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The Daughters of Foxcote Manor

The Daughters of Foxcote Manor

by Eve Chase
The Daughters of Foxcote Manor

The Daughters of Foxcote Manor

by Eve Chase


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THE INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLER, “A captivating mystery: beautifully written, with a rich sense of place, a cast of memorable characters, and lots of deep, dark secrets.”—Kate Morton, New York Times bestselling author of The Clockmaker's Daughter

“Extraordinary…Absolutely her best yet.”—Lisa Jewell, New York Times bestselling author of The Family Upstairs

Three generations. Three daughters. One house of secrets.

The truth can shatter everything . . .

When the Harrington family discovers an abandoned baby deep in the woods, they decide to keep her a secret and raise her as their own.

But within days a body is found in the grounds of their house and their perfect new family implodes.

Years later, Sylvie, seeking answers to nagging questions about her life, is drawn into the wild beautiful woods where nothing is quite what it seems.

Will she unearth the truth?

And dare she reveal it?

(Published in the UK as The Glass House)

The Daughters of Foxcote Manor is not really about a murder, or a creepy house, but about families - the ones we're born into, the ones we make and especially the ones we flee.”—The New York Times

One of the New York Times "Novels of Suspense and Isolation"
One of The Washington Posts' Best New Audiobooks
One of Bustle's Most Anticipated Books of Summer
One of PopSugar's Best Books of July
One of New York Posts Best Books of the Week

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780525542391
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Publication date: 06/29/2021
Pages: 384
Sales rank: 129,659
Product dimensions: 5.40(w) x 8.10(h) x 0.90(d)

About the Author

Eve Chase is the author of Black Rabbit Hall, The Wildling Sisters, The Daughters of Foxcote Manor, and The Birdcage. She lives in Oxford, England with her husband and three children.

Read an Excerpt



Rita, Forest of Dean, 4 August 1971


The forest looks like it'll eat them alive, thinks Rita. The light's gone a weird green and branches are thrashing against the car's windows. She tightens her grip on the steering wheel. The lane narrows further. Wondering if she's missed the turning to the house or if it's around the next corner, she takes a bend too fast, then slams her foot on the brake.


Rita sucks in her breath, her eyes widening behind the Morris Minor's insect-spattered windscreen. She's not sure what she was expecting. Something smarter. More Harrington. Not this.


Behind a tall, rusting gate, Foxcote Manor erupts from the undergrowth, as if a geological heave has lifted it from the woodland floor. The mullioned windows on the old house, a wrecked beauty, blink drunkenly in the stippled evening sunlight. Colossal trees overhang a sweep of red-tiled roof that sags in the middle, like a snapped spine, so the chimneys tilt at odd angles. Ivy suckers up the timber-and-brick gabled façade, dense, bristling, alive with dozens of tiny darting birds, a billowing veil of bees. It's as far from the Harringtons' elegant London townhouse as Rita could possibly imagine.


For a moment no one in the car speaks. Unseen, in the trees, a woodpecker drums its territorial tattoo. Sweat trickles down the back of Rita's left knee. Only now does she register her hands are shaking.


Although she's done her best to disguise it from Jeannie and the children, she's been panicky ever since they turned onto the forest road, almost five hours after leaving London. It's not just the worry she'll kill her precious passengers. Every so often her vision has actually shuddered, disoriented by all the soaring trees, the lack of sky, and the knowledge of quite how hard a tree trunk is when hit at fifty miles an hour. Now they've survived the journey, she covers her mouth with her hand. Everything's still going too fast. How on earth has she ended up here? A forest. Of all places. She hates forests.


It was meant to be a London nannying job.


Fourteen months ago, Rita had never been to London. But she'd dreamed of it longingly, the Rita she might be there, far away from Torquay, everything that had happened. And the metropolitan family-just like the Darlings in Peter Pan-who'd embrace her as their own. They'd live in a tall warm house that didn't have a coin-gobbling electricity meter, like Nan's bungalow did. She'd get a bedroom of her own, with a desk and a shelf, perhaps a view of the churning, thrilling city. And the mother she worked for would be . . . well, perfect. Someone delicate and kind and soft. Cultured. With tiny earlobes and fluttery birdlike hands. Like her own mother, whom Rita hazily remembered. Everything she'd lost in the accident. And that a bit of her kept searching for.


On the morning of the interview, she'd gazed up at the Primrose Hill house's sugar-white stucco and cascading wisteria, and immediately known this was it. Her new home. Her new family. She could feel a tingling sensation, like the first fizz of pins and needles, as she'd knocked on the smart front door, her heart scudding beneath her best blouse that didn't look best in London. Now it's her second-best blouse, packed in the boot along with any other clothes-practical, plain, rarely long enough in the arm or leg-she could salvage after the fire that tore through that London house last weekend. Even after the long cycle at the launderette, her clothes still whiff of smoke.


Rita glances across at Jeannie in the passenger seat. Wearing a new haul from Harrods, she is defiantly dressed for London, clutching a black patent leather handbag as if for dear life. She loo