A Perfect Devon Manor
Did you love A Perfect Devon Christmas?
Welcome to Brambleton!
Perched on North Devon’s rugged coastline, Brambleton may be fictional – but it’s very much alive in my heart.
Think dramatic coastline, sandy beaches, picture-perfect cottages, cobble stones, thatched roofs, winding lanes, a cosy waterside pub and a community where everyone knows your name, even if they occasionally pretend not to.
And yes, the secrets hiding behind those stone walls are usually far juicier than the scones.
The Brambleton books are my love letter to Devon village life: full of friendships that last a lifetime, romances that twist when you least expect them, and surprises that bloom as reliably as the wildflowers in the hedgerows. Life here isn’t perfect, but it’s always full of heart.
Each story introduces you to new characters – some laugh-out-loud funny, some quietly brave, and all of them slightly nosy.
If you have read the other Brambleton books you’ll also spot familiar faces and favourite places along the way, so it should feel like coming home .
.. to a village where no one locks their doors, but everyone has an opinion about your wallpaper.
My next book is called A Perfect Devon Manor , and it’s about a normal woman who marries into a rich aristocratic family and finds, years later, they still haven’t truly accepted her into the fold.
Always an outsider, she makes a choice that she hopes will give her the belonging she craves – with disastrous consequences .
.. It’s a warm, gripping and emotive story about family, love, and second chances, set on a beautiful house on the rugged North Devon coast.
Here’s an exclusive extract to introduce you to A Perfect Devon Manor .
I hope you enjoy it!
Love, Debbie x
A Perfect Devon Manor
One
Christina Pemberton understood antique silver better than anyone; she knew how to make something worthless appear priceless and how to ensure the illusion held up under scrutiny. To the casual observer, no one would suspect the deception beneath the glitter, much like the woman who’d crafted it.
The familiar weight of guilt pressed against her ribs as Christina adjusted the jeweller’s loupe, its rim worn smooth by constant use.
She tucked a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear, the gesture automatic after years of keeping it from falling into her work.
At forty-two, she still looked younger than her years, though the fine lines around her green eyes spoke of long hours bent over intricate metalwork under harsh light.
Her hands – once her pride, with their long fingers and steady grip that could coax the most delicate silver filigree into existence – now felt like instruments of betrayal.
Winter wind rattled the Georgian windows of the estate office, sending icy draughts across the mahogany desk where silver items stood like a platoon waiting for inspection.
The scent of silver polish couldn’t quite mask the musty dampness that crept through the grand walls, a reminder of the steady decay of ancestral homes and the cost of their upkeep.
‘Right then, our Christina,’ Ernest Macarthy’’s voice carried that distinctive Glasgow burr that reminded her of shipyards and crowded smoke-filled pubs.
At sixty-five, her father-in-law still commanded attention with his silver hair swept back, his twinkling eyes and the roguish charm that had probably gotten him into trouble his entire life ‘What do you reckon we can do with this little collection?’
Christina lifted a Georgian coffee pot, feeling its substantial heft, the way the handle nestled perfectly in her palm.
The silver was genuine – she could tell by the colour alone, a lustrous grey that sang of quality.
Her trained eye automatically catalogued its worth: good silver content, elegant proportions, reasonable condition despite some tarnishing.
But it was unremarkable, it might fetch three hundred pounds at auction on a good day.
She adjusted her loupe and traced the maker’s marks with a fingertip, her mind churning with a mixture of anticipation and self-loathing.
‘Edinburgh, 1823. James McKay’s workshop – decent but not particularly sought after.
’ She set the pot down carefully. ‘However, if we were to enhance the provenance ... , adjust this maker’s mark to James Reid . ..’
‘Aye, now you’re talking sense,’ Detective Inspector Frank Canning – retired two years ago – leaned forward in his chair, his hooded eyes raking across the hoard with the avarice of a hungry hound eyeing his food bowl.
With his stocky frame and close-cropped grey hair, Frank had never lost his police officer’s bearing, all squared shoulders and watchful eyes, but his loyalty to Ernest trumped any lingering sense of duty to the law.
Christina shifted to avoid Frank’s hawkish gaze that seemed to catalogue people rather than see them.
‘Reid pieces go for what, three times as much?’ he suggested.
‘Sometimes four, if the piece has the right story behind it.’ Christina’s voice was steady, professional, and didn’t match Frank’s enthusiasm.
Two years of this, and it never got easier.
‘I’d need to research the exact style of Reid’s mark from that period, ensure the patina matches, age the strike marks properly . ..’
She picked up a silver salver, running her fingers along its rim. ‘This one’s more promising. Good quality, right period, but completely plain. If I were to add some period-appropriate engraving – perhaps a family crest, something that suggests it was commissioned for landed gentry ...’
‘Can you do that then, hen?’ Ernest’s eyes lit up with the same gleam she’d learned to recognise over the years.
Of course I can , Christina thought. I spent six years learning the craft of silversmithing, another four perfecting my engraving technique. I could create pieces that would fool the finest auction houses in London, if I put my mind to it.
Except she didn’t want to put her mind to it.
She wanted to be in her own workshop, where earlier this morning she’d spent an hour restoring a Victorian tea service for a client using traditional techniques to bring damaged silver back to its original glory; not to fabricate, but to preserve history.
Legitimate work, the kind she let Elspeth admire on the increasingly rare occasions her eleven-year-old daughter was at home.
Hamish thought it better their daughter only came home from school at weekends – character building, he called it, though she suspected he simply preferred the house quieter.
Their daughter was getting the education Christina never had, all state schools for her, while Elspeth moved through a world of privilege that felt as foreign to Christina as the Latin phrases Hamish peppered into conversations when he’d had too much wine.
Her fingers itched for her jewellery tools, locked away in her own studio.
Once, she’d dreamed of seeing her own maker’s mark on delicate silver pieces, of building a reputation for exquisite, handcrafted jewellery.
Those tools gathered dust now, along with half-finished sketches of designs that would never see daylight.
But after that honest hour in her workshop, here she was mid-morning, back to being what she’d never intended to become.
‘Yes. I can add a crest – anyone in particular you want?’ she asked, earning her a broad smile from Ernest.
‘Christina’s got the magic touch,’ Frank said, chuckling. ‘Those candlesticks last month? Nobody could tell you’d done anything to them.’
She chewed her lip, not trusting herself to speak.
Those candlesticks had been plain, functional pieces worth perhaps four hundred pounds.
With her carefully researched additions – period-appropriate acanthus leaf scrollwork, a maker’s mark that suggested they’d come from one of London’s most prestigious workshops – they’d sold for nearly three thousand.
The collector from New York would never know he’d paid premium prices for Christina’s skilled fabrication.
‘So, what’s the plan then?’ Ernest said, rubbing his hands together. ‘How long will you need?’
Christina surveyed the pieces spread before her, mentally calculating the work required.
‘The coffee pot will need the most delicate touch – altering maker’s marks without damaging the surrounding silver requires precision.
The salver will take longer because of the engraving, but it’s more straightforward. Give me two weeks.’
‘And our usual arrangement?’ Frank said.
‘Five per cent of the increased value.’ The words came out automatically.
Practice had made her fluent in the language of subterfuge, even as it left a bitter taste in her mouth.
Greed didn’t drive her. It was an obligation to her husband’s family – old and heavy, inherited like bad blood.
This murky arrangement felt like balancing a long-standing debt.
Not that Hamish knew what she was doing – or why.
Lately, he’d grown distant, retreating into his obsession with the sixteenth centaury, as if history offered more comfort than she did.
Their marriage was fraying under the weight of silence and sidelong glances.
But Christina wasn’t giving up; their daughter deserved better than the splintered childhood she herself had endured.
Somehow Christina would rekindle their romance.
‘You’re a treasure, you are.’ Ernest beamed at her with genuine affection, and that somehow made it worse.
He wasn’t a criminal mastermind, just an aging man trying to keep the family estate from crumbling around their ears.
His legitimate antique dealing barely covered the heating bills, let alone the roof repairs.