane Austen’s novels—­even Lady Susan, which hardly anyone likes—­and they’re full of them. Of course we’d go.

As we walked in that evening, both a bit nervous though we’d not admitted it, he said, “Think how proud your mam would be.”

He was wishing she was with us, and I was too, but then there’d barely been a day in the past five years when I hadn’t thought of her and missed her, and him the same. And she’d have loved it, my mam: women in satin and silk, jewels glittering under the chandeliers; men in tailcoats with snow-­white waistcoats and ties; a violin quartet playing; and this lovely hum of conversation and laughter over it all. Everything I’d imagined.

Lady Burnham greeted us, very friendly, and promised to introduce us to “some delightful people” once everyone had arrived. After we’d stood and watched the dancing for a while, my father went to refill our glasses and she led him over to the far side of the room, where he was soon caught up in conversation. I had Pride and Prejudice and Elizabeth Bennet’s humiliation at the Meryton ball fresh in my mind, so I wasn’t going to stand about looking desperate for someone to ask me up. I’d tucked myself a bit behind a pillar when a lanky young man, a few years older than me, walked by. He stepped back, and smiled.

“Are you hiding? Wouldn’t blame you, there are some dreadful people here.”

I was flattered he didn’t lump me in with the dreadful people, and that smile, easy and open, made me like him straight away. Doing my best to sound as though I went to balls every night of the week, I said, “Just waiting for my father to stop chatting and bring me a glass of champagne.” And then, because he had kind eyes. “But I am hiding, a bit. I don’t know anyone here.”

“We must remedy that.” He put out his hand. “Frederick Coombes.”

“I’m Elinor Hayward.”

“There, now we know each other. I’d ask for a dance, but I’m a little incapacitated.” He tapped his leg. “Riding accident, sprained my ankle.”

“That sounds painful. Did you fall off?”

“Rather spectacularly. But it’ll mend, and it gives me a good excuse to stay here and talk to you.”

When my father came back, I introduced them.

“Of course! Hayward! I should have realized,” said Frederick. “You’re the cotton king.”

My father rolled his eyes. “Just a daft thing the papers say.”

He loved it really. They all called him that, and they liked to tell his story. How he’d started out working in a little drapers’ shop in Manchester, realized he could run it better than the owner, scrimped and saved to buy it, and built the rest from there: the mills and the printworks, two more shops, and hundreds of people working for him.

“Very impressive,” said Frederick, “what you’ve done with your business. Didn’t I read you’ve electrified one of your mills completely?”

“Star Mill,” said my father. “You read about that?”

“I did. Very interesting.”

I checked his face for signs of sarcasm, because not everyone found the cotton trade as fascinating as we did. But he seemed properly interested, even asking quite a sensible question about how we’d switched from steam to electricity. I liked him all the more then, because I was proud of my father’s achievements, and our business.

Even so, when a bell rang for supper, I expected he’d make his excuses. My father was talking about his new looms by then, and my mam always said that if you let him near the subject of machinery, you’d get the ins and outs of a pig’s backside, no detail spared. But Frederick said, “I wonder, Mr. Hayward, may I introduce you to my mother? My father was unable to attend this evening, so it falls to me to take her in to supper, and I was hoping you might allow me to escort Miss Hayward.”

My father looked as surprised as I felt, but he said yes. (It was only much, much later that it struck me: neither of them asked me.) We followed him over to the other side of the room.

“Miss Hayward, Mr. Hayward . . . my mother, Lady Storton.”

Lady? I wasn’t expecting that, and my father’s intake of breath said he wasn’t either.

She was frighteningly elegant, slender on th…