The Lost Daughter

by Iris Cole

  Chapter Six

  “Step away from the lass, while you’ve still got breath in your lungs!” An unfamiliar voice cut through Clary’s hazy mind. She blinked, trying to see where the voice was coming from, but the darkness circled narrower around her eyes, leaving her with two blurred pinholes.

  But the weight suddenly lifted away from her, allowing her to draw a full breath.

  “This ain’t no business of yers, so why not walk on while ye’ve still got breath in yer lungs!” she heard the ogre reply angrily.

  “You think I’d just allow you to have your way with this girl? Nah, I don’t think so, boys. I’m not the kind to just walk on,” the unfamiliar voice said.

  All around her, she heard the scuffle and scrape of boots on stone and felt the spray of cold muck spitting upon her exposed flesh. She thought she heard the clash of metal, too, but she could not be sure. A couple of times, the boots came too close, kicking her in the side, but she did not have the energy to cry out in pain. It was all she could do to cling on to some semblance of consciousness.

  And then, as if by some miracle, she sensed the percussion of retreating footsteps, thudding against the cobbles and sending shuddering vibrations through her spine. But she did not dare to move, in case the thieves were not the ones retreating.

  What if they had overwhelmed her unexpected saviour, and were preparing to finish what they had begun?

  “Miss?” She heard the crack of bending knees and saw a shadow looming over her. “Miss, can you sit up?” Hands grasped her shoulders and pulled her up, where an arm slid around her back, keeping her from toppling back down to the alley floor. “They made a mess of you, didn’t they? I’m sorry I didn’t get to you sooner. I lost you some way back in them alleys, though at least I reached you before… Well, I’ll not talk of that, eh?”

  Gasping down short, shallow breaths, Clary willed her eyesight to return. “My… coin. Did… they take my… coin?”

  “This one?” She heard the jingle of metal and fumbled outward, until her fingertips found the thin chain, with the copper disc dangling at the end.

  Relief crashed over her as she folded the coin into her sweaty palm. “Thank goodness.”

  “I managed to get your bag back, too, though they fair trampled it into the ground,” her saviour said quietly. “Do you think you can stand? We should get out of here sharpish, in case they come back with friends. I know what their sort are like. They don’t like to lose a fight, especially not three-on-one.”

  Slowly, her vision began to clear, growing crisper with every full breath she could get into her chest. Her gaze lifted to the man who had rescued her.

  He was younger than he sounded, perhaps only a year or two older than Clary herself, with shaved dark hair and a grazing of stubble across his jaw.

  Gentle, brown eyes peered down at her, whilst beads of perspiration trickled down the man’s furrowed brow.

  “My… clothes.” Clary’s arms wrapped around herself, for though the ogre had not managed to tear away all of her shift, she still felt as though she were naked in front of this man.

  He nodded. “Your dress… right.” He delved into the carpetbag and took out a muddied, sodden garment. “We can clean it and dry it out later,” he promised, putting it over her head, and dressing her as though she were a child.

  In truth, she would rather not have had him touch her at all, considering what she had just been through, but she was in no state to dress herself.

  That done, he carefully scooped her into his arms, evidently not realising her discomfort. Throwing the carpetbag over one shoulder, he hurried away from the alley with his wounded cargo.

  Every quick step he took jostled Clary, reigniting the aches and jabs of pain that covered her entire body.

  But she was content to bite her tongue and stay quiet, for though she did not want to be so close to any man, she supposed this was much better than remaining in that alleyway, where the thieves might find her again.

  And she did not think she could walk on her own two feet just yet, not with the residual terror still rendering her limp and nauseous.

  “Who… are you?” she asked, swallowing a gasp of agony. She realised it was something she ought to know, if only so she might have a name to take to Scotland Yard, if he turned out to be just as cruel as those thieves.

  He glanced at her. “Bill Whitley. And you?”

  “Clary… O’Shea,” she replied, eyeing him warily. True, he had saved her, but that did not mean his intentions were good, either. It was becoming more obvious that she could not trust anyone but herself out here.

  He smiled. “Unusual name. Have you just arrived in London?”

  “I’ve lived here all my life,” she said defensively. Why did people keep asking her that? Did she truly look so out of place? She supposed she must do, if those thieves had thought her to be an easy target. To her mind, they would never have attempted such a thing if she had Mary’s demeanour: the look of a fighter, who did not take any nonsense from anyone.

  “But O’Shea sounds Irish to me.” Bill carried her out onto the open walkway beside the riverbank, away from the oppressive alleyways. Clary took in a deep breath, as though she had been underwater for the last twenty minutes.

  “My mother is Irish,” she said, patting his arm and kicked out her legs slightly. “Could you let me walk on my own?”

  “Ah, sure.” He set her on her feet, though he kept one hand on her arm, as though he feared she might fall over. In truth, it was not an unfounded fear, for Clary had never felt so unsteady on her own legs. “You can lean on me, if you like? We’ll not draw any funny stares down here.”

  She swallowed the blood and saliva in her mouth, her head throbbing. “I’d rather not.”

  “I thought you might say that,” he said quietly. “Look, you’ve naught to fear from me. I don’t mean you no harm. I saw them thieves stealing from you, and I saw you run after ‘em. I had a feeling things weren’t going to end well, so I followed you.”

  Clary staggered slightly, only to be caught by Bill’s strong hand. “I… don’t feel too well, Mr. Whitley.”

  “I don’t expect you do, after you took a knock like that.”

  He whipped a handkerchief out of his corduroy jacket and dabbed it to the side of her head. “Have you a place to go? I can walk you there. I’ve nothing else to do, and I want to make sure you’re safe. Just to make sure you’re safe, that’s all.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why?”

  “Why?” He chuckled wryly. “Because I’m not a monster, like them lads you came up against. I see a hurt lass; I want to help. It’s fair simple, and it’s how my ma raised me—to keep a watch over the vulnerable, and make sure no harm comes to ‘em. If you’d be an old woman or a wain, I’d have done the same thing.”

  She sighed, reluctantly leaning into him for support. “Then… no, I don’t have anywhere to go. I was on my way to find a boarding house when they…”

  She trailed off, unable to put into words what might have befallen her if Bill had not come along. Perhaps, that was enough reason to trust him, if only slightly.

  “I’ve a place. Nothing funny, nothing improper, just some lodgings where you can get your head down, take some rest, and heal a while, until you feel better.”

  He weaved her arm through his and began to walk, leading her across Blackfriars Bridge towards the other side of the river. “I’m leaving on the morning tide anyway, so you can stay there for as long as you like. The rents are paid until the end of the month, so treat it like it’s your own. Just don’t go out after dark.”

  She frowned up at him. “Why would you pay the rents if you’re leaving tomorrow?” Her suspicions prickled in her veins, wondering if he might be too good to be true.

  “My usual ship wasn’t leaving until the end of the month, but they got offered an unexpected run. I’d already paid, so I’ll lose a bit of coin, but I’ll gain a lot more,” he explained, his voice bright and somewhat soothing
.

  “So, you’re a sailor?” She winced as a fork of pain splintered between her temples.

  He nodded. “I am. What about you? Do you do anything?”

  “I’m a… nurse,” she replied, thinking of the orphanage. If she could stay at Bill’s lodgings for a fortnight and use that time to reduce the swelling of her cheek, which seemed to puffing up with every passing minute, encroaching upon the vision of her right eye, perhaps all would not be lost. She could even clean her dresses and make herself look presentable.

  He gave a low whistle. “Are you, indeed? Well, I’d say that’ll come in useful. I can stitch up a cut as well as any sailor, but I can’t promise it’d look pretty.” He paused. “What was that coin, anyway? Seemed important to you.”

  “I’d rather not discuss it,” she replied, not wanting to reveal too much to this stranger.

  He reached into the collar of his shirt and produced a chain. “I only ask because I’ve got one the same.” Sure enough, a coin dangled from the end. “So, I wondered if your pa or brother was a sailor or something. Most of us wear ‘em until we’re dead, or we give ‘em to our loved ones to keep ‘em safe.”

  Clary came to an abrupt halt, her eyes fixed on Bill’s coin. “Where did you get that?”

  “We make ‘em,” he explained. “We carve St. Brendan or St. Nicholas into ‘em to keep us safe on the water, being the patron saints of sailors and all. Some lads get ‘em properly pressed, but only if they’ve coin to burn. I noticed yours had both saints. I guess whoever gave you that wanted twice the security.”

  Clary’s head began to spin, though she was not entirely sure if the injury to her temple was to blame. “And sailors wear these? Do any other people wear them?”

  “There’d be no point.” He gave a casual shrug. “Not with those saints, anyway, though you could carve whoever you like into a coin.”

  All thoughts of the Saint Pancras Female Orphanage and the brutality of the recent attack faded into the background as her heart began to thud harder, whilst a creeping prickle of possibility made its way up the back of her neck. She did not believe in divine intervention or fate, but perhaps Bill had happened upon her to do more than just save her life.

  “Can you tell who this belongs to?” She pushed the coin into his hand.

  His brow furrowed as he looked at the copper disc, turning it over in his palm. “I can tell you his initials.”

  “What?” Clary stared at the keepsake she had observed a thousand times.

  He pointed to a tiny etching, hidden beside the right foot of St. Brendan. “Can you see the letters? F. C.”

  Clary shook her head in disbelief. “I’ve never seen that before. I’ve held this coin so many times, and I’ve never once noticed that.”

  “You have to know where to look, I suppose. All these coins have our initials on ‘em.” He handed the coin back. “Who’s “F.C.” then? Is that your pa?”

  She gulped, trembling with a rush of newly sparked hope. “I don’t know, but… I think it might be.”

  Chapter Seven

  Huddled by the fireplace in Bill’s Southwark lodgings, ignoring the holler of inebriates and prostitutes arguing on the street outside, the squeak of rats in the rafters, and the livid shrieks of the perching pigeons when one of those rats dared to come too close, Clary felt some of the chill in her bones thawing.

  She had transformed Bill’s one-room abode into a laundry, with her dresses and the expensive tomes drying on every available surface. The former had been dredged through a freezing-cold basin of water, and rubbed with a tiny sliver of soap, though even now she could see stubborn stains that would not deign to be removed.

  But none of that mattered now. The only thing on her mind was the secret code Bill had discovered on the coin, and the possibilities it might offer.

  “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Clary, but your pa might be dead,” Bill said, bringing over two bowls of thin soup that he had managed to get from the landlady. “Like I said, we don’t give our coins up often. They get given to a family if we’ve died at sea, or we might give them to a loved one as a promise we’ll return.”

  “Exactly!” Clary jabbed a finger at him. “You might give them to a loved one as a promise you’ll return. I was left at the Foundling Hospital—what better token could there be, to give me hope that someone out there meant to come back for me. Even if my pa is dead, he might have living family.”

  Bill sat cross-legged at Clary’s side. “Then why didn’t anyone fetch you back?”

  “Maybe they didn’t know about me,” she replied defensively, not wanting to contemplate the brutal truth: that no-one came for her because she was not wanted.

  Bill shrugged. “Maybe, but finding someone based on initials isn’t going to be easy. Even if you had a name, it’d take a long time. Sailors are wary, for a start—they might think you’re looking for the pal because he owes you something, so they’ll keep quiet.”

  “All my life, I had no hope of discovering who my family were.” Clary’s voice hardened. “I’m not going to give up on this because it’s going to be difficult.”

  She had eventually told him the truth of her origins, and how she had been delivered to the Foundling Hospital as a new-born, where Dolly had taken her under her wing.

  Bill mustered a sad smile. “I’m not telling you to give up, Clary. If I were in your position, I’d move heaven and Earth to find my family. But it pays to be realistic.” He put out his hand. “Give me that coin again. There’s something I’m curious about.”

  “What?” Reluctantly, she handed the copper disc back to Bill.

  “I’ll know if I find it.” He flipped the coin over and ran his finger down the smooth back. “You’ve rubbed this a lot, eh?”

  Clary nodded sheepishly. “I have. It comforts me.”

  “Did you notice any markings on the back? I can feel there were a few, but you’ve worn ‘em away with all that comforting,” he said, chuckling.

  She canted her head in thought. “I think so, but they were just dots, and lines, and asterisks. Like a pattern, I suppose.”

  “Let me see.” He raised the coin closer to the flickering flames, squinting his eyes. “That’s what I thought.”

  “What?” Clary urged: her muscles clenched with anxiety.

  Bill pointed to faint, smooth markings on the back of the coin. “I can’t tell what it used to say, as it’s before my time, but sailors used to mark the ships they sailed with. It’s a language only a seasoned sailor would know, so you’ll have to take it to the docks and ask if anyone there can read it.”

  Clary jumped up. “Will you join me?”

  “I didn’t mean now!” he replied, startled. “It’s getting late, and your face is still beaten up. You need to rest, lass, and make sure there’s no lasting damage. If you feel better in the morning, you can come to the docks with me, before I sail, and see if anyone can help you then.”

  Clary looked between Bill and the door, wondering if he would stop her if she tried to leave of her own accord. After what she had endured today, she knew she ought to feel more fear about venturing out by herself, in a city that she knew nothing of, despite living within it her entire life. Instead, it had the opposite effect.

  With the possibility of a family dangling in front of her like a carrot, she feared nothing but continuing with her life, not knowing where she had come from.

  And yet, her body seemed to agree with Bill. Her legs threatened to give way beneath her, and her concave stomach growled angrily, whilst her head suddenly felt dizzy with exhaustion and the blow she had received from the alley cobbles.

  If she set out now, there were no assurances she would even reach the docks without keeling over, and she did not like to think what might happen to her if she suddenly collapsed in the night-darkened street with no Bill to come to her aid.

  “Tomorrow morning, I will accompany you to the docks,” she insisted, as she settled back down on the ground and picked up the bowl of sou
p he had brought. Dipping a chunk of stale bread into the watery, flavourless broth, she began to eat, determined to muster all of her strength for the next day’s endeavours.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Clary jolted awake to gentle hands shaking her. In the dim glow of the firelight, the one-room lodgings had transformed into an ominous swell of shadows that she did not recognise.

  Even the two dresses and undergarments she had draped around the place looked like strange, misshapen people, ready to spring out of the darkness and attack her, as the thieves had done.

  “It’s time to wake up, Clary,” Bill’s soft voice did little to soothe her rampant nerves. A gasp escaped her throat as she saw his face looming over her and, digging her nails into the hard floor, she scrambled backwards, away from him.

  Sitting up, she panted down into her drawn-up knees, mopping the cold sweat from her brow. “I just… need a moment.”

  “Did I scare you?” Bill sounded horrified. “I didn’t know how else to wake you.”

  Clary squeezed her eyes shut. “You could have called out. I don’t want you touching me.”

  “Sorry, Clary.” Bill breathed a quiet, sad sigh. “I should’ve realised you’d be frightened after yesterday. If it makes you feel better… No, I don’t reckon much will make you feel better once you’ve been through something like that. But you’re safe here, and you’re safe with me; I promise.”

  After a few minutes of silence, Clary gathered her thoughts and tried to comb out her tangled nerves.

  She sensed the shadows in her mind receding a touch, although she had a feeling they would be back, but she needed to concentrate on the task ahead, and not the things from yesterday that she could not change.

  “I’ll be ready to leave shortly.” Picking herself up off the dusty ground, she walked to retrieve one of the dresses that had been drying overnight. An unsightly stain still marred the brown wool, but it almost seemed to blend into the murky shade. As for her undergarments and aprons—they were beyond salvation, though one shift had survived.

  Taking herself behind a wooden screen, she dressed quickly away from the warmth of the fire, watching her breaths puff out into the air like tendrils of smoke.