Ghost of the Thames

by May McGoldrick

  She landed on the pavement on all fours, and her stomach emptied. The foul taste of river filled her throat and nostrils as she heaved.

  A pair of men’s boots appeared next to her head. He crouched beside her.

  “You appear to be having a rough night, I would say.”

  She managed to nod and looked down. The pistol escaped the filth emptying out of her. She picked it up and, without looking, offered it to him. A large hand wrapped around hers as he took the weapon.

  “So who is this friend that you are so desperate to get back to?”

  “I know nothing of her name or where she lives. But she knew me. And that is reason enough for me to get back to her. I cannot recall anything about myself.” Another wave of retching silenced her.

  “Well, you are in no condition to be dropped off at some street corner.”

  He had a deep, soothing voice. It was the voice of one accustomed to speaking with authority. Others were gathering around them. She could hear the buzz of voices and questions. “I think it would be best if you were to stay the night at this house. It is a safe place. You have wounds that need to be seen to. By tomorrow, perhaps whatever it is that escapes your memory now will come back to you. In any case, you will have an easier time finding your friend in the daylight.”

  Sophy wanted to argue, but her body protested any option but remaining on all fours on the pavement.

  “Mrs. Tibbs, where can we take her?” he asked someone, making Sophy's decision for her.

  Moments ticked by, but they could have been hours. Sophy couldn’t tell them apart. As more instructions were given, she clung precariously to consciousness, wavering between confusion and lucidity. She was able to focus again when strong hands took her by the shoulders and sat her back. She felt the heavy cloak draped around her and before she knew it, he had lifted her into his arms.

  As the man moved smoothly up a few stairs and into a house, something tugged at Sophy’s memory. Images of struggling to stay alive, of water. Still conscious of how vulnerable she was, Sophy felt safe in this man’s arms.

  “You are too kind, Captain,” she murmured.

  “You’re in this condition because my driver ran you down with my carriage.”

  They were moving up a flight of wooden steps. A moving candle flickered ahead of them.

  “No, I am in this condition because –” She was sinking again. “I am . . . I don’t know why I am here. Or what I have done. But you are not responsible for it. I am certain.”

  *

  Now that Edward had a moment to clear his head, he questioned his judgment in bringing Sophy to Urania Cottage.

  What Edward knew about the place was that the philanthropist Angela Burdett-Coutts and her writer friend, Charles Dickens, had specific intentions regarding how the residence was to function. The Cottage was large enough to eventually house a dozen girls and two matrons. The girls, most not yet twenty years of age, would be found in the prisons and workhouses and allowed to come to the shelter only by particular invitation. The rehabilitation plans consisted of teaching them how to read and write and keep house, with the ultimate goal being for them to migrate to Australia or Canada or to find jobs as domestic servants, capable of earning their own living or running decent homes of their own. Each candidate was interviewed by Dickens personally, each had to receive a letter of invitation, and each had to agree to the terms of it before they were offered a tidy little bed in the Cottage. Angela and Dickens had expressed a specific concern about allowing in girls who would set a bad example for the rest. No one could walk in off the street and be offered shelter.

  Regardless of his friendship with the two philanthropists, Edward knew that he was taking advantage. He would have to make other arrangements for the injured woman . . . if she did not disappear on her own when the sun came up.

  Edward waited in the parlor, knowing it was his responsibility to stay around until the doctor saw to her and gave him a report on the extent of her injuries.

  Mrs. Tibbs had gone upstairs to help Sophy. He had spoken with her last week and shown her the miniature portrait of Amelia. Older, no nonsense, strongly built and with a gruff voice, the woman had that quality that was intimidating enough for most girls, even these fallen denizens of the streets. He’d seen male versions of the matron running the crews of a dozen ships over the years.

  He heard occasional whispers and the light tread of bare feet on stairs, but Edward had yet to see the faces of any of the girls presently living at Urania Cottage. Finally, the heavy step of the doctor could be heard on the stair, and a moment later the portly man joined him in the parlor.

  “How does the girl fare?”

  “She’s more asleep than awake and replies with nonsense to whatever I ask. But I should say that the cause of that is due to the blow to her head she received sometime during the night.”

  “She was dragged under my carriage before the driver could stop.”

  “I dressed the scratches and bumps from that mishap, Captain Seymour. Those look worse than they are. But I believe the more telling injury happened earlier.” The doctor never sat, never put his bag down. He stood near the door with his cloak on as if he’d already been called to the next patient. “I believe before she stepped into the path of your carriage, she had taken a good blow to the head. The blood was crusted around one good sized gash that is still oozing a bit. I think that is the blow responsible for the memory loss she is struggling with right now.”

  “She will remember whatever it is she’s forgotten, won’t she?” Edward asked.

  “I should think so. But I can’t say for certain, mind you, whether she shall recall it tomorrow, next week, or ever.” The doctor looked about the simply furnished room. “Knowing what some of these women live through day in and day out on the street, I’d say it may be advantageous for her not to remember much of her past. She’s definitely young enough to become one of Mr. Dickens’s charity girls.”

  “When she can be up and about?”

  The doctor shrugged. “She’s shivering like a willow with the onset of fever, all caused by the shock of her injuries. Seeing the filth on the clothes Mrs. Tibbs stripped off of her, I’d say the girl has seen not only the surface of the river but the bottom of it, too. The worst of the bleeding should stop after another change of the dressings. But she needs to overcome that fever before you can safely put her back on the street, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  Edward wasn’t putting anyone on the street. At the same time, he didn’t want to disrupt any working arrangements at Urania Cottage. He paid the doctor and sent him on his way as Mrs. Tibbs came down the stairs.

  Concern was etched on her face. “As far as I can see, Captain, she is not taking anyone’s bed at the moment. I must tell you, though, that we never know when Mr. Dickens might be sending a girl to us.”

  “I understand, Mrs. Tibbs. I’ll speak with Mr. Dickens tomorrow. I only expect her to stay here until she’s past the fever.”

  The woman nodded. “One of the girls helped me clean her up and put her in a nightgown. The doctor gave her some medicine, and she’s now asleep. Still, would you like to see her before you go? I don’t think you’d recognize her.”

  There was no need for him to look in on her. He could make whatever arrangements were necessary for her care and their paths need never cross again.

  “I believe I will look in on her before I go,” he said, surprising himself.

  Edward followed the matron upstairs. Two young women were peering into Sophy’s room, and they disappeared inside another bedroom as he climbed to the landing.

  “I’d like to leave her some money, in case she’s better and wishes to leave tomorrow or the day after.”

  “The girls living here have all sworn to give up their old ways and be honest young women,” Mrs. Tibbs told him, holding up the candle and looking into his face. “As you know, Mr. Dickens has no patience for anyone who strays from the decent, hardworking path once she’s starte
d on the road to redemption.”

  The two of them stood in the doorway of the darkened space. He could see the room was sparsely furnished. Three cots had been arranged side by side. The bed with Sophy on it was the only one occupied. Edward took two five-pound notes from his pocket and held them out to the matron, whose eyebrows shot up in surprise at the sum.

  “You will give this to her for me.”

  He knew the money was enough for food and rooms suitable for someone of the girl’s station for a month or more.

  Mrs. Tibbs took the money and walked in. Edward watched her tuck the notes under Sophy’s pillow. She held the candle over the sleeping patient’s face. “She is laboring to breathe, sir.”

  “The doctor believes she’ll recover.”

  There wasn’t much that Edward could see from the doorway. Curiosity made him enter the room and move to Sophy’s bedside.

  “The important thing is that she—” He stopped and stared, his thoughts shattered.

  High cheekbones, smooth skin, straight nose, generous lips. Even with her eyes closed and with the bruises and the dressings on her head, the young woman was striking. He didn’t know that he’d ever seen a face so beautiful.

  “None of us expected to find such features under all that dirt,” Mrs. Tibbs commented, understanding his reaction. She moved the candle from Sophy’s face down to where her fingers peeked from under the blanket. “And the girls helping me change her out of those men’s clothes noticed that there’s not a single callous on these hands of hers. She hasn’t been surviving on the streets doing hard labor.”

  The note in the woman’s voice was unmistakable. The matron believed Sophy was a high-priced prostitute, and Edward had no reason to dispute her assumption. The thought of his niece Amelia, though, brought with it awareness. He straightened up to his full height and glared down at the woman.

  “We don’t know the circumstances, Mrs. Tibbs, which have brought her here. And until she can speak on her own behalf, I suggest that it may be imprudent to make any conjecture. Don’t you agree?”

  “Of course. Of course, you are correct, Captain.”

  Edward had to get out of this room, out of this house. All of a sudden, too much of what lay before him was a sordid reminder of everything that could have befallen his niece.

  “See to it that she gets what she needs, and I will speak to Mr. Dickens tomorrow,” he said, stalking out of the room.

  The matron followed him downstairs and stopped him at the door.

  “Oh, Captain, one more word, if you please.”

  Edward turned and looked at the woman.

  “I was going to send word to you through Mr. Dickens, but since you’re here.” Mrs. Tibbs paused. “I don’t mean to give you false hope, but one of our girls was talking only yesterday to a relative of hers, a girl just out of the workhouse. Don’t know if she’s trustworthy at all, to be blunt, but this other one would like to meet with you. Seems she believes she’s seen someone resembling your niece.”

  “Of course, I’ll meet with her.”

  “I should warn you Captain. These girls have nary a penny and will say anything if they think there is a reward to be had.”

  Every false trail he’d been following for the past two months had started this way. Always someone who knew someone else. Always for the right amount of money. Always someone who might look like Amelia.

  No matter how far-fetched a story sounded, though, Edward had no option but pursue the trail to its end. He took out a card and handed it to the matron.

  “Have the woman stop at my residence, Mrs. Tibbs. I’ll see what information she has to offer.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Edward’s search for his niece had been futile, thus far. Every lead, no matter how hopeful, had taken him nowhere. He believed that Amelia had gone off with a midshipman, Henry Robinson, but Edward had found no proof that the two young people had left London, or that they had even boarded a ship out of the country. Such undertakings were expensive, and eloping to Gretna Green cost money, as well. But Edward found out that Henry’s pay for his last voyage had never even been collected. Even if Amelia had gained access to some money by selling some of her jewelry, none of the innkeepers on the roads north toward Scotland had seen any sign of the pair.

  And so Edward continued to search. They were not in London, as far as he could tell, and yet they did not appear to have left it, either. His friend Charles Dickens had his own thoughts on the matter, Edward knew, but the writer had so far been extremely judicious in sharing his opinion. He simply kept his contacts in London alert for any sign of the girl and her midshipman, and reported any news that he thought would be helpful to Edward.

  It was the novelist’s routine to walk for miles every day in the afternoon, and Edward found himself joining the man more and more often, as he had done today. As they started to cross the bridge, the Parliament Building--with its half-built clock tower--glowed in the late afternoon light on the far bank of the river. Beyond it, the smoke of a thousand cooking fires hung like a cloud over the roofs of the city.

  “About that woman I left at Urania Cottage,” he began.

  “I believe Mrs. Tibbs wrote that her name is Sophy?”

  “Yes,” Edward replied. “Following the accident, while she was drifting in and out of a conscious state, Sophy spoke in a different tongue. One that I could not identify.”

  Dickens looked up at him sharply. “That is curious, considering your travels, Captain. Miss Burdett-Coutts speaks of you as a person who is knowledgeable about every language known to man.”

  “Well, our mutual friend has been known to exaggerate from time to time. In any event, this language was not a dialect I could be certain of. Of course, she only uttered a few words of it. When she spoke English, however, her use of the language was perfect. Quite refined, I would go so far as to say.”

  “That is very curious, indeed,” Dickens mused.

  Edward made no mention of the woman’s beauty. Since leaving Urania Cottage last night, he hadn’t been able to erase the image of her face from his mind. He also could not forget the matron’s comment about Sophy’s smooth hands.

  “Do you have any suggestions as to where she could be moved if she does not recover her memory anytime soon?”

  “Where she could go depends on her ability to do work and on her state of mind. How did she come across to you last night?”

  “She seemed to be hallucinating and kept mentioning a friend that she’d been following on the streets. I saw no such person at the time of the accident.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Dickens said.

  “But I am most concerned about her memory,” Edward continued. “What if she cannot recall who she is or where she belongs?”

  The writer shook his head, glancing down over the railing of the bridge as they walked. His gaze was moving from one small river craft to the next.

  “If there’s even a hint of lunacy,” Dickens said finally, “it will be difficult to find a place for her.”

  “No. No. I don’t think this is an issue of insanity. Whatever she is suffering, it seems to have come from the blow to the head—something that she should be able to recover from.”

  Edward chided himself for giving any reference of madness. The care for insane paupers was a huge topic of discussion in London these days. Even this morning’s newspapers had been filled with complaints about the overcrowded conditions of Hanwell Asylum in West London, and those complaints had been matched by others regarding who was going to pay for another expansion of the hospital.

  “Well, my suggestion,” Dickens concluded, “is to leave her at the Cottage for at least a week or perhaps a fortnight. We can house her until she recovers fully from her physical injuries. So long as she makes no trouble, I’m perfectly happy to have the bed occupied rather than have it sit empty. I’ll let Miss Burdett-Coutts know of the arrangements.”

  Good enough, Edward thought.

  “But Captain,” Dickens added,
casting a side glance at him. “Please ask your driver to try to avoid running down any more young ladies. At least, in the middle of the night."

  *

  The murmuring voices droned from dawn to nightfall, rising and falling, but never growing distinct in Sophy’s head. She had no idea whether one day or a month of days had passed.

  After a while, she was more conscious. Her head still ached, but the pounding began to subside. She realized that she was lying in a clean but austerely furnished room. She began to recognize the young and older women who came and went, but she could not speak to them. With the passing time, however, she spent more hours awake than asleep, questioning her own memories of the river and of the girl who led her out of it. None of it made sense.

  Captain Seymour was the only real person she remembered from the night of her accident. The deep reassuring voice. The strong arms that had lifted her with no difficulty at all and carried her up here. The dark eyes that she’d glimpsed for a moment before he placed her in this very bed. The clean, masculine smell of the sea when she had buried herself in his heavy cloak. He was a man impossible to forget. He had definitely made an impression on the others in the house, too.

  She awoke one morning with sunlight illuminating the far wall. She pushed herself upright, waited until the room stopped spinning, and then stood up. The light was warm on her face. Then the nausea gripped her and she sat on the bed again. In a few moments, the queasiness began to relent.

  “The Captain left you some money under your pillow the night you arrived,” Mrs. Tibbs said without greeting.

  Sophy turned and saw the matron standing in the doorway. One of the residents stood behind her, holding a tray with clean bandages.

  “How long have I been here?” she asked, her voice rough from lack of use.

  “Good to see you can talk,” Mrs. Tibbs said curtly, placing a basket that she was carrying on the bed next to Sophy’s. “Four days.”