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Beth shivered and wrapped her raincoat round her more tightly as she came out of the station at Fishguard Harbour. The coat had a warm lining, but not warm enough to keep out this strong wind.

Beth had never seen the sea before and had always wanted to.

But she couldn’t see much in the dark and what she could see looked spooky.

The crescent moon gave off only enough light to show dark shapes of sheds, and between them glimpses of the sea, with mist hovering above it.

There were a couple of boats moored, with a dim light on each, and she could hear the slap, slap of waves on the dock.

‘Beth Manning?’ a male voice boomed out. ‘Dai Griffiths, come to take you to our guest house.’

Beth’s relief at being taken to the guest house was quickly banished by being ushered into a gloomy, brown-walled, damp-smelling hall, and being met by the formidable Mrs Griffiths, a bony, hatchet-faced woman with iron-grey hair scraped back from her face.

Her thin, colourless lips were pursed as if already in disapproval of Beth’s appearance.

Until then Beth had imagined most guest-house owners would be warm, happy women as Margery had been. She’d also expected a light, welcoming place, but this house reminded her of the police station in Whitechapel, a place her mother once took her to scare her into being obedient.

Two days later, Beth was overjoyed to be finally leaving the Griffiths’.

Her stay in their guest house had seemed interminable.

Heavy rain made it impossible to go out exploring.

But far worse was Mrs Griffiths. Beth had been told the Welsh accent was lovely, but Mrs Griffiths’ grated.

Questions came endlessly, not asked in the spirit of friendship or interest, but suspicion and disapproval.

The guest house was as unattractive as her, completely lacking warmth or cosiness.

After her first breakfast Beth retired to her bedroom to escape the questions.

Not that the bedroom offered any cheer; it was spartan, with a single metal bed, a dining-style chair and a rag rug on the plain wood floor.

The only picture was one of the Resurrection of Christ, so faded it was hard to work out what was going on.

The bed linen was coarse and the single pillow like a brick, but at least there were three blankets and a worn but clean quilted bedspread.

Mrs Griffiths had made her bed while Beth was eating breakfast, and she had a feeling if the woman caught her lying or sitting on the bed she’d be thrown out into the rain.

Even the small mirror was fixed to the wall in the darkest place as if to stop any ungodly preening.

One of the first things she’d said to Beth was ‘I run my guest house as if the Lord is watching me. I expect my guests to be equally aware of his all-seeing eyes.’ She had also listed things she disapproved of: alcohol, vanity, dyed hair, taking the Lord’s name in vain, immodest behaviour and card games.

There didn’t appear to be any other guests.

Beth ate alone in the gloomy dining room.

Breakfast was porridge followed by a boiled egg and toast. Lunch a brown soup, its ingredients undiscernible.

Dinner, soup again, followed by fried fish and mashed potato.

But there was a quite pleasant pudding of apple crumble and custard.

Beth found herself constantly hoping she’d get news of Patrick and his boat’s arrival soon. She’d finished reading her book, and there was nothing else but a Bible. It was no wonder Mr Griffiths hadn’t appeared again. Beth wondered how any man could stand to live with such a woman.

Finally, twenty-four long hours later, Mrs Griffiths informed Beth that the cargo ship would be moored on the wharf that evening. She added that her husband would take her to it, the curtness of her report implying that she expected no questions and Beth was to stand by in readiness for him.

Beth felt a surge of relief when Dai appeared, put her suitcases on a trolley and beckoned her to follow.

Supper that evening, served at six, was macaroni cheese, with very little cheese in it.

Beside the cutlery was the bill for ten shillings.

Considering the warm welcome, comfort and good food at Blandford Street, it was exorbitant.

Yet she wasn’t brave enough to comment, much less to complain.

She made a mental note should she come back this way again to find somewhere more amiable to stay.

However, Patrick welcomed her aboard with warmth, and apologized for the tiny cabin. He said she was welcome in the mess, where she’d have the company of any crew members in between their jobs, and to come up to the bridge if she wanted to.

He poured her a glass of brandy, and asked if she’d been on a boat before.

When she said she hadn’t, he said in that case she was lucky the sea was calm and recommended if she felt queasy to go out on deck.

‘The worst thing you can do is stay below decks,’ he said, and patted her shoulder in a caring way.

‘Drink that brandy down, that helps too.’

The brandy burned her throat but it made her feel warm inside, and sort of comforted.

The boat wasn’t loaded until after ten that night, but Beth was so relieved to be away from Mrs Griffiths’ malevolence that she was enjoying being aboard, talking to the crew and looking at the sea.

She’d been told they would arrive in Rosslare sometime between five and six a.m. Mr Boyle had told her to catch the train from there to Waterford, get herself some breakfast, and telephone him after nine, when he would come to take her to the cottage.

Beth stayed most of the voyage in the mess reading a dog-eared detective book. Now and then she did go on deck, but it was too cold to stand it for more than a few minutes. But she wasn’t seasick, in fact she hadn’t even felt queasy.

‘You are a natural sailor then,’ Patrick said when she visited him on the bridge at first light. ‘Or maybe the macaroni cheese Mrs Griffiths made you has magic powers,’ he suggested with a wry smirk.

He admitted he found the woman one of the worst harridans he’d ever met. ‘I’m surprised Dai didn’t strangle her soon after they got married,’ he said with a loud guffaw. ‘She must be about as comforting to come home to as a crocodile.’

She liked that he made her laugh, showed her what all the instruments on the bridge were for, but didn’t cross-examine her.

She liked too that he didn’t seem to be fearful about German submarines.

‘I spotted one last week,’ he admitted, ‘but I think they are more likely to be cruising around on the west coast of Ireland. Firing a torpedo at a small vessel like this is hardly worth the effort.’

The ferry crossing had been long enough, but the train to Waterford seemed endless, though in fact it was only a couple of hours.

This was made far worse by the niggling fear that she was about to be revealed as an imposter by Mr Boyle.

He might know far more about the real Elizabeth than she was expecting.

Her godmother might have even given him a photograph of her at the time she made her will.

Surely such a serious crime as stealing an identity to gain an inheritance would be punished with a long prison sentence. Why hadn’t she considered that before leaving England?

Yet it was too late to back away now, and stiff with sitting for so long, so tired she felt she could drop to the ground, she staggered with her heavy suitcases across the station forecourt to a small café.

It was tempting to put her head down on the café table to sleep, but she resisted and managed to order bacon, eggs and toast, along with a pot of tea.

The huge and delicious breakfast perked her up– she’d never in her life had such wonderful bacon.

She was also charmed by the rosy-cheeked, friendly café owner, who quizzed her on whether she was on holiday, visiting family, or waiting for someone.

Beth explained her godmother had left her a cottage, and she was waiting for a solicitor to arrive to take her there.

‘Well, fancy that, to be sure it’s grand she thought of you,’ the woman beamed. ‘And what would her name be?’

Back in England people didn’t ask such direct questions and it was a little alarming. But Beth saw nothing wrong with offering a name.

‘Miranda Falcon,’ she said.

The woman clapped her hands with delight. ‘Miss Falcon, such a grand lady, but I liked her. Strong opinions, smart as a whip, but liked to stop for tea and craic. I was so sad to hear she’d passed. But aren’t you the lucky girl, her house is a good one.’

Beth couldn’t be sure whether ‘good’ meant it just wasn’t tumbledown.

She’d seen so many pretty but ramshackle houses from the train, some lacking windows and even doors.

She’d seen women and children outside these houses, looking like the ragged poor back in Victorian times.

She had already braced herself for no electricity and plumbing, as a woman on the train told her that few homes outside of the cities had such luxuries.

It was worrying, but she reminded herself if it was truly awful, she could easily catch a boat back to England– after all, she had enough money to stay in a nice guest house for months, or even rent a couple of rooms.

But she decided she must be more optimistic. And to remember it was an adventure.

At nine o’clock Beth walked back across the station forecourt to telephone Mr Boyle. He said he would be with her directly, though she wasn’t sure what that meant. But it was warm in the sun, and she placed her suitcases at the end of a bench and sat down to wait.