The Captain's Daughter

by Jennifer Delamere

  “Surely anyplace is better than here.”

  From somewhere outside, another gunshot exploded, followed by more screaming. Rosalyn flinched, and Penny instantly picked up on her alarm. “What do you know about it, Miss I’m-from-Bristol? As you can see, London’s no town for a woman without protection. Mrs. Hurdle takes good care of us.”

  “When she’s not bringing in competition.” Rosalyn surprised herself with this caustic remark, but she was determined not to cower.

  Narrowing her eyes, Penny sidled up to her. “You will never be my competition. I am the best, and the men what comes here knows it.”

  Despite her proud words, there was only emptiness in her large brown eyes. Rosalyn held her tongue, reminding herself that plenty of unfortunates had been living in darkness for so long that they could not even envision a better life, much less strive for it.

  Outside, the confusion increased. Footsteps pounded, doors slammed, and people shouted and cursed out of open windows. But in Rosalyn’s soul, an odd kind of peace blossomed and she knew with certainty that this was the moment to move. She took hold of the heavy bolt with both hands and shoved it aside. “You’re right,” she said to Penny. “I am not your competition. Because I am getting out of here.”

  “You are either mad or stupid,” Penny replied flatly. “You’ll be back—if you survive.”

  Clutching her reticule close to her side, Rosalyn opened the door and slipped out. As she paused on the steps, her vision adjusting to the gloom, she realized her carpetbag was still on the floor of the kitchen. Before she could turn back to the door, she heard the bolt being slid into place. Penny was making her point as surely as Rosalyn had. There was no turning back now. She would have to leave her belongings behind.

  As soon as she reached the bottom of the stairs, Rosalyn heard more footsteps approaching. She pressed herself into a gap between the wall and a large bin filled with refuse. The bin smelled unspeakably foul, but its bulk kept her hidden as two men hurried past.

  Deciding which direction to go next was easy enough. With a crowd collecting at the far end of the alley to her left, Rosalyn would turn right. A larger, busier street was about fifty yards off. Rosalyn could see people walking past the entrance to the alley, along with the occasional hansom cab and some ramshackle carriages.

  Another sound broke into the night, this time from just over her head. “What do you mean, ‘she’s gone’?” It was Mrs. Hurdle’s voice, shrill with anger. Rosalyn stood below the kitchen window. Although it was closed, the sound of the ensuing argument reached her clearly enough.

  “She said she was too good for us,” Penny returned petulantly. Rosalyn bristled at this clear lie. “She said she was going to be better than mere whores, and that you was an evil and greedy old woman.”

  There was the sickening sound of flesh hitting flesh.

  “Ow! What’d you slap me for?” Penny protested. “You can’t do that and damage the merchandise.”

  “Your time is passing, girl,” Mrs. Hurdle said, her voice hard. “No one is interested in you anymore. You bore them.”

  Rosalyn shivered. Despite Penny’s harsh words to her earlier, she still felt bad for the woman. The world had ill-used her, and Rosalyn could not imagine what kind of future lay in store for her. For a moment, she wished Penny had accepted her offer to come along.

  “When did she leave?” Mrs. Hurdle demanded.

  “Must have been twenty minutes or more. She’s long gone by now. Ain’t no way you can catch her.”

  Again, this was a complete lie, but Rosalyn prayed fervently that the old woman would believe it. If she were to come out in the alley now . . .

  Mrs. Hurdle must have made some indication that she was planning to, because Penny said, “Oh, she didn’t go that way. She went up through the receiving room, shouting all manner of obscenities at us.”

  Rosalyn was stunned by the string of lies that came so effortlessly out of Penny’s mouth. It seemed she was doing all she could to help Rosalyn get away, but why? Rosalyn was tempted to be grateful even though she knew Penny’s actions must be entirely self-serving.

  Apparently, Mrs. Hurdle knew Penny too well to accept her words at face value. She said brusquely, “Out of my way, girl.”

  Once more, Rosalyn heard the bolt sliding. She had to move, and quickly. She turned and fled down the alley.

  As she ran, something caught at her right hand. She felt a sharp pain as her wrist was wrenched backward, forcing her hand to open, her fingers straightening of their own accord, and the reticule slipped from her grasp. There was a blur of movement, no higher than Rosalyn’s waist, and the sound of bare feet slapping in the mud. A small boy must also have been hiding in the alley. Now he was running off with the only money she had left in the world.

  Afraid to cry out lest she advertise her presence to Mrs. Hurdle, Rosalyn raced silently after the boy. She nearly caught up to him, but he deftly took a leap to the left, avoiding a puddle he must have known was there. Rosalyn slipped and staggered in the wet slime, barely managing to stay on her feet.

  The boy turned a blind corner into the street. Rosalyn regained her balance and ran after him. When she reached the street, her eyes were temporarily blinded by a glaring street lamp. People jostled past her. She saw the boy, darting in and out of the people and carriages. “Stop!” she cried out after him. “For the love of God, stop!”

  Now she didn’t care if Mrs. Hurdle was on her heels or not. Her mind was focused on the small, ragged boy slipping away through the traffic. She ran into someone and nearly stumbled again but murmured a quick apology and kept after the boy.

  “Ho there! What’s going on?” Broad hands and a wall of a chest stopped Rosalyn in her tracks.

  It was a policeman. Thank God, it was a policeman. “That boy!” she shouted breathlessly. “He’s made off with my money!”

  The man turned his gaze to follow where she was pointing, but the boy had disappeared. In those few seconds, he had melted away—probably into one of the side streets. Rosalyn gasped, trying to catch her breath, tears blurring her vision.

  “I don’t see no boy,” said the policeman. “Can you describe him?”

  “He was small, maybe five or six years old. Dressed in rags. Barefoot.”

  “That describes half the boys in London. Did you see his face?”

  Rosalyn felt her shoulders sag. “No.”

  “Did you see which way he went? Sometimes we can find ’em by the warren they’re living in.”

  “No.” Desperation began to settle in. Now she had nothing left but the clothes on her back.

  “There she is!” Mrs. Hurdle’s voice rang out. “Thief!”

  The policeman instantly grabbed Rosalyn’s arm. “What’s this, then?” he asked Mrs. Hurdle. “You speaking of this young lady?”

  “Lady,” Mrs. Hurdle repeated with a scoff. “She took advantage of a kindness, that’s what she did. I gave her a cab ride, a meal, and a room for the night. But here she is, trying to sneak out without paying.”

  The policeman’s gaze leveled hard on Rosalyn. “Is this true?”

  Rosalyn’s mouth fell open. Shock and fear kept her throat bound and her mind blank. It was true Mrs. Hurdle had spent money on her, even if she’d had underhanded reasons for doing so.

  Mrs. Hurdle took advantage of Rosalyn’s silence. “You see? She doesn’t deny it.” She held out a hand. “You owe me.”

  “But I . . . but she . . .” Rosalyn drew another breath, desperate to speak. “She wants to turn me into a prostitute!”

  “What?” Mrs. Hurdle looked genuinely shocked. “I’ve never heard such slander. I run a respectable boardinghouse.”

  The policeman’s grip tightened on Rosalyn. “Will you pay this woman what you owe her, or do I have to take you down to the station house?”

  “But I have no money!” Rosalyn protested. “That boy just ran off with it!”

  “Is that what she told you?” Mrs. Hurdle interjected. “That’s exactl
y what she told me when she approached me outside the railway station. Gave me a story about being robbed. Just trying to garner sympathy, I’ll wager. A good way to take advantage of a trusting old woman.”

  This lie was so preposterous that Rosalyn was tempted to snort, despite the fear coursing through her.

  The policeman’s skeptical gaze rested on Rosalyn, taking in her soiled gown and muddy boots. “Come to think of it, I didn’t see any boy, and your description of him was awfully vague.” He turned to several people who had clustered around them on the sidewalk. “Did anyone else see a boy running through here?”

  The people standing around them shrugged. A few slunk away, bored with the lack of drama.

  “We’re taking a walk to the station,” the policeman announced.

  “Wait,” Rosalyn pleaded, resisting his tug on her arm. Turning to Mrs. Hurdle, she said, “My bag is still in your kitchen. Surely my belongings are worth whatever I owe you.”

  The old woman’s brows furrowed in calculation. Most likely she was remembering the conversation with Mick and her suspicion that Rosalyn had stolen goods. Would that be enough to appease the old woman?

  “So you admit you skulked away from my house!” Mrs. Hurdle said triumphantly. “Constable, I insist that you arrest her!”

  Too late, Rosalyn realized she’d miscalculated. If Mrs. Hurdle thought something valuable was in that bag, she was going to ensure Rosalyn couldn’t come back for it.

  Rosalyn knew she could not go down to the station. If she told the authorities who she was and where she’d come from, they might send her back to Russet House. Already she could see the smirk on Mr. Huffman’s face and imagine what he would do after he “forgave” her. No, whatever she did, she could not allow that to happen. Surely there was some way out of this.

  When the answer came to her, it threatened to tear her heart in two. It would leave her worse than destitute, for she would be losing her most precious connection to her parents. But as the policeman began once more to tug on her arm, she made her decision.

  “Wait.” Rosalyn planted her feet firmly. She could not have stopped the policeman if he’d been determined to drag her away, but something in her demeanor caused him to pause.

  With her free arm, she reached into the pocket of her gown and extracted her mother’s gold pocket watch. Slowly, fighting every instinct to withdraw, she held it out. “This will cover what I owe you, surely.”

  Mrs. Hurdle’s eyes gleamed as her gaze landed on the watch. She snatched it from Rosalyn’s hand. She opened it and read the inscription. Her eyes lifted to Rosalyn, and Rosalyn could see what she was about to ask—or rather, the accusation she was about to make, that Rosalyn had stolen it.

  “It was my mother’s watch,” Rosalyn said. “A gift from my father. Accept it and let me be. Or give it back this instant.”

  Rosalyn knew it was risky to offer this woman an ultimatum. But she had been stretched far enough.

  She could see Mrs. Hurdle weighing the options in her mind: whatever might or might not be in Rosalyn’s bag, there was no doubting the value of the watch in her hand. After a long moment, she gave a crisp nod. “I suppose this will do.” She waggled a threatening finger at Rosalyn. “But I’d better not see you around this neighborhood again. It can be a dangerous place for people who don’t know their way around.”

  The implied threat was perfectly clear to Rosalyn. Refusing to cower, she drew herself up and said acridly, “I thank you for your concern, but you need have no worries on that account.”

  She met Mrs. Hurdle’s cold stare and knew the two of them had made a bargain.

  Mrs. Hurdle said, “Constable, I don’t believe there’s any need to press charges. Thank you for your help.” She turned and walked away. In a moment, she’d turned into the alley leading to her home and was out of sight.

  “London has strict laws against vagabonds,” the policeman said as he released Rosalyn’s arm. “You’d best be off quickly, or I’ll still take you in for vagrancy.”

  Rosalyn could not believe the injustice of this. He’d just seen her parted from everything she owned! But she was learning that in the big city, you had better act like you knew what you were doing, even if it was a lie.

  “I am not a vagrant. I am on my way to . . .” She paused, giving a little cough to buy herself a few more seconds. As she did so, an address came to mind. One she had not thought of for several years, but which had—thank God—remained in her memory. “I’m going to 385 Ryder Street, St. James Square. The home of Miles Tunbridge, esquire.”

  She spoke with calm authority, and it was clearly a proper address, for the policeman seemed to recognize it. “And how would you be knowing someone who lives in St. James Square?”

  “Mr. Tunbridge is my . . . my uncle.”

  Rosalyn told herself it was not so terribly untrue, for Mr. Tunbridge was, in a sense, a spiritual uncle—or a benefactor, at least. He was a frequent contributor to the orphanage and had visited the place at least half a dozen times. One of Rosalyn’s tasks during her final year at the orphanage had been to help Mr. Müller address envelopes for the thank-you letters he wrote to donors. Mr. Tunbridge’s address had thus been imprinted on Rosalyn’s mind.

  The policeman looked unconvinced. “What are you doing in this neighborhood if you have an uncle in the better parts of London?”

  It was a question Rosalyn could not answer. But she was spared from further temptation to lie, as their conversation was cut short by alarm bells clanging and the rush of horses’ hooves on the brick street.

  “Fire!” someone yelled. “There’s a fire on Clark Street!”

  Another policeman rushed up to them, shouting over the increasing din. “We’ve got to get over there!”

  This decided the constable. He gave her a little shove. “On your way. We’ve got more important things to attend to.”

  The two of them raced off. Others were running in that direction too, and Rosalyn stepped into the recessed doorway of a tobacconist’s shop to keep from being swept up in the crowd. She stood alone, her back pressed against the damp brick wall. In the distance, she could see black smoke rising through the fog, lit by the city’s street lamps in the flat darkness before dawn.

  But at least she had a destination. She would go to Ryder Street. She would walk the entire way there, no matter how far it was. Surely Mr. Tunbridge would remember her and would help her.

  CHAPTER

  4

  NATE WAS WOKEN by a soft touch on his arm.

  “It’s nearly time,” a gentle voice said.

  He opened his eyes, taking a moment to regain his bearings. After rising at four in the morning and putting in eight hours of work at the ostler’s, he’d come home and fallen asleep in a chair by the fire. He sighed and rubbed his aching neck, looking up into the soft green eyes of the woman standing at his elbow. “I’m sorry, Ma. I’ve done it again, haven’t I?”

  “It’s nothing to apologize for. You’ve been driving yourself pretty hard, my boy.” Even though they’d been living in England for over a decade, her speech had lost none of its Irish accent.

  She handed him a cup of hot coffee, which he gratefully accepted. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly three.”

  “What?” This news wiped away the last vestiges of his drowsiness. He realized how quiet the house was. Normally his family members kept it bustling with activity. He downed the coffee quickly. “Where is everyone? Why did you allow me to sleep so long?”

  “They went out,” his mother answered simply. “We all agreed you needed the rest.”

  Nate was already on his feet, setting the coffee cup aside. Hastily he tucked a loose shirttail into his trousers. “There’s no point in my trying to keep Patrick’s job for him if I’m just going to get the sack for being late.”

  “Don’t fret yourself so. You’ve got time.”

  “You don’t understand. I’ve got to be there early today. We’re changing out a new flat.”


  “You’re not leavin’ this house until you’ve had a bite to eat,” his mother insisted. She picked up a plate holding a slice of buttered bread and a generous chunk of cheese and thrust it into his hands.

  Despite his worries, his mother’s imperiousness brought a tiny smile to Nate’s lips. “You’re a good woman, Ma. Always lookin’ out for me.”

  His mother’s expression said Don’t I know it even as she refilled his cup from a small coffeepot she’d brought into the room with her. “I’ve been takin’ care of you for twenty-six years, and I’m not about to stop now.”

  Nate might have pointed out that for seven of those years he’d been in the army—and out of the country. But he didn’t bother to argue. He was too busy eating his food as quickly as he could without wolfing it down.

  His mother studied him. “I can’t say you looked as though you were sleeping well.”

  Nate turned his gaze toward his cup as he took a long swallow. “Of course I wasn’t sleepin’ well, Ma. I was upright in that chair.”

  She shook her head. “It’s more than that. You were mumbling, and you shook your head several times as though you were havin’ a bad dream. What’s troubling you?”

  Nate finished the cheese, knowing his full mouth would give him a brief excuse not to answer. His mother waited patiently until he swallowed the last bite of food. “You know I’m worried about losing Patrick’s job—or mine. Mr. Jamieson doesn’t like the fact that I can no longer work my usual twelve hours.”

  His mother took his empty plate and cup and set them aside. “And?” she said, the inflection in her voice telling him she knew there was more.

  Nate sighed. There was no point trying to put her off. Not if he wanted to get to the theater on time. “Yesterday, I noticed a young lady at Paddington station. She’d been accosted by one of those unsavory fellows who always hang around the station. I tried to run him off for her.”

  “That’s noble of you, son.”

  He shook his head. “It might have been, if I’d succeeded. But an old lady came up, claiming to be the girl’s aunt. The girl said this was true, but something didn’t seem quite right to me. It was only as they were walking away that I realized what it was. The older woman had called herself Aunt Mollie.”