These cookies track visitors across websites and collect information to provide customized ads. Unexpectedly, fate takes a hand, and mother and daughter find themselves thrown a lifeline, one that inextricably links them to the stories of men, women and children for whom Queenstown was the last-ever sight of Ireland as they sailed away to new lands and new lives.Īdvertisement cookies are used to provide visitors with relevant ads and marketing campaigns. The small port town is shaken to its foundations at the loss of the unsinkable ship, but the revelation of a long-held secret means that Harp and Rose have a much more pressing issue to solve, one that could destroy them if they cannot find a solution. The day Titanic sails from Queenstown, taking with it the hopes and dreams of so many, Harp’s life too is devastated. Nobody ever visits the Cliff House, but Harp, Rose and Henry have a happy life together, each accepting the idiosyncrasies of the others. She behaves not as a servant should, but as someone who belongs at the ancestral home of eccentric loner Henry Devereaux. The local women envy her grace and poise while the men admire her beauty. Her mother, Rose, is the reserved and ladylike housekeeper at the Cliff House. She would rather spend her days in the library of the grand Georgian house that she sees as her home than playing on the streets with other children. The landing overlooked the hallway and was home to a huge walnut sideboard on which sat all the china dolls Mrs Devereaux had loved.Twelve-year-old Harp Delaney is an unusual child, quiet and intelligent far beyond her years.
She scurried out the door of the kitchen into the wide bright hallway, almost skidding on the silk carpet runner as she rounded the ornate bannister to bound up the stairs, taking two at a time.
The kitchen was just the same, the delph from breakfast drying on the rack beside the big, deep Belfast sink, the large black flags on the floor, the table cleared and scrubbed, ready for dinner preparations, the big black enamel range that never went out heating the room, winter and summer, the tea cloths hanging on the line over it. Harp ran around the back – the front door hadn’t been opened in years at that stage – and let herself in. “of the most delicious Cox’s Orange Pippins each autumn leaning precariously on the garden wall, the tree like a corner boy up to no good, her mother used to joke.
0 kommentar(er)
