A Perfect Cornish Christmas. Phillipa Ashley

was a good idea, Ellie wasn’t sure.

      There was something else. Scarlett had listed her reasons for moving as if it was the most rational decision in the world, but Ellie had a powerful feeling that she hadn’t heard the full story yet. And as for ‘keeping a low profile’ after her dramatic entrance at the Christmas lunch … in a place like Porthmellow, there wasn’t a snowball’s chance of that.

       Chapter Four

      ‘Hello! How was the journey? I was worried you might be held up by the road works on the motorway.’

      Scarlett’s spirits lifted as Ellie met her on the drive of Seaholly Manor. It had been a long journey but Ellie’s welcoming smile more than made up for it.

      ‘It was OK until the mist came down. Look at it. It’s like something out of the Hound of the Baskervilles!’ Scarlett tried to make out the house through the October mist, which hung in wispy threads among the tree branches and seemed to press on the roof of the manor. Although it wasn’t as sharply cold as it was in the Midlands, the damp clung to everything, leaving pinpricks of moisture on her teddy coat.

      ‘It’s a real pea-souper that rolled in after lunch. I don’t think it will clear until morning,’ Ellie said.

      A shiver ran through Scarlett, and not for the first time since she’d handed back the keys to her flat and said goodbye to the neighbours. She’d shed a few tears as she’d driven out of the city suburbs, past her favourite balti restaurant where the owners didn’t even need to take her order they knew her so well. She would miss the Victorian swimming ‘baths’ where she ploughed up and down twice a week and the park where she met up with her friends for a coffee in winter and a picnic in summer.

      Seaholly Manor was isolated, and so far from her parents and Marcus. With dusk approaching on a gloomy autumn evening, she was half-tempted to turn the car around and head back to the bright lights of Brum.

      Oh God, what had she done?

      As if reading her thoughts, Ellie gave her a hug. ‘Come inside. I lit the fire in the sitting room as soon as I got in from work, and the kitchen will be nice and cosy too.’

      Scarlett dragged up a smile. The lamplight glowed from the window of the sitting room. That was cheery at least.

      ‘Is your car fixed, by the way?’ she asked.

      ‘Oh, it’s er … at the garage in town. We’re waiting for a part.’

      ‘What a pain. How do you get to work?’

      ‘I walked over the coast path. The fog wasn’t as bad then, though I definitely wouldn’t try that path in this murk. Come on, I’ll give you a hand with your stuff.’

      After abandoning Scarlett’s luggage in the hallway, they sat at the kitchen’s oak farmhouse table. The warmth from the Aga enveloped Scarlett and sparked another memory: of last Christmas Day when she’d stepped into the Smuggler’s Tavern’s Lunch for the Lonely.

      However, with Ellie chattering away about the latest local gossip while she made them both hot chocolates, she soon perked up. She had to face the locals again sometime and it wasn’t as if the people at the pub hadn’t been friendly. In fact, they’d been too friendly. Which could be both a good and bad thing. Good for finding out gossip about her real father; bad for stopping it from spreading.

      Scarlett had always prided herself on being honest with Ellie, so she felt doubly guilty about being economical with the truth this time.

      Yes, the lease was up on her flat. Yes, she was struggling with the rent and, yes, she did want to make a fresh start. What she’d left out was the part about how she’d discovered that her ‘biological father’ was – possibly – from Porthmellow and she desperately wanted to know who he was.

      His identity had occupied her thoughts since last Christmas and she’d been listening out for any clue from her mother, not that her mum had even admitted she might have had an affair. Scarlett had worked out when she must have been conceived, and from old photos in a family album had pieced together that her mother had been staying with Auntie Joan during that time. So the ‘deed’ was very likely to have taken place in Porthmellow.

      Plus, there was another, more compelling clue to her origins. When she, Ellie and their mother had been sorting through Joan’s stuff, Scarlett had found a postcard with a message that had struck her as weird. It hadn’t meant that much at the time, but had taken on much greater significance since, and Scarlett couldn’t recall the exact words. She’d meant to show it to her mum at the time, however, in the chaos of sorting out her auntie’s vast collection of books and papers, she’d forgotten about it. Of course, she could be clutching at straws and probably was, but once the idea that the postcard might be related to her mum’s affair had formed in her mind, she couldn’t get rid of it.

      She lay awake at night, trying to envisage what her biological father might look like. What kind of a man was he? Not the most upright kind, if he’d had an affair with a married woman … unless he hadn’t even known her mother was married? Had it been a full-blown affair, or only a one-night stand? Did he have a family of his own now, or even then?

      If he did, that meant she would have half-siblings she didn’t even know about. In fact, it was more than likely she did.

      The questions constantly pecked at her mind. Was he short, tall, fat, skinny? Did he even look that much like her? Despite having half of his DNA, she could easily resemble her mother with very little trace of her father.

      Was he even alive? Scarlett had asked herself that one many times, but hated to think of it. It made her go icy, because that meant she would never know him at all.

      Perhaps that’s why her mother refused to say who he was, or even admit what she’d done – because she knew the man was dead, and there was no point trying to find him? Or if he was alive, her mother might be protecting him and his family because he was someone they knew …

      Night after night, she’d tormented herself with all these questions, and no matter how hard she tried to accept that she might never know, she found it impossible.

      In her calmer moments, she had considered her mother’s feelings, even if she’d never told her that. What had it been like to keep this secret all these years? If, of course, her mother had even known that the mystery man was her father … she might have assumed that Roger Latham really was Scarlett’s dad.

      Despite trying to put herself in her mother’s shoes, as Ellie had suggested, Scarlett was finding it hard to accept Anna’s complete denial of the facts. No amount of persuasion or pleading from Scarlett in private would tempt her to say anything. However, Scarlett had seized on the idea that her dad might be Cornish, and that, combined with her troubles with Rafa and loss of business, had helped her decide to make the move to Porthmellow.

      Ellie, bless her, hadn’t hesitated – OK, only a teeny bit – to say she could share Seaholly Manor with her. Scarlett knew she would have to come clean at some stage but until – and unless – she knew her hunches were right, she didn’t see much point in stirring up more trouble.

      ‘Here you go. Come on, let’s have these in front of the fire.’ Ellie handed Scarlett a steaming mug topped with a whirl of clotted cream and cinnamon. Scarlett took them into the sitting room where the flames glowed in the hearth and a tang of woodsmoke hung in the air. Ellie followed soon after with a plate of mince pies.

      ‘Not too soon, is it? Honestly, people would eat them year-round if we made them. We had some left at the café so I took them home. It’s definitely not too early for the customers but the damp and fog kept many people indoors today.’

      Scarlett took one of the sugar-dusted pies. ‘It’s never too soon for a mince pie.’

      Once she’d finished her mince pie and unwound a little, Ellie helped her take her bags upstairs.

      ‘I