INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER From the author of the New York Times bestseller Homecoming —“An ambitious, compelling historical mystery with a fabulous cast of characters…Kate Morton at her very best.” —Kristin Hannah “ An elaborate tapestry…Morton doesn’t disappoint .” — The Washington Post " Classic English country-house Goth at its finest ." — New York Post In the depths of a 19th-century winter, a little girl is abandoned on the streets of Victorian London. She grows up to become in turn a thief, an artist’s muse, and a lover. In the summer of 1862, shortly after her eighteenth birthday, she travels with a group of artists to a beautiful house on a bend of the Upper Thames. Tensions simmer and one hot afternoon a gunshot rings out. A woman is killed, another disappears, and the truth of what happened slips through the cracks of time. It is not until over a century later, when another young woman is drawn to Birchwood Manor, that its secrets are finally revealed. Told by multiple voices across time, this is an intricately layered, richly atmospheric novel about art and passion, forgiveness and loss, that shows us that sometimes the way forward is through the past. “ An elaborate tapestry . . . Morton doesn’t disappoint .” ― Washington Post " Classic English country-house Goth at its finest ." ― New York Post, Required Reading column “ The Clockmaker’s Daughter is an ambitious, complex, compelling historical myster y with a fabulous cast of characters. This is Kate Morton at her very best .” -- Kristin Hannah, New York Times bestselling author " Morton leisurely layers Gothic details with classic romantic suspense , shifting between past and present, spinning involving stories within stories." ― Minneapolis Star Tribune "...the stories, brilliantly told by Morton, offer musings on art, betrayal, and the ways in which real lives and real places can evolve over time into the stuff of legends" ― Publishers Weekly, starred review "A leisurely and meditative read, with lush settings, meticulous period detail, and slowly unfurling enigmas ." ― Kirkus Reviews " [Morton's] most ambitious work yet ...Morton proves once again that history is not a straight line but an intricate, infinite web" ― Booklist " Morton does again what she’s done so well in international best sellers from The House at Riverton to The Lake House ." ― Library Journal "Like the house itself, the novel contains hidden corners and unexpected twists ...Fans of Morton's atmospheric novels will find much to enjoy here." ― Shelf Awareness Kate Morton is the award-winning, New York Times bestselling author of The House at Riverton , The Forgotten Garden , The Distant Hours , The Secret Keeper , The Lake House , and The Clockmaker’s Daughter . Her books are published in thirty-eight languages and have been #1 bestsellers worldwide. Born and raised in Australia, she holds degrees in dramatic art and English literature, and now lives with her family in London and Australia. Visit her online at KateMorton.com or on Facebook and Instagram at @KateMortonAuthor. We came to Birchwood Manor because Edward said that it was haunted. It wasn’t, not then, but it’s a dull man who lets truth stand in the way of a good story, and Edward was never that. His passion, his blinding faith in whatever he professed, was one of the things I fell in love with. He had the preacher’s zeal, a way of expressing opinions that minted them into gleaming currency. A habit of drawing people to him, of firing in them enthusiasms they hadn’t known were theirs, making all but himself and his convictions fade. But Edward was no preacher. I remember him. I remember everything. -- The glass-roofed studio in his mother’s London garden, the smell of freshly mixed paint, the scratch of bristle on canvas as his gaze swept my skin. My nerves that day were prickles. I was eager to impress, to make him think me something I was not, as his eyes traced my length and Mrs. Mack’s entreaty circled in my head: “Your mother was a proper lady, your people were grand folk, and don’t you go forgetting it. Play your cards right and all our birds might just come home to roost.” And so I sat up straighter on the rosewood chair that first day in the whitewashed room behind the tangle of blushing sweet peas. His littlest sister brought me tea, and cake when I was hungry. His mother, too, came down the narrow path to watch him work. She adored her son. In him she glimpsed the family’s hopes fulfilled. Distinguished member of the Royal Academy, engaged to a lady of some means, father soon to a clutch of brown-eyed heirs. Not for him the likes of me. -- His mother blamed herself for what came next, but she’d have more easily halted day from meeting night than keep us apart. He called me his muse, his destiny. He said that he had known at once, when he saw me through the hazy gaslight of the theater foyer on Drury Lane. I was h