As Dawn Breaks, page 1
Praise for Kate Breslin
“As Dawn Breaks is a riveting and richly researched tribute to the courageous heroines of the First World War whose contribution as munitionettes played a vital role in Great Britain’s war effort. Kate Breslin crafts a multi-faceted story of breathless suspense, memorable characters, and authentic emotional depth layered upon a canvas of war. Readers will be captivated by this exquisite blend of historical intrigue and heartfelt romance from one of the finest voices in inspirational fiction.”
Amanda Barratt, author of My Dearest Dietrich and The White Rose Resists
“Breslin’s pen is masterful with brilliant strokes of romance, suspense, and the search for courage written into every page. Dazzling with historical detail, As Dawn Breaks takes readers into the heart of the war effort as women enter the factories as munitionettes, famously coined Canary Girls, while the men are off fighting during the Great War. The characters are complex and realistic as they speak to the human emotions of loss and love. Another not-to-be missed tale from this amazing author!”
J’nell Ciesielski, bestselling author of The Socialite
“In As Dawn Breaks, Kate Breslin takes readers on a heart-pounding journey across Great Britain with clandestine characters who are struggling together to stop a dangerous foe. Once again, Breslin has woven together a brilliant mystery, romance, and World War I conspiracy that will keep you riveted until the enemy is finally exposed.”
Melanie Dobson, award–winning author of Catching the Wind and The Curator’s Daughter
“Riveting! With her trademark attention to historical detail, Kate Breslin sweeps readers to a Great War home front full of intrigue, suspense, danger, and courage. For both the heroine and the war effort, the stakes could not be higher. Through this cast of nuanced characters, we explore loss and new beginnings, a longing to belong, and the meaning of home. Well before the last chapter, you’ll feel as though the family within these pages is your own. An immersive, absorbing, and completely satisfying read.”
Jocelyn Green, Christy Award–winning author of Shadows of the White City
Books by Kate Breslin
For Such a Time
Not by Sight
High as the Heavens
Far Side of the Sea
As Dawn Breaks
© 2021 by Kathryn Breslin
Published by Bethany House Publishers
a division of Baker Publishing Group
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Ebook edition created 2021
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-3382-7
Unless otherwise indicated, Scripture quotations are from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
Scripture quotations labeled NRSV are from the New Revised Standard Version of the Bible, copyright © 1989 National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
This is a work of historical reconstruction; the appearances of certain historical figures are therefore inevitable. All other characters, however, are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Cover design by Kelly L. Howard
Author is represented by Hartline Literary Agency.
Baker Publishing Group publications use paper produced from sustainable forestry practices and post-consumer waste whenever possible.
To our families
Whether we are born to them, create them, or choose them along the way, love and acceptance are what bind us.
For the women working in munitions during WWI
May their hard work and sacrifice in saving a nation and their fighting lads never be forgotten.
By the tender mercy of our God,
the dawn from on high will break upon us,
to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,
to guide our feet into the way of peace.
Luke 1:78–79 NRSV
Contents
Cover
Praise for Kate Breslin
Books by Kate Breslin
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
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44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
Author’s Note
Questions for Discussion
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
Prologue
AYLESBURY PRISON
BUCKINGHAMSHIRE, ENGLAND
EARLY MARCH 1918
Only by searching the bowels of hell would he find the devil.
“The prisoner’s cell is this way, Captain. If you’ll follow me.”
Marcus Weatherford pulled his gaze from the shadowy confines beyond the barred gate to glance at the uniformed warden. Then with a backward nod to his companion, the two men followed the warder into the gloom.
As they passed a checkerboard series of locked doors along the dimly lit hall, Marcus again prayed their mission wasn’t in vain. Would the prisoner, only four months into a two-year sentence for forgery, be willing to cooperate? More importantly, were MI5 and Scotland Yard on the right track, or was this another fool’s errand?
“Here.” The warder halted in front of a door with a small, barred window. Marcus stepped forward to peer into the cell. “Unlock it and leave us.”
“I’ll need to remain just outside here, sir.”
“As you wish.” Once the door was opened, Marcus and his companion entered the sparse room. The inmate sat on the narrow bed, attempting to sew a button onto a plain white shirt. The afternoon’s gray light flooded in through a tiny window at the back of the cell.
Ashen and thin, the prisoner set aside the shirt and rose from the bench. Defiant blue eyes held his gaze. “Who are you?”
“Detective Quinn with New Scotland Yard.” Marcus turned to indicate his companion. “And I’m none of your concern at the moment. We’ve come to make a deal if you have the right answers to a few questions.”
The insolent expression thawed. “What questions?”
“Do you know a man called Thomas Brown?”
“Never heard of him.”
“What about Rhymer?”
The blue eyes flared, and Marcus leaned in, his pulse thumping. “What do you know?”
The prisoner’s head cocked slightly. “Why should I trust you?”
“Because you have little choice. Quinn and I can stay and hear what you have to say and perhaps make a deal. Or we can leave you to go back to your . . . buttons.” Marcus nodded toward the crumpled shirt on the bed.
A breath expelled from the sullen mouth. “I had a brother Thomas, but the name Brown means nothing. He likened himself to Thomas the Rhymer, from an auld Scots fairy tale told to us as bairns.” The eyes clouded. “Thomas died years ago, somewhere across the world.”
“Perhaps not.” Marcus fished from his pocket a small, frayed paper tag penned with a set of numbers. He held it up for inspection. “Recognize this?”
The prisoner’s pallor flushed. “Where did you come by that?”
“An abandoned flat in Paris. It’s stamped Ezekiel House, an orphanage on the outskirts of Glasgow. Is it yours?”
“Aye. The tags were marked with our room and case number. ’Tis how they identified us.” The prisoner’s eyes lifted. “You said you found the tag in France?”
Marcus almost smiled. Another puzzle piece fitted into place. The orphanage had verified there was a brother Thomas and, after combing through Glasgow’s old police records, Marcus found the boy described as having dark hair and blue eyes, much like the prisoner. “If your brother is alive after all these years, what proof can you offer to make a positive identification?” He tucked the tag into his jacket pocket. “Otherwise, no deal.”
Instead of answering, the prisoner’s lips compressed into a flat line. Marcus struggled to hold on to his patience. They needed confirmation.
When the silence s
“Wait.” The prisoner stepped forward. “Thomas had a red birthmark above the hairline.”
“Where on his head?”
The blue eyes gleamed. “Put me in the same room with him and I’ll show you.”
Marcus did smile then. The police report also described a port-wine birthmark. They now had their irrefutable witness. “Our deal is a full pardon in exchange for your help in identifying Rhymer, the man we suspect is your long-lost brother, Thomas.”
“A pardon? Just like that?”
“Just like that.” Marcus frowned. “But be warned: Any betrayal on your part will constitute treason to the Crown.” He leaned in. “That means death.”
The prisoner’s nostrils flared. Marcus didn’t back down. “Do you understand and agree to the offer?”
“Aye.”
“I’ll make the arrangements.” His pulse thrummed. “Speak of this to no one.”
He gave the prisoner a final warning glance and left with Quinn.
Now they could prepare for the next stage of the trap—capturing Rhymer, the saboteur MI5 and Scotland Yard had been working feverishly to find. And once they made an arrest, they would have the proof needed to arrest the real mastermind . . .
A man scheming to bring Britain to its knees by killing thousands of its citizens.
1
NOTTINGHAM, ENGLAND
MONDAY, JULY 1, 1918—FOUR MONTHS LATER
Her final moments of freedom. Like the rattling gasps before death.
Rosalind Graham’s throat constricted as she surveyed her sanctuary for the last time. In a matter of days she would receive her sentence; a prisoner, denied the right to an opinion or to make her own choices. Fated to live out her life in bondage, concealed beneath the sanctified guise of marriage.
“Rose, you didna hear the whistle? Shift’s over and I’m due back at the Mixing House before I can clock out. I want to speak with you before you go off and leave me forever.”
Seated inside her small overhead crane, Rose gazed down at the jaundiced face of her co-worker, hailing her from the factory floor. Like most girls filling shells at the No. 6 Chilwell National Shell Filling factory, Tilda Lockhart had contracted the yellow skin and bleached hair of a “canary girl,” as they were fondly called, from handling the explosive powder TNT.
Rose’s job of moving the filled shells by crane onto railcars for shipment had spared her such physical consequences. Yet the grief in her best friend’s upturned face matched the anguish in her own heart. “Wait for me, Tilly, I shall be down soon.”
“I’ll meet you over by the changing rooms.”
Rose drew a deep breath once her friend departed, and gave her little world a last, lingering look. She stepped nimbly from the open crane and grabbed at the thick rope to shinny down to the factory floor. Her bruised arms ached with the burden of her weight—another reminder of Julien’s private “talk” with her last evening on the kind of wife he expected.
She bit her lips to stave off a sob. Even now the church near Aunt and Uncle’s estate in Leicester was being readied for Saturday’s nuptials. In five short days, any and all freedom would become forfeit.
She’d imagined having more time—time to experience life and its wonders, to be able to seek out a man she truly loved and with whom she could start a family. Pity’s sake, she wasn’t yet twenty-one years old! What terrible sin had she committed that she must become the property of a man as much a bully as her uncle?
You know the reason, Rose. See no evil, hear no evil. She mentally shoved the maxim aside. What good was wisdom when it came too late?
Her boots soon touched the floor, and she trudged toward the building’s exit to go and say good-bye to her friend.
The munitions factory had become her refuge, a place to hide from her uncle’s watchful eye while she enjoyed her work in aiding the war effort. Here she could laugh and be easy with Tilly and others that she considered the salt of the earth—not like the silly, snide upper-class girls from her boarding-school days. And she was able to earn her very own wage.
Except you haven’t a farthing now, have you? Stepping outside the building into the bright July sun, Rose shoved her hands into her pockets. She considered again the most recent betrayal by her uncle who was also her guardian, a word she’d once naïvely likened to angels when she and her little brothers came to live with the Cutlers after their parents’ death.
But Sir Ridley Cutler of Cutler Enterprises, the second largest weapons manufacturer in Britain, was as far from being heavenly as his ruthlessness could take him.
And now he’d stolen all her savings. Her last hope for independence.
She blinked against the glaring light, still aching with the memory of awakening last night to discover Aunt Delia in her room, removing the money from Rose’s secret hiding place in the closet. When she’d climbed out of bed, Aunt quickly turned, and the hurt and indignation had stuck in Rose’s throat seeing the tiny woman’s genuine fear. The wide, dark eyes seemed to say, Please go back to sleep and say nothing or he will hurt me.
Her pity had won out and she’d settled back into bed until after her aunt had quietly left the room. Rose had thought to confront Uncle Ridley this morning over his coercing Aunt Delia, but she dared not anger him, not after his recent threat against little Douglas and Samuel. They were only eleven and eight years old, for pity’s sake! She shivered again at the notion Uncle would actually take them out of boarding school and ship them off to some orphanage overseas if she gave him trouble . . .
Marching across the cobbled paths between buildings, Rose headed toward the changing rooms. What a fool she’d been, playing up to his vanity months ago so that he would allow her to work at Chilwell. Likely her uncle knew her scheme even then but said nothing. After all, what better publicity for his weapons company than to have his own niece become a munitionette for the war? And then, on the eve of her very last day of work, he’d bullied her poor aunt into stealing her funds!
His theft only tightened the noose already around her neck. The same way he’d moved up her December wedding to Julien and then threatened the welfare of her brothers if she disobeyed.
Now you are good and trapped. Rose clenched her teeth. If she could only turn back the clock! Never would she have ventured into her uncle’s library weeks ago and happened upon his dealings with Julien. . . .
“You’re looking more angry than sad on your last day, Rose, but I’m glad to see a spark in your eyes.”
Tilly stood outside the building, a clipboard shielding her eyes from the sun. “Let’s go in where hopefully ’tis cooler.”
Upon entering the shadowy interior, Rose paused once more to reclaim her sight.
A steady stream of first- and second-shift workers were entering and leaving through the changing room doors, the air an odd mix of fragrant soaps and powders from the women who had bathed and changed, and the pungent stench of sulfur clinging to those who had not.
Passing by the doors, the sounds of high-pitched female laughter rang from within as she and Tilly took up the bench seat just outside the room.
“So tell me, lass. After seeing you brood outside, can I hope you’ve decided to call off this farce of a wedding?” Tilly pulled off her work bonnet, revealing splotches of greenish-white hair. She wiped her damp brow. “’Tis time you came to your senses.”
“Nothing so brave as that.” Rose offered a weak smile. “I was just giving myself another good scolding. I should have hidden my money in a tree instead of a hatbox. Only a fool underestimates my uncle.”
“Dinna blame yourself! ’Twas his crime, not yours. Sir lofty Cutler with his millions, and still he robs his own niece—and he makes your poor aunt do the dirty work!” Tilly shook her head. “’Tis shameful and I dinna care if he is knighted. He probably paid for that title.”
Touched by the show of support, Rose reached to squeeze Tilly’s hand. After today she might never see her dear friend again. “Promise me, you will be at the church on Saturday? I . . . I will need you there more than I can say.”
“You know that only death would keep me away, lass.”
Tilly’s blue gaze had turned suspiciously bright, and while the words were meant as a fervent promise, Rose worried. Her friend’s complexion of late had turned even more sallow.
Tilly Lockhart was the strongest woman Rose had ever known, but the ill effects from TNT exposure were taking their toll. “Are you unwell, friend? You would tell me?”
