by Iris Cole
THE LOST DAUGHTER
Iris cole
©Copyright 2021 IRIS COLE
All Rights Reserved
License Notes
This Book is licensed for personal enjoyment only. It may not be resold. No part of this work may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author.
Disclaimer
This story is a work of fiction, any resemblance to people is purely coincidence. All places, names, events, businesses, etc. are used in a fictional manner. All characters are from the imagination of the author.
Table of Contents
The lost daughter
Disclaimer
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
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Prologue
London 1840
Thick fog rolled across the undulating tide of the Thames, the murky water licking the wharves and bumping against the bows of waiting ships, as if to nudge the vessels into setting sail sooner. In the inky distance, the first tendrils of sunlight breached the horizon, though angry rainclouds rolled in behind, threatening to sputter out that precious daylight.
Freddie Cross stood at the very edge of the wharf where his ship, the Fair Maiden, readied for departure. Sailors called to one another in gruff, sleepy voices, sporadically interrupted by the clang of winches and the strain of salt-warped wood, or the cry of danger as a weary man lost his footing on the rigging, only to save his skin by catching hold of a rope.
“Do you have to go?” said the woman silhouetted beside him. Two lonely figures, looking out toward distant shores.
Freddie breathed hot air into cupped hands, to chase away the wintry numbness in his fingertips. “I can’t stay here no more, Mrs. Tennyson,” he replied grimly, guilt churning in his belly. “We’ve spent a year lookin’ for the wain, and we’ve found nothin’. I wish I could keep searchin’, but I need to work. Me captain’s pity only goes so far, and he’s given me orders; I join this ship, or I’ll have to find another.”
Geraldine Tennyson gave an understanding nod. “I know, but I thought I’d ask… just in case you changed your mind.”
“I think we’ve to face the hard truth, Mrs. Tennyson.” Freddie sighed: his heart heavy. “There ain’t no wain anymore. Rebecca disappeared, gave birth, and came back half-dead before… she finally passed. You know, as well as I do, what can happen on this city’s streets. If she were that sick, chances are the wain were sick, too.”
Geraldine stifled a sob, clamping a hand across her mouth. “I have to believe there’s a piece of Rebecca out there, somewhere.”
“I wish I could believe that, too.” Freddie smoothed a hand through his mussed, red hair. “But I went to the orphanages, I went to Scotland Yard, I hounded the constables, I asked everyone I could think of, if they’d seen a wain, or one had been brought in—dead or alive. Truth is, so many wains get lost in this city. If mine were still alive, I wouldn’t even know what they looked like, or if I’ve a daughter or a son. I’ve looked at so many children, Mrs. Tennyson, all of ‘em without a name of their own. Maybe I already saw mine, and I just didn’t know it, but… it’s hopeless, and I can’t keep breakin’ my heart while my coffers get emptier and emptier.”
Geraldine drew out a threadbare handkerchief and brought it to her nose. “You think the child’s dead, don’t you?”
“Don’t make me break your heart, either.” Freddie shook his head, searching the dark water for a sign to make him stay and keep looking for the child. But, at that moment, the rainclouds swamped the rising sun, and it was all the bleak omen he needed, to understand that the child he had never met was already gone. It crushed him to think that something he had created might have met a tragic, awful demise in a gutter, or a workhouse, or cramped, filthy lodgings.
Worse still, that the child might be buried in some unmarked piece of land, or might even be lying somewhere beneath this very, nothing but fodder for the fish to pick at.
Why didn’t you say more, Rebecca? Why did you have to pass without a word? In the last year since Rebecca’s death, and the discovery that she had recently given birth, he had blamed himself. He knew how it might have appeared to Rebecca, for it was a common enough story: a man made promises he did not intend to keep in order to share a young woman’s bed for a night, only to abandon her straight afterward. But he was not like that. He had fully intended to return to her and make her his wife. Getting caught in a terrible storm had been the only thing to delay his intent, but he understood how desperate she must have been, when his ship did not come in, and there was no mention of him anywhere.
I should’ve married you before I left. I wanted to bring home some decent pay and show you I was worthy of bein’ your husband. It was me pride that stopped me from sayin’ them vows before I set sail. If he had just set his fears aside, he knew he might have a family to come home to; a wife and child, whom he would have adored above everything. Now, he had nothing.
Just then, the captain leaned over the bulwark, fingers to his lips, and whistled sharply. “Cross, are ye comin’ on this voyage or not? There are things to be done before we sail, and we need all hands on deck.”
Freddie swallowed thickly. “Aye, Captain. I’ll be up now.”
“Make sure ye do.” The captain disappeared, leaving Freddie and Geraldine to say their imminent farewell. Freddie did not want to leave the woman who might have been his mother-in-law, and grandmother to his unknown child, but he had no choice. He could not keep searching the labyrinth of London for a ghost, not if he wished to keep some semblance of his sanity.
Slowly, he turned to Geraldine, and took her hands in his. “I loved her, y’know.”
“I know,” Geraldine murmured.
“I’d have done everythin’ for her, and if she were here now, I’d marry her without pause.” He gulped, blinking back tears. “I know you say you don’t hate me, but I deserve your blame and your loathin’ for leavin’ her without weddin’ her. Take comfort in hatin’ me, if it helps you. To the end of me days, I’ll be hatin’ meself for what I did. I should never have kept her waitin’.”
Geraldine gave his hands a gentle squeeze. “It’s not your fault. It’s no-one’s fault. You were coming home to her, but she must’ve got scared that you weren’t when she took off like that. It’s an awful misunderstanding, that’s all.” She sniffed sadly. “You’ve got to get back to your life, and our family have to get back to ours.”
“Can I call on you when I get back?” After spending a year underneath the Tennyson’s roof, they had become like a surrogate family to him, despite the circumstances. He knew he did not deserve a place at their table, but he wanted to at least make sure that Geraldine was all right when he returned.
She shook her head. “We won’t be there, love. My husband found work, just out of the city, so we’re all going to follow him there. It isn’t the same without Rebecca, and I think we need to start afr
esh, somewhere else, if we’re to have a hope of moving forward with our lives.”
Freddie wanted to ask if he could visit them in their new destination, but the words would not come off his stifled tongue. Nor did he want to tear open old wounds by being in their company, and reminding the Tennysons of what they had lost. It was better this way.
It was better that they all forgot one another. Though, for his part, he knew he would never forget Rebecca, or the child they had lost, for as long as he still drew breath on this Earth.
“Goodbye, then,” he said, kissing Geraldine’s hand.
She nodded. “Take care of yourself out there.”
“Aye, I will.” Reluctantly, he let go of Geraldine’s hands and turned away, walking in the direction of the gangplank.
Marching up to the ship’s deck, he stuck close to the bulwark, watching Geraldine as she faced out towards the water. He followed her gaze and saw the slightest crack of sunlight piercing the grim horizon. He did not know what that glowing vein meant, but it was too late for him to change his mind and resume his hopeless search.
Instead, he fixed his attention upon that sliver of hope, and sent up a prayer: If you’re out there, child of mine, just know you were loved, and you were wanted, and I’d have given you and your ma the world if I’d been able. But, most of all, know that I’m sorry. If you’re alive, somewhere, I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for givin’ up. I didn’t know what else to do. And maybe, if luck’s on both our sides, our paths will cross one day, and I’ll know you, and you’ll know me.
It did not matter that he knew it was impossible, or that he had already resigned himself to the fact that his child was dead, for there was a magic in the open sea. Out there, he had seen miracles happen. He had seen men go overboard, only to reappear, alive but exhausted, days later. And whilst his child had not been lost at sea, maybe they would reappear one day, and he would be able to drag them to the safe shores of his waiting arms.
If not in this life, then maybe the next.
Chapter One
London 1856
The panicked, shrill wails of colicky babies jangled through the infant ward of the Foundling Hospital, bringing harried matrons and red-cheeked nurses to the cots of those worst affected. After outbreaks of “fen fever” affecting children in the East of England, and malaria finding its way to the island nation’s shores, every cough, fever, trickling nose, stomach complaint, or unusual cry had to be taken seriously. After all, London was a known breeding ground of disease, with families piled one atop the other in cramped housing, beggars and vagrants hocking and spitting on every street corner, raw sewage filtering into the water pumps, men seeking solace in ladies of the night, exchanging fluids of all kinds, and a perpetual film of filth upon every path and road.
No-one could risk a pandemic hitting the vulnerable children who called this hospital home. It had been created as a refuge for children, brought into this world by respectable young ladies who had suffered but one indiscretion. If it became ravaged by disease and illness, the hospital itself would lose its credibility as a centre of education, rehabilitation, care, and wellbeing; the last resort for ladies of good standing, made with-child by unfortunate circumstances or accident. And the gentlemen in charge—the council who decided the fate of all prospective children, and the mothers, who came to their gates—could not stand to have their own reputations soiled by outside influence.
“Clary!” Matron O’Shea, otherwise known as Dolly, called to the young woman who stood at the far corner of the infant ward, mixing a brew of herbs to soothe the colic.
Clary turned. “I’m almost done, Matron!”
At seven-and-ten, Clary had spent her entire life beneath the sheltering roof of the Foundling Hospital. Most young ladies in her situation were making preparations to leave, once they came of age, but not her. She hoped to stay here as a nurse herself, working alongside Dolly—the woman who had become her surrogate mother, all these years. The woman who had named her when her given name had been lost. The woman who had made this hospital a true home.
“Well, hurry it up, lass!” Dolly urged. “Can ye not here these screamin’ wains?”
Clary smiled. “What screaming?”
Dolly rolled her eyes. “Ye’ll be the death of me, Clary me girl.”
Picking up the beaker of herbal tonic, she blew on the steaming surface as she hurried back to the cot where Dolly stood. It was a recipe she had learned from the Matron herself, though she had made some additions over the last year, after spending stolen evenings underneath her bed with only a candle to see by, poring over old apothecary books that Dolly had pilfered for her. An entry about dill oil had caught her attention. After trialling it, mixed with a small amount of sugar, boiled water, and the tiniest amount of baking soda, it seemed to have done wonders in soothing the worst affected babies.
“Careful, it’s still hot,” Clary warned, handing over the brew.
Dolly set the beaker down on a side-table and scooped up half a teaspoon. “Will ye hold the wain for me, lass?”
Clary did not need to be asked twice. Dipping her hands into the cot, she picked up the purple-cheeked little girl who had been brought in a fortnight prior.
The tiny child’s fists were balled up in fury, her eyes squeezed shut, that frail cry shivering out of her pursed lips. Clary manoeuvred the baby into the crook of her arm, rocking her gently as she uttered soothing words.
“Hey, what’s all the racket about?” she whispered. “There’s no need for that. I know you’re uncomfortable, but it’s just a little stomach-ache. You’ll feel better soon, little Rose.
Dolly chuckled. “I swear ye fall in love with all of ‘em.”
“They’re so small and sweet. How could I not?” Clary gently pressed the little girl’s cheeks, opening up the baby’s mouth for the herbal tonic.
Dolly blew on the spoon and dabbed her little finger into the mixture, to make sure it was cool, before she tipped the measure into Rose’s mouth. The baby sounded like she might be choking for a moment, before she swallowed the tonic down and resumed her pained wail.
“Oh, you poor thing. Did it taste horrid?” Clary bounced the child tenderly, smoothing back the wispy, fair hairs atop Rose’s head. “All medicine tastes bad, but you’ll be grateful for it. I promise.”
Dolly watched her charge with fond eyes. “Ye’ll exhaust yerself if ye love ‘em all as much as ye do.” She laughed softly. “I’m pickier about the wains I take under me wing.”
“Don’t lie, Dolly.” Clary lifted her gaze. “I know you adore them all equally. You can’t fool me.”
Dolly gave her a light smack on the arm. “Ah, the gall of ye! I try to give ye a compliment and ye throw it back in me face.” Her playful tone let Clary know she meant nothing by it. After seventeen years with one another, they both knew they had a special relationship, as rare and wondrous as that of a real mother and daughter.
“I’ll always love you, most of all,” Clary replied, smiling. “And when you’re old and grey, it’ll be me rocking you to sleep like this, and spooning medicine into your mouth whilst you try and smack me away with your bunched-up fists.”
Dolly cackled. “I’ve got a better punch than these littluns, you mark me words.” She reached to take Rose out of Clary’s arms. “Now, ye best go and have yerself some lunch before there’s nothin’ left. I didn’t see ye eat breakfast, and ye were somewhere else in yer mind last night at dinner, so I don’t want to see ye back here ‘til ye’ve had yer fill.”
“But what about the other—” Clary tried to protest, knowing there was so much more to be done for the babies, but Dolly cut her off.
“I’ll not tell ye again. Get out of here, else I’ll chase ye out and I won’t let ye come back!”
Reluctantly, Clary padded away through the high-ceilinged ward, her shoes scuffing on the varnished wooden floor. Dolly never stood for any nonsense, and she liked to make sure all of the children under her care were well
fed and rested, even when they were far into womanhood. But her bark was much worse than her bite, and tough as she could be, Clary knew it came from a place of affection. Especially where she was concerned.
I don’t know where I’d be without you, Dolly.
Taking her time, she walked through the wide hallways of the hospital, heading for the refectory where she would hopefully be able to scrounge something hearty, in case she was too busy to partake in dinner.
Through the inside windows on her left, which revealed the wards and schoolrooms and sleeping quarters of everyone who had gained sanctuary here.
She observed the children as they hunched over desks, trying to figure out mathematical equations or how to form their letters correctly. A quick glance to the right showed her the sprawling lawns of the Foundling Hospital, with high walls in the distance to keep out those deemed “unworthy” of a future. Children played games all across the grass, their small frames wrapped up in scarves, hats, mittens, and woollen cloaks, to keep out the biting autumn chill. They smiled regardless, their youthful exuberance caring little for the cold.
These are the fortunate ones…
Her heart felt heavy as she looked toward those distant walls, knowing there were so many abandoned little souls, orphaned or discarded, in the cutthroat streets of London. By the time winter came, and the first snow fell, there would be countless painfully small, frozen bodies littering the roads and doorways, their short life snuffed out long before their time. And through no fault of their own, for how could they be to blame for their situation? They had not asked to be born, but they deserved love, and warmth, and safety. When that was not given, how could they be anything but doomed?
“I wish I could help you all,” Clary whispered, pausing to press her palm to the cold glass.
It broke her time and again, to think of all those who suffered in this city, and beyond it. Children were innocent, children were there to be taken care of, yet a group of men thought they had the right to decide who lived and who died.