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PROLOGUE
SKYE SOAMES TOOK a deep breath that quivered at the back of her throat for a moment before she drew it into her lungs, hoping that her sisters hadn’t noticed. Not for the first time she wondered what the three of them were doing in Norfolk on an unseasonably cold, grey miserable day, standing beside the coffin of a man they had never met.
She clenched her jaw against the cutting wind as it hit her like a slap. They’d been picked up from their small home on the outskirts of the New Forest by a limousine—neighbours frowning and whispering into their hands as they peered through white lace curtains, as if they hadn’t had a lifetime of gossip already. But four hours in a car that glided over concrete had cocooned her and her sisters in a warm, contented state of confusion until they had caught sight of the stone church and the Gothic graveyard beside it.
They were here to...what? Pay their respects? To a man who had kicked out his only daughter at the age of seventeen and cut her off without a penny or word ever since? Because until today that was all they had ever known about their grandfather, Elias Soames.
Summer, her youngest sister, shifted on her feet and drew her dark wool coat around her middle, her face strangely pale against the blonde hair she’d pulled back into a messy ponytail. So very different from Skye’s own brown hair, carefully wrapped into a neat bun, and just as different from the long vibrant, fiery red strands the wind whipped across Star’s cheeks. A difference that came from each sister’s father. Some might have called them half-sisters, but to Skye, Summer and Star there was nothing half about the bond between them. Star’s hand came up to brush her Titian hair back, revealing startling green eyes sparkling with a sheen that looked suspiciously like tears.
‘Star?’
‘It’s just so sad,’ she said.
‘We never met him. He abandoned our—’
‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust...’ The words spoken by the priest cut through Summer’s response as if in admonishment and another blast of icy-cold air trickled down Skye’s spine. She shivered, not for the grandfather she had never known, but for another funeral, one yet to come. One that threatened to rock the very foundations of Skye and her sisters’ lives.
Mariam Soames hadn’t been able to attend the funeral because of her treatment schedule—if you could call sipping on herbal teas and CBD tablets treatment. Thanks to the postcode lottery that determined access to specific treatments on the NHS, they’d lost out. Big time. And it had only encouraged their alternative lifestyle living mother further into ‘natural treatments.’
Skye had spent more midnight hours than she could count trying to work out how to fund the life-saving health care privately, or even a very costly move into another area where Mariam stood a better chance of treatment. But the housing costs in the nearest health region where that might happen were four times more expensive than what they paid now and, no matter the calculations, they just couldn’t make it work. Besides, Mariam didn’t want to move, she was focused on quality of life not quantity. Skye’s heart twisted that she couldn’t find a way to achieve both for her mother.
She looked up at the large house in the distance. Her mother had insisted that even had she been well enough she wouldn’t have come. Mariam Soames had said all she needed to her father the night she had left Norfolk thirty-se
ven years ago.
Elias’s lawyer nodded, announcing the end of the small service that marked the end of a man’s life. No one else had been in attendance. Clearly Elias Soames had not been a popular figure in the community, leaving the mourners to number five, including the priest.
The lawyer walked them back to the limousine and chose to sit up front with the driver, effectively preventing any conversation until they reached the estate. Skye felt sick at the thought of her grandfather having enough money to fund his daughter’s treatment and then some, and felt shame knowing her primary motivation for being here—the will.
Barely five minutes later the car pulled into a grand sweeping drive that took them towards their grandfather’s home and Skye’s jaw wasn’t the only one in the car to drop.
It might not have had the grandeur of the estate from Downton Abbey—Summer’s favourite TV show—but it wasn’t far off. The sprawling ancient building revealed itself in glimpses as the car took the large twists and turns of the drive towards an impressive set of steps at the main entrance, which finally revealed the house in its entirety.
‘Holy—’ Star’s curse was cut short by a not-so-gentle shoulder-shove from Skye, who had no wish to incur any further disdain from Elias’s lawyer, Mr Beamish. But it had managed to draw a spark of something to Summer’s grey eyes—a spark that had been absent for the last few weeks.
Skye stepped out of the car and was forced to crane her neck to look up at the glorious building. This was...unimaginable. Her mother had walked away from this? There had to be...
‘There are over twenty rooms in the main section of the house, but though the east and west wings have been closed off for quite some time now, they also boast a modest fifteen apiece. I’m afraid we have to hurry things along a bit,’ he claimed, barely stopping for breath. ‘You’ll understand why shortly. Follow me.’
With that, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the bowels of the house. Skye and her sisters followed him down dark hallways with moth-eaten carpets, various pieces of antique furniture, sideboards on which sat china bowls of scentless aged potpourri and walls covered in old dusty paintings of ancestors Skye couldn’t even begin to imagine. She saw her sisters’ heads sweeping from side to side as if to take it all in. But Skye focused only on Mr Beamish as he led them into what was clearly the estate office. One of them had to keep their head on straight and focus on the situation. And, as always, it would be her.
He gestured for them to sit in the three chairs provided, facing the beautiful and clearly ancient wooden desk. Only when they had done so did Mr Beamish take his place opposite them. Skye watched as he pulled a raft of papers from his briefcase and began the formalities of the reading of the will. Whether it was exhaustion from the day’s early start or the particular pitch of his monotone voice, she couldn’t keep his words in her head for long and her mind wandered as freely as her eyes around the room. They caught on a large oil painting just behind Mr Beamish.
The image was quite startling, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that she was staring at a portrait of her grandfather. He looked...mean. And miserable. And nothing like his daughter, who had more laughter, more love in her than she could contain, both traits often trailing in her wake. Skye’s mother might be flighty, might have little to no thought of practicalities and necessities, but she loved greatly.
So different from the malicious intent in the eyes of Elias Soames looming up behind Mr Beamish as he delivered his last will and testament. And then her mind snagged on what the lawyer had just said.
‘I’m sorry...what?’ she asked. Shock cut through her, as if her body had reacted before comprehending what the words had meant.
‘As I said, Ms Soames. The entire estate will be yours, on certain conditions. For five generations the entail known as the Soames diamonds have been missing. Much like his father, and his father’s father before him and so on, Elias had been desperately trying to recover them. The specifics of his search are in this folder here,’ he said, pushing the folder only halfway towards the women. ‘Before his death, my client made the stipulation that you will inherit the entire estate—to do with as you will—on the condition that you are able to retrieve the Soames diamonds within two months of his death.’
Skye was speechless, her mind hurtling at the speed of light through the possibilities this might mean. For them. For their mother.
‘So we could sell the estate?’ Star demanded.
Mr Beamish nodded. ‘If you find the diamonds, yes.’
‘Is this even legal?’ Skye asked, even while her mind screamed, I don’t care!
Mr Beamish had the grace to look embarrassed, but not to answer the question. ‘Should you fail to discover their whereabouts, then the estate and the entire entail will revert to the National Trust. I believe the deadline set by the will fails to allow for enough time to contest the will. Furthermore, a legal battle would be costly and time-consuming and the two-month deadline is immovable.’
