The Captain's Daughter

by Jennifer Delamere

  “Oh no,” his mother said. Like Nate, she was familiar with the name of one of London’s more infamous brothel owners. Their church helped dozens of women out of such places.

  “I can’t be sure, of course,” Nate added hurriedly. “The name might only be a coincidence. But what if it wasn’t? What if, no longer content to pick up homeless women off the streets, Mollie Hurdle is now trawling the railway stations, as well?” The very idea that he might somehow have caused an innocent young lady to walk into the arms of a brothel owner enveloped him with guilt. “I offered to bring her here, but she rebuffed me. And who knows what may have happened to her by now? If only I’d tried harder—or taken some other approach—”

  “There now.” His mother held one of his clenched fists, caressing it until it relaxed. “I’ve no doubt you did the best you could.”

  “No. I should have done more.” He spoke bitterly, weighed down by disappointment. At the last minute, he’d tried to call out to her the name of their church’s charity house and the street it was located on, hoping she might be able to remember it as a place of refuge. But it had been too late, and he doubted she’d heard.

  His mother gave him a tiny, sympathetic smile. “You mustn’t beat yourself up so. As you said, you may be worrying over nothing. And if not—” She paused, letting out a sigh. “We’ve seen many an unfortunate girl in this city since we arrived. There simply is no way to help them all. It’s a hard truth, but we must accept it.”

  “I know that, Ma. But it’s more troubling to actually see it happening, to be in a position to help—and yet not be able to.”

  He saw tears glisten in her eyes. “I’m so proud of you, son. You may have spent years as a soldier, but you haven’t lost your tender heart.”

  “It’s conscience, that’s all.” If she was in trouble, Nate couldn’t shake the idea that somehow he was to blame. He should not have tried to physically take hold of her. It was then that he’d lost her. It had been a rash, stupid thing to do.

  Nate cleared his throat and blinked to be sure his own eyes were dry. This was no time for morose thoughts. He had work to do, people who were depending on him.

  He strode into the front hall and grabbed his coat from a rack near the door.

  His mother followed him. “There’s one more thing I want to tell you, son.”

  Nate paused but did not turn around. “I must be on my way, Ma.”

  “You know the Lord has brought us through some pretty dark times.” Her voice was firm, unwavering.

  His hands tightened on his coat. It was true that his family had suffered many deprivations after the sudden loss of his father when Nate was still a child. But even in their most desperate days, Nate and his siblings had been able to rely on their mother’s tenacious strength and wisdom. The woman at the station had been alone. How could his mother think the two situations were alike? But he respected her too much to try to argue the point. He said quietly, “Yes, Ma. I know.”

  “None of us knows the future. If that woman is in trouble, there may yet be hope for her. Remember that.”

  Her words were meant to reassure him, but they only rang hollow in Nate’s heart. The woman at the station had been so striking—not only beautiful but filled with contrasts that continued to tease at his thoughts. She’d projected an air of confidence, joining right in with “Aunt Mollie” at giving him a stern rebuke. And yet the last moment he’d seen her, she’d had such a look of vulnerability. A touch of fear, even. It haunted him, leaving him confused, sad, and even angry—at her, as well as at the unfortunate circumstances.

  But there was no time to explain all this now. So he turned and gave his mother a soft peck on the cheek. “Thank you, Ma. I will remember.”

  It took Rosalyn the better part of the day to make her way to Ryder Street. She kept getting lost and having to ask for directions from shopkeepers or street vendors. The city was an overwhelming confusion of movement and noise. On the broader avenues, carriages, carts, and omnibuses fought their way through jams or sped up dangerously to claim a rare stretch of open space. Rosalyn soon discovered that simply crossing the street could put a person’s life in danger, as drivers gave not the slightest leeway to pedestrians. Smells both foul and pleasant mingled in the air, competing for dominance. One of the more appealing scents came from hot meat pies a man was selling from a cart. But even this two-penny luxury was beyond her means. Realizing she still had a clean linen handkerchief in her pocket, Rosalyn was able to barter with an old woman selling apples from a frayed wicker basket. The large, tangy apple helped assuage the hunger gnawing at her, but she was still thirsty. She hesitated to drink at the public wells, though. She’d heard grim tales of the ways people could die from the bad water in London.

  By the time she found the imposing white townhouse that matched the address from her memory, Rosalyn was lightheaded from thirst. She stood, leaning against the black iron railing in front of the house, trying to regain her steadiness before going up to knock at the door.

  In the end, she did not have to move at all. A woman came out of the lower servants’ entrance and hurried up the steps that led to the street, intent on some errand. Was she the cook? The housekeeper? She stopped short when she saw Rosalyn. “What’s your business, girl?”

  Rosalyn was taken aback by the woman’s harsh tone, but she pressed on. “I’m here to see Mr. Tunbridge. Is he in?”

  The woman eyed Rosalyn’s wrinkled and mud-splattered clothing. “And what would you want with him? I ain’t heard that we was hiring any more servants.”

  Rosalyn stood straighter, striving to affect the air of someone higher up the social scale than this woman. “My business is of a private nature. Please just tell me, is he in? It’s important.”

  “Mr. Tunbridge is not in town,” the woman answered curtly. “He and Mrs. Tunbridge have gone up to York, and we don’t expect them back until after Christmas.” Her eyes narrowed. “If you are a particular friend of Mr. Tunbridge, you’d know that.”

  Rosalyn felt her face grow hot. “I’m an acquaintance only. Someone who knows Mr. Tunbridge through mission work.”

  “Oh, I see.” But she looked unconvinced. “Well then, if you have business with Mr. Tunbridge, I can fetch the butler, and you can leave a message with him.”

  The woman said this as a challenge, clearly expecting Rosalyn to withdraw. Rosalyn was tempted to speak to the butler simply to prove her wrong, but there was no point. Mr. Tunbridge was not here, and based on this encounter, she doubted there’d be anyone in the house who’d be willing or able to help her.

  Still striving for dignity, Rosalyn said, “That won’t be necessary. I shall come back another time.”

  She turned and strode purposefully away. She fancied the other woman’s eyes were on her until she turned the corner at the next intersection.

  Earlier in the day, Rosalyn had passed a house with a sign declaring it was a refuge for destitute women, but she’d pressed on, wanting only to reach Mr. Tunbridge. Now she desperately wished she could remember where it was. She began to walk in the direction she thought she’d come, trying to remember which streets she had taken, but nothing looked familiar. After a while she knew her attempt was useless. There was no way she’d be able to retrace her steps.

  A sign on a nearby building informed Rosalyn that this busy street was called the Strand. She paused and leaned heavily against a lamppost as people hurried past her in both directions. After several minutes, she decided to find the nearest public pump and drink from it, preferring to face the possibility of illness over the certainty of fainting dead away on the street and leaving herself vulnerable to any kind of wrongdoers.

  Among the many people moving along the street was a man wearing a sandwich board. The advertising on it read, Don’t miss HMS Pinafore at the Opera Comique! Wholesome opera! Unparalleled wit and music!

  Rosalyn felt a tiny smile lift her parched lips. Although she’d never seen the show, she knew the music. Mrs. Williams had purc
hased the sheet music and libretto, and they’d passed many happy hours singing those songs together.

  She stepped away from the lamppost and into the man’s path. He paused and tipped his bowler hat, looking at her with an inquiring smile. Rosalyn took heart that he, at least, seemed friendly. “Excuse me. Do you know of someplace where I could find water?”

  He waved his arm in a broad gesture to his left and said, “The River Thames is just three blocks over. Plenty of water there.”

  “I mean drinkable water. A fountain or well.”

  He shook his head. “There ain’t no drinkable water in this city. Far better off with something healthier, like beer. In fact, if you can wait until I get off work, I’ll take you someplace myself.”

  “Please,” she croaked. Her head was swimming.

  The man sobered. “I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t mean no harm.” He turned and pointed in the direction he’d come. “Turn left at that street up there. There’s an alleyway leading off it that has a pump.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin. “Here’s a ha’penny for you. Maybe get yourself some bread.”

  “I’m not here to beg,” Rosalyn protested, humiliated that he would perceive her as destitute—even if it was the truth.

  “Just take it.” He pressed the coin into her hand.

  Rosalyn accepted it gratefully. “Thank you.”

  “Take care of yourself, miss.”

  With one more tip of his hat, the man continued on.

  Rosalyn followed his directions and soon found the well. It was in a small courtyard of houses that, while decidedly down-at-heel, were not nearly as decrepit as the buildings where the brothel had been located. The pump worked, quickly bringing up water. She splashed her face and hands and drank deeply. It was amazing the difference the water made. It put her in mind of a proverb: As cool waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far country.

  At the moment, Bristol felt as distant as a far country. But somehow she would find a way to get there.

  She dried her hands on her skirt and surveyed her surroundings. Everything seemed in sharper focus now. On her right stood a building four stories high. Music drifted from a second-floor window. When a woman with a sweet soprano voice began to sing, Rosalyn was drawn irresistibly toward the sound. She sank down on an empty crate, listening.

  Poor wandering one,

  Though thou hast surely strayed,

  Take heart of grace, thy steps retrace,

  Poor wandering one!

  Rosalyn sighed. It was as though the woman were singing directly to her.

  “Take heart, fair days will shine . . .”

  She closed her eyes, drinking in the music.

  “Take heart! Take heart!”

  Rosalyn felt her heart being soothed by the high, lovely notes. She breathed in deeply and repeated the words: “Take heart of grace, thy steps retrace—”

  “Ho there! What are you doing down below?”

  The shout—sharp, threatening, and suspicious—came from above, startling Rosalyn off the crate. Stumbling to her feet, she looked up to see a man of about forty with prodigious whiskers glaring down at her. In her confusion, Rosalyn could only stare at him dumbly.

  “What’s the trouble, Gilbert?” This query came from a gentler male voice. A second head popped out the window. This man had a round face, hair that was thinning on top, and side whiskers that were pronounced, if not so bushy as the other man’s. His expression was one of mere curiosity. “Who’s this?”

  “A spy, I’ll wager. I saw her trying to memorize the lyrics. Sullivan, those blasted pirates are determined to steal our new work before it’s even halfway written!”

  Sullivan responded with a wry smile of amusement, which only seemed to annoy Gilbert more.

  Rosalyn recognized their names. Mr. Gilbert had written the libretto to HMS Pinafore, and Mr. Sullivan—one of England’s best-known composers—had written the score. It was impossible to believe she was actually looking at these two famous men! She still couldn’t speak, dismayed as she was by Mr. Gilbert’s bizarre accusation.

  “Aha!” Mr. Gilbert shouted in triumph. “You can see I’m right. There is guilt written all over her face.”

  Rosalyn swallowed, trying to find her voice. Mr. Gilbert looked as though he wanted to throttle her.

  A third head appeared at the window. This one belonged to a woman—a pretty brunette who looked about Rosalyn’s age. Upon seeing Rosalyn, her brows instantly drew together, her lips making an O as she looked down with compassion. “With all due respect, Mr. Gilbert, this woman looks more famished than piratical.”

  Gilbert gave an unconvinced grunt. He pointed a finger at Rosalyn. “Don’t leave that spot. I’m coming right down. Miss Bond, you stay here and watch her.”

  “We’ll all be right down,” Miss Bond amended, her cheery tone softening her contradiction of Mr. Gilbert’s orders. “I’m sure Blanche can watch her while we go down.”

  “Certainly” came another female voice from inside the room. The two men disappeared, and Miss Bond was joined by an exquisite blonde. She peered down at Rosalyn with the same mild curiosity that Mr. Sullivan had shown.

  Still dumbfounded, Rosalyn stood rooted to the spot, heartily wishing she’d taken one more drink of water before having to face this unexpected inquisition.

  Miss Bond turned away from the window. In no time, Rosalyn heard their voices discussing the situation as they came out the door to the courtyard.

  “Gilbert, I really do feel you are jumping to conclusions.”

  “It’s fine for you, Sullivan, if you don’t want to worry about pirates stealing the very food out of your mouth. But I’ve got bills to pay.”

  At the same time, Rosalyn saw an older woman in a brown, well-worn coat turn into the narrow lane and come their direction. When she reached Rosalyn, the woman said, “Are you the new cleaning woman that Miss Lenoir was to have hired?”

  “Well, I . . .”

  “Of course she is,” Miss Bond said. “That’s why I told you that you needn’t worry, Mr. Gilbert. I met this woman myself when she came to be interviewed by Miss Lenoir.”

  Once more, Rosalyn marveled at the ease with which city people could speak bold untruths. But this time she was grateful for it. She had no idea why this Miss Bond would come to her aid, but she would not refuse any offer of help.

  Miss Bond looked at Rosalyn expectantly. “Go on. Tell them your name.”

  The directive was accompanied by an encouraging smile, and Rosalyn took heart. “Miss Rosalyn Bernay.”

  Even as she spoke, she realized it sounded outlandish for a prospective charwoman to give her name in this manner.

  Sullivan picked up on this, too. “Miss Rosalyn Bernay!” he echoed playfully. “A very French name. Tell us, Miss Bernay, do you also do a bit of opera-pirating on the side?”

  “Certainly not! I love your work! I’ve purchased both the libretto and the sheet music.”

  It came out with such horrified sincerity that even the crotchety Mr. Gilbert barked out a laugh. “Is that so? Well, clearly you have good taste. I suppose that is the main requirement for a charwoman these days?”

  Miss Bond crossed her arms and looked at him askance. “Mr. Gilbert, you are an incorrigible old curmudgeon. Please tell me you do not intend to have this poor woman drawn and quartered for piracy.”

  “Not today, at any rate.” His voice was still gruff, but it was clear he was no longer angry. With a nod toward the older woman, he said, “She’s all yours, Mrs. Hill.” He turned back toward the door, evidently dismissing the matter from his thoughts. “Speaking of pirates . . . Come on then, Sullivan. We’ve only got Miss Rosavella for the afternoon, and I want to test her out on a few more songs.”

  Mr. Sullivan gave Rosalyn a smile and a wink. “I wish you much success in your new position, Miss Bernay.”

  “Thank you, sir.” In the presence of Britain’s most revered composer of sacred choral music and opera—who, it was rumored,
was being considered for knighthood—it was all Rosalyn could do to keep herself from dropping a curtsy. “If I can listen to more of your marvelous music, I will happily work my fingers to the bone.”

  He chuckled. “Well, let’s hope that won’t be necessary.” He turned to Miss Bond. “Coming, Jessie?”

  She shook her head. “I’ll just be another minute, if you please.”

  “Well, don’t dawdle too long, or you’ll raise Mr. Grouch’s hackles again.”

  They both smiled, and Jessie Bond nodded her acquiescence.

  “Come on, then,” Mrs. Hill said briskly to Rosalyn. “We’ve a lot to do before the house opens tonight.”

  She started toward the entrance, but Rosalyn hesitated. Here was a chance to earn some money, but she could not go on pretending she was someone she was not. “Mrs. Hill, I’m not the woman who was hired for this job by”—she struggled to remember the name she’d heard—“by, er, Miss Lenoir.”

  Mrs. Hill shrugged. “The way I see it, you’re here, and that other girl ain’t. Would you be looking for work?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t any references.”

  “No matter. I’ll know in two hours whether you’ll work out.” She studied Rosalyn. “I can tell by your manners you’ve been raised properly. Plenty of people fall on hard times for reasons that ain’t their fault.”

  “Thank you,” Rosalyn said, meaning it with all her heart.

  “I think she could use a bit of food first,” Miss Bond observed. “Poor soul looks like she hasn’t eaten in days.”

  “Only one day.”

  “How terrible,” Jessie murmured sympathetically. “Has some man put you in this predicament?”

  The question took Rosalyn by surprise. “How did you know?”

  “A hunch. And let me tell you that I understand what you’re going through.”

  Rosalyn sensed depth behind the simple words. Perhaps this lighthearted woman had known true sorrow, as well.