You know Miss Havisham.
The world’s most famous jilted bride.
This is her daughter’s story.
Raised in the darkness of Satis House where the clocks never tick, the beautiful Estella is bred to hate men and to keep her heart cold as the grave.
She knows she doesn’t feel things quite like other people do but is this just the result of her strange upbringing?
As she watches the brutal treatment of women around her, hatred hardens into a core of vengeance and when she finds herself married to the abusive Drummle, she is forced to make a deadly choice:
should she embrace the darkness within her and exact her revenge?
Estella’s Revenge is a stunningly original, gripping Gothic read, perfect for fans of Stacey Halls, Eve Chase and Jessie Burton.
As well as being published in convenient ebook format, Estella’s Revenge is also available in a beautiful hardback. This edition features gold foil on the cover, ornate dropped capitals starting each chapter, and tiny illustrated candles between each scene break. These are available from all good book stores, including Waterstones. Just scan the QR code and you can preorder ebook or hardback from the website of your choice.
SIGNED COPIES are also available to preorder. The book plates are individually hand-drawn, which means they are unique, and feature a quote from the book as well as my signature. They can be preordered from:
PERSONALISED DEDICATIONS are available exclusively for preorder from my local bookshop. Just click on the link and let them know what you’d like the dedication to be.
READ THE PROLOGUE OF ESTELLA'S REVENGE
It is dark, so dark, as dark as my soul, but still there is just enough light down this dank alley for me to see that my hands are stained with something sticky. My blood. In this half-light they look slate-grey but I imagine them as the colour of the half-finished shawl I have been knitting, the vibrant wool lying unspooled somewhere nearby, across the filthy cobbles.
Beneath the blood veneer are cuts and open wounds where my knuckles have split on impact. An experimental try at gently opening and closing my hands makes me suck in my breath, short and sharp, and a smell reminiscent of a butcher’s shop hits my nostrils, mixed with the rank tang of urine, and the freshness of petrichor.
In that first surge of action the pain was blotted out. Now it is rushing in, along with…
I need to stop these ridiculous thoughts and try to find out where all the blood is coming from.
I hold my hands out and take a little shuffle backwards, trying to get away from them and the truth they spell out in violent vermillion. My stomach heaves. I hurriedly wipe my hands on my clothes – and they find something unexpected. My fingers explore. There is something protruding from my bodice. Something long and thin and cold to touch and…realisation dawns.
It is a knitting needle. My own knitting needle.
My heart, which had been slowing, speeds up painfully again, and as I pull the homely weapon out my breathing comes in gasping huffs that refuse to be controlled.
Murder, I think. How did it come to this?
Terror, anger, regret, guilt…
They aren’t the emotions singing through me. No, it is joy. Absently, I lick my lips. A metallic tang of blood spreads across my tongue as my thoughts start to shout.
Murder! It was always going to come to this!
Tears fall: happiness and relief forming a river down my cheeks. Slowly, I fold down onto the damp cobbles and curl up, red hands over my head, trying to quiet myself when all I want to do is scream my elation at finally accepting my fate.
The sound of footsteps running grows fainter. And beside me the dead body starts to cool.