The Lost Daughter

by Iris Cole

  Mary thought for a moment. “Do you know Saint Pancras?”

  Clary nodded. “Reasonably well.”

  “Aye, well go back that way, and ask for Hampstead Road. Go up a ways, and you’ll find the Saint Pancras Female Orphanage. Seems like a place for you.” Mary smiled, revealing gapped and broken teeth. “I were raised there myself, but they couldn’t tame a wildling like me.”

  Clary felt a wave of relief wash over her, for if she could gain employment there, she would at least be close to Dolly. “You’ve been very kind, Mary.”

  She took a penny from her apron pocket and folded it into the prostitute’s dirty, grazed hand, wondering how this woman had received those injuries. “I won’t forget this.”

  “You’re an odd duck, aren’t you?” Mary laughed. “Anyway, good fortune to you. Don’t let me see you in these parts again, eh? Especially not after dark. Nice girl like you… Well, you’ll not be nice for long.” A sorrow tinged the prostitute’s voice, though she quickly covered it with another laughing bark.

  “Take care of yourself.” Clary wished her words had the power to actually help this woman, as she walked back the way she had come.

  Despite her long, copper-coloured hair, plaited down her back, her striking grey-green eyes, and her well-nourished figure, she had never been aware of her beauty. Surrounded by matrons and nurses, schoolmistresses and other girls her age, she had never had cause to consider her attractiveness, particularly beneath the male gaze.

  And yet, she could not ignore the stares being cast in her direction, followed by the twist of sly mouths. Her heart rattled in her chest as she hurried along, eager to put as much distance as possible between herself and these rat-black eyes.

  I don’t know London at all. I don’t know anything, she realised, her throat dry with anxiety. It had been easy to feel courageous at the hospital, knowing she was departing for a righteous cause, but the reality of being out here was very different.

  Perhaps it was insincere or hypocritical of her, considering how deeply she wanted to see a change in this world, but she was terrified of London. One had only to walk down a side-street, and find beauty transformed into ugliness, comfort transformed into unease.

  But there are good people, she reminded herself. Mary had not needed to stop and aid Clary, and yet she had, asking nothing in return. Clary supposed there was a beauty in that, too, once the layer of destitution had been peeled away.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  An hour, and several wrong turns later, Clary arrived outside the red brick façade of the Saint Pancras Female Orphanage.

  A few streets to the west lay the sweeping greenery of Regent’s Park, sitting in stark contrast to the beggars holding out cupped palms on the street corners, and dirt-streaked children in threadbare clothes, offering scraps for sale that they had clearly scrounged from the streets.

  Clary knew there were many workhouses in this area, for those with nowhere left to go. And if this did not go well, she wondered if she might be forced to seek sanctuary in one of those grim structures.

  Shuffling off her fears, Clary made sure to by a water-stained ribbon from one of the young, wide-eyed sellers, before crossing the road to the orphanage.

  After all, if she was granted employment, she could afford the loss of tuppence—one penny to Mary, and one to the duo of young girls, with unkempt hair and torn clothing. They certainly needed it more than she did, in her still-crisp dress and apron, with a warm, woollen cloak about her shoulders.

  Walking up to the front doors, she knocked and took a polite step backward, as she waited for an answer.

  A well-presented woman, perhaps in her twenties, answered a few moments later. Dressed much like Clary, a brief moment of confusion passed across the woman’s face, as though she could not quite figure out if she ought to know Clary. “I’m sorry, you’ve caught me at a rather hectic moment. Do you have an appointment with the matron?”

  “Actually, I have just come from the Foundling Hospital, in the hope of gaining an apprenticeship,” Clary replied, thinking fast. “I have a great deal of experience, and an available reference from one of the matrons there.” She did not know if she would be able to send word to Dolly, in order to gain said reference, but she would cross that proverbial bridge if she came to it.

  The woman nodded. “Ah, I see.” She glanced back into the shadow of the entrance hall. “If you would like to come inside, I will fetch the matron to come and speak with you.”

  “Thank you kindly.” Clary did not need to be asked twice. Brushing down the front of her apron, to try and dispel some of the dust and grime that had somehow settled there, she stepped into the pleasant hall, where she was swiftly guided toward a study. There, she settled into a stiff leather armchair of oxblood red and awaited the arrival of the matron.

  Some five minutes later, a much older woman, with pale grey hair lacquered beneath a starched white cap, entered the study and marched around to the opposite side of a wide, mahogany desk.

  She sank down onto her chair with a grateful sigh, as though she had been on her feet for hours, though it was not yet ten o’clock.

  “Good morning to you, Miss—?” The matron eyed Clary expectantly.

  “Miss Clary O’Shea.”

  The matron nodded. “That sounds Irish. I don’t hear an accent.”

  “I am actually an abandoned child myself, Matron.” Clary figured honesty would serve her best in a place like this. “I was delivered to the Foundling Hospital when I was a baby and know nothing of my real mother and father. My surname was given by my adoptive mother, who is a matron at the Foundling Hospital. She has taught me everything I know about tending to children.”

  The matron raised a curious eyebrow. “Not Dolly O’Shea?”

  “The very same.” Clary smiled brightly.

  “Ah, I know her well. A wonderful woman, though one would not like to be pitted against her in a war of words.” The matron chuckled good-naturedly, giving Clary hope that this was going well. “And she is your adoptive mother, you say?”

  Clary dipped her head. “She is, Matron. Though, in truth, she is the only mother I have ever known.”

  “So, if I may ask, why have you not gained employment at the hospital itself?” The matron steepled her fingers, though Clary sensed no suspicion or animosity.

  “My adoptive mother and I thought it best that I sought employment elsewhere, where my skills could be better served. There are so many excellent nurses and matrons at the hospital, you see.”

  The matron’s curious expression returned to her brow, and Clary hurried on explaining. “And I would rather make a difference with children who do not already know me as one of them,” Clary replied, her mind whirring. “I do hope that makes sense.”

  The matron smiled, apparently satisfied by the answer.

  “As it happens, we will have a vacancy in a fortnight. One of our nurses is to be wed, so she will be leaving. I had thought to advertise the position this very week, but it appears you have saved me the expense.”

  She sat back in her chair. “Would you care to take the position? If you have the respect and support of Dolly O’Shea, then you have mine.”

  “Certainly, I would!” Clary tried her best to toe the line between thrilled excitement and serene decorum.

  The matron chuckled. “You seem a clever, dignified sort of girl. Exactly what I should hope to find in a new nurse.” She paused. “The position is paid at ninepence a week, but you will have your room and board included. I hope that suits you?”

  Clary nodded effusively. “It does, Matron. It truly does.”

  “However, I cannot offer you that room and board until you begin in a fortnight. I trust you will be able to stay at the Foundling Hospital until then?” The matron looked truly remorseful, which only made it more difficult for Clary to lie.

  “Of course, Matron. I shall make myself useful there for a fortnight before I return here, to begin my duties.” She forced a smile onto her face though, i
nside, her stomach churned. She barely had twelvepence in her apron pocket, and she did not know how far that would stretch at a boarding house. Moreover, if she turned up here in a fortnight, filthy and bedraggled, perhaps this matron would reconsider the offer.

  The matron clapped her hands together. “Excellent, Miss O’Shea. Then, I shall see you again a fortnight hence. I look forward to it and, please, do pass on my well wishes to dear old Dolly, won’t you?”

  “I will, Matron.” Clary swallowed thickly, as she left her chair and allowed the matron to lead her back to the front door. “In a fortnight, yes?”

  “That’s right, Miss O’Shea.” The matron gave her a gentle pat on the shoulder. “You know, you may not be a blood relation, but you do look an awful lot like Dolly.”

  Clary chuckled tightly. “I shall tell her you said that. She will be delighted.”

  “As I will be, to have someone who has trained under such a woman upon my staff.” The matron gave her another gentle pat, and a congenial wave of farewell, as Clary walked back out onto the street. She waved in return and went on her way, making it seem as though she knew where she was going.

  But, in truth, she had no idea. Nor did she know how she was going to safely pass the next two weeks, in order to come back here in the same state she had arrived. It should have been a joyous moment of victory, but it rang hollow in Clary’s chest. Gaining employment had only been the first battle, whilst the war was still to come.

  I will prevail, she insisted. I must… or I shall lose everything.

  It seemed that London did not merely kill its most vulnerable inhabitants: it killed hope, too.

  Chapter Five

  Despite the chill in the air, Clary spent much of the afternoon wandering aimlessly around Regent’s Park. The greenery and the lack of pollution soothed her fractured nerves, though she knew she could not remain here indefinitely.

  Come evening, she would need to find a boarding house of reasonable repute, and manageable expense, or she would lose any chance of returning to the Saint Pancras Female Orphanage to begin her life anew. The matron, and that establishment, took in destitute orphans, not grown women who could not take care of themselves out here in the wide, frightening world.

  Burrowing deeper into her woollen cloak, she watched the fine ladies and gentlemen strolling around the sweeping pathways, which led through the winter-stark limbs of the trees.

  She imagined it was likely very beautiful in the summer, with the canal shimmering invitingly instead of patched together with thin fragments of ice, but it was not summer, and there was nothing inviting about the open expanse of land. She had contemplated finding a hidden corner to spend the night, but there would be no shelter from the elements, and she would likely freeze to death before morning came.

  Where do I go? Where can I stay, to keep myself clean and well-kept for a fortnight? It’s only fortnight… There must be somewhere I might call home, albeit temporarily.

  Remembering Mary’s instructions, Clary finally peeled away from Regent’s Park, abandoning the upper echelons of society who would never have to struggle for anything.

  She retraced her footsteps back to Seven Dials, though she was careful to skirt around it, this time. Pressing on, she reached the charming piazza of Covent Garden, filled with market stalls and costermongers calling out their wares, before cutting south toward the river.

  Reciting Mary’s directions to herself, she ambled along the Thames, her legs aching from so much walking and nothing to stave off her hunger, until she reached Blackfriars Bridge.

  It’ll be dark soon. Why did I waste so much time in the park?

  Cursing herself, she paused beside the bridge and peered down at the slow-moving current of the river. Splinters of debris bobbed along on the surface, though she knew there were far worse things being carried along beneath: the filth and detritus of the entire city, all running off into the one place, where the water strove diligently to take it to sea.

  There, she took out the copper coin around her neck and rubbed it between thumb and forefinger, feeling the metal warm to her touch. She knew she ought to carry on immediately, but exhaustion had set her knees to knocking, and her lungs felt as though they were ablaze in her chest.

  A few minutes respite, here by the river, and she would gain the strength she needed to continue to St. Paul’s, where she prayed she would find refuge for the night, if not for the next two weeks.

  She was so distracted by the rippling river, and a cluster of ducks who were eyeing the water for their evening meal, that she did not notice she was also being watched. Three men stood to the other side of the bridge, whispering furtively to each other.

  If she had only turned to her left for a fraction of a second, she might have had the sense to walk away, towards a more populated part of the bank.

  Instead, stuck in her trance, she remained unaware of the danger.

  All of a sudden, she felt a sharp tug on the back of her neck and heard the snap of the thin chain as the coin came away from her loose grip.

  At the same moment, her carpetbag was yanked from her arm, the force pulling down her sleeve. She whirled around in time to see the thieves break into a run, one of them carrying her beloved coin, the other bearing her only possessions away in his arms.

  “No!” she barked: her eyes widening in panic. “You! Come back here!”

  With what little strength she had left, she took off after the trio of thieves, feeling bereft of what had been taken from her. Even if she stumbled and fell, she would get up and keep running. The books and clothes she could live without, but her coin… They might as well have cut out her heart, for it was her only connection to those who had brought her into this world.

  “Stop right there!” she bellowed, pounding up a narrow street in pursuit of the wretches. She could hear their cruel laughter, taunting her as they veered left, and right, and left again, trying to lose her in the labyrinth of alleys.

  Please… Please give the coin back. You can keep the rest, but please… don’t take that coin from me.

  Barrelling around a tight corner, she screamed as she came face-to-face with the thieves; the three of them blocking her path.

  Indeed, she was running so fast that there was no time to stop herself, as she careened into the fellow in the centre: a thick-set, rotund man with a pock-marked face and an ale-reddened nose.

  Gnarled hands seized her as she staggered back from the impact of the man’s chest, pawing at her cloak to try and tear it away from her.

  “Unhand me!” She tried to fight them off, but she was no match for their combined strength. “I just want… the coin! Give me the coin and… you can have the rest!” Her words jolted from her throat as her thin arms batted away their eager clutches.

  “Aye, then we’ll take the rest first, and leave ye the coin as payment,” one of thieves said darkly: a younger man, with sly eyes and a fox-like grin.

  Clary sucked in a breath, ready to scream with all her might, when the same young man shoved her roughly against the alley wall and his acquaintance—a grim-faced fellow with greasy blond hair and dead blue eyes—clamped a calloused hand over her mouth, silencing her hopes.

  The ogre, who she had collided with, marched forward to begin ripping at her dress. He tore the very fabric apart at the seams, and threw the tattered remains to the slick, vile filth of the alley floor, until she stood there in nothing but her shift and drawers, shivering violently though not from the cold. Terror could elicit a far more intense shiver than anything the icy breeze could muster.

  “Please, no,” she begged through the slits in the man’s fingers, battling with those thin lengths of flesh to try and draw breath. “I just… want my coin. Let me go. I’m… no-one. I don’t… have anything.”

  The ogre snorted. “Aye, but ye do. There’s plenty here for a few lads to feast on.”

  Realising what they intended to do, she kicked out with her feeble legs, and tried to drive an elbow into the plump meat of the
ogre’s stomach, but he did not seem to feel it.

  Indeed, it only seemed to spur him on, as he grabbed for her shift and tried to wrest it from her thin frame. She held onto every scrap as though her life depended on it, twisting and writhing her body so they could not pin her in one place.

  “Ye’re only makin’ it harder for yerself!” the ogre spat. Grabbing her by the throat and squeezing hard, until her eyes bulged and her head felt as though it might explode, he did not stop until the black spots danced in her field of vision, and her lungs felt as though they were too full and entirely empty, all at once.

  With one violent, jarring motion, he threw her down to the ground.

  She knew she was falling, but she was helpless to stop it, as she hit the ground with a bone-shattering thud, and felt her cheek bounce off the cobbles, her skin immediately overwhelmed by the cold, viscous mulch of human waste and whatever else was decaying in this alleyway.

  Perhaps, her body would be next.

  Dizzied and disoriented, and tasting the metallic tang of blood in her mouth, mingling with the nauseating scent of something foul smeared close to her nostrils, her chest wracked with a painful choke.

  She tried to splutter away the congealing lump in her throat, her hands flailing limply, but the thieves had other ideas.

  She became aware of a sudden weight crushing her further down into the cobblestones as the ogre flattened her beneath him, his disgusting fingertips clawing at her drawers to try and tear them away: the last barricade between her innocence and his vile intent.

  To make matters worse, no matter how hard she tried, she found consciousness slipping away from her. How could she fight these men if she was not awake? Or maybe it would be some kind of mercy, so she would not have to endure what was to come.