The Lost Daughter

by Iris Cole

  Her tears came harder as Dora knelt at her side and wrapped her small, thin arms around Clary, hugging her tight. “Don’t cry, Clary. It’s all goin’ to be all right now. Ye saved him.”

  “I don’t think that’s why she’s cryin’, me girl,” Alwyn said. “It’s home, isn’t it? Ye’re wantin’ to go back.”

  Clary nodded helplessly.

  “Then I’ll help ye, as I promised. But I’ll see it done, this time, and I’ll not keep ye waiting,” Alwyn vowed. “It’s the least I can do, after what ye’ve done for me this night. When I can get up on me feet, I will find a way for ye to get home. I know people who know people, and I’ll call in any favours I’ve got left. I’ll be sorry to see ye go but let me do this for ye, to pay ye back for this gift in me arms.”

  Clary’s eyes widened. “But… how?”

  “Leave that to me. I won’t let ye down, this time.” Alwyn smiled and turned her gaze down to her new-born son. “And let me call this’un after ye, an’ all.”

  Clary frowned. “What do ye mean?”

  “Would ye mind if I called him Shea, to remember ye by when ye’ve gone off back to London?” Alwyn’s eyes sparkled with love; all of her anguish forgotten now she held her boy in her arms.

  Clary pressed a hand to her chest, trying to stop a second wave of sobs from coming. “Of course I don’t mind. I would be honoured, Alwyn.”

  “Then welcome to the world, Shea,” Alwyn cooed. “And don’t ye go scarin’ me like that again, littlun, else me heart’ll not be able to bear it.”

  Do you hear that, Dolly? There’s another in this world that’s taken your name, and thanks to him, I’ll hopefully be finding my way home to you.

  Her search for her family might have come to a dead-end, thanks to Captain Dunbar’s dismissal of her and her story, but she had come to realise that she had lost sight of what was truly important. In her pursuit of the woman who had given birth to her, Clary had almost forgotten that there was another woman who had chosen to give her love and motherly affection. Dolly. The woman who had held her as a baby, the way Alwyn was holding Shea.

  As soon as Clary returned to London, she vowed she would not forget again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  True to her word, a fortnight later, Alwyn stood on the banks of the Rochdale Canal, with Shea in her arms and Dora at her side, to wave goodbye to Clary. In truth, Clary had not expected this day to actually come. It was not that she did not believe in her friend, but she had learned, long ago, not to put much faith in the promises of others. And Alwyn had been making the same vow for so long.

  Of course, people did not always mean to break promises, but life had a habit of seeing them shattered regardless. And yet, this promise had been kept, the notion filling Clary with a sense of optimism.

  “Write to Dora when ye can, and she’ll read yer letters to me!” Alwyn shouted to the narrowboat that had begun to drift south, bearing a load of cargo to be delivered to the Capital.=

  Clary nodded from the stern. “I will!” It only seemed right that she continue the education in reading and writing that she had been giving to Dora during her time in Manchester.

  “And take care of yerself!” Alwyn called, the small family of three following the towpath so they might keep Clary in their sights a while longer.

  “You too!” Clary stood there, waving at Dora and Alwyn until they were no longer in view. Even then, she remained on the stern a while longer, looking out over the mossy banks, and the stark wasteland beyond it, where rabbits pricked up their ears and blackbirds dug in the dirt for a taste of the juiciest worms.

  Past that, she could see the looming behemoths of industry: the mills, the refineries, the factories that had revolutionised this small island nation into a world power.

  I won’t miss you… but I hope that Bill comes in on the tide, one of these days. And if he does, I hope he manages to find me. She touched the coins that rested against her chest: a habit that had become more of a compulsion of late.

  The more time she had been given to think about Bill and his kindness, the more she had realised there was so much more she wanted to know.

  And if there was some luck in these tokens—luck enough to bring a baby boy back from the brink of death—then maybe there was enough left to bring Bill back to her, too.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  After seemingly endless weeks, cooped up in the confines of the narrowboat, only able to stretch her legs when she was asked to open a lock or tow the boat away from the bank, Clary finally caught her first glimpse of London.

  She had clambered up on top of the vessel to breathe some fresh air, worrying that her lungs might be filling with the acrid smoke of the wood-burner below, when she saw the familiar sight upon the near horizon.

  “Home,” she whispered. And she was looking upon it with clear eyes, for not a drop of gin had passed her lips since she had begun this voyage. It had not been easy to fight the compulsion, but the restored faith in her heart had given her the strength to overcome those urges. Now, she could not even imagine having a sip without retching at the taste.

  There had been other towns and cities along the voyage down the country, but there was nothing quite like seeing the place where one had been born and raised.

  Especially after being away for several months, not knowing if she would ever return.

  Indeed, the sight overwhelmed her with so much joy that she was able to forget that she stank, and her clothes were filthy, and her hair hung in lank, greasy strands that the canal water had not been able to rinse clean.

  It did not occur to her that she no longer looked like the pristine apprentice nurse she had once been, but rather more like one of the dirty ragamuffins of Seven Dials.

  “I’m going to find an inn where I can wash this grime away, and then I shall come to you, Dolly.” She grinned from ear to ear. “Even if the sentry doesn’t allow me entry, I’ll fight him with my bare hands until he relents.”

  One thing was for certain: she had come back to this city far stronger and more worldly-wise than she had left it. This city no longer had the means to trample her into the ground, for she had seen the horrors of destitution first-hand.

  She had lived it, she had breathed it, she had been in the centre of the fray, and she had survived.

  After that, she knew she could survive just about anything.

  As such, though her journey to Manchester had felt rather futile at the time, she realised it had not been fruitless after all. Without that misstep, she would not have learned how to bring a child into the world, or how to make a paste from butter, flour, and water to satiate the ravenous wails of a starving child, or how to heal festering sores without the suppuration spreading, or how to kill lice of any kind, and cure the rashes and boils of the poverty-stricken.

  If she had not been trapped in that northern city, she would not have discovered the inhuman power of women in labour, or witnessed the devastating effects of grief, or found a way to straighten broken limbs with discarded string and broken-off planks of wood.

  Nor would she have discovered what her tinctures, and salves, and oils, and home-brewed medicines could do to aid someone who was suffering a malaise. She might also have avoided the brief addiction to gin, but even that had taught her that there were ways to help a person sleep if they could not.

  I am a better woman for my time there.

  And her mill-calloused hands, and the memories she had made—the best and the very worst—would remain as a reminder of what she had endured, and what she could endure.

  “In case you were mistaken, I haven’t given up. I have one last opportunity, and I intend to seize it,” she told the sprawling city landscape, though her words were intended for one place only. The Foundling Hospital. They could try to keep their secrets from her, as they had done before, but she was no longer the quaking coward she had been some four months ago. She was no longer afraid of the Head Matron, nor anyone who thought they could turn her away. Now, she was a force t
o be reckoned with, and that reckoning would soon be at their door.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Bathed and dressed in a somewhat clean dress of brown wool, with her cloak flapping behind her like a pair of raven’s wings, Clary marched up to the gates of the Foundling Hospital. The sentry eyed her warily as she approached, though if he recognised her, he did not show it upon his face.

  “I’m here to speak with Dolly O’Shea,” Clary announced.

  The sentry frowned. “And who are you?”

  “Clary O’Shea—her daughter.”

  His frown deepened. “There isn’t anyone in here with a daughter, I can promise you that.”

  “Well, Dolly does, and it’s me.” Clary’s voice hardened. “So, if you would kindly let me through, we won’t have to continue with this rigmarole.

  If you don’t believe me, you can inform her of my presence yourself, and I will wait for an apology when you are proven wrong.”

  The sentry looked startled. “Miss, I can’t just let you in. That isn’t how things are done.”

  “I’m well aware of how things are done here,” Clary shot back, coming right up to the barred window of the sentry station. “The children in this hospital were once my wards, and I understand the need to preserve their safety. But I am not here to cause trouble. I only wish to see my mother, Dolly.”

  That was not entirely true, but he did not need to know that.

  The sentry fidgeted uncomfortably, visibly unsure of how to deal with such a commanding young woman.

  It appeared Clary really had changed, for he would have laughed her away from the gates if she had attempted this four months prior.

  Now, he looked like he wanted to let her through for the sake of getting her away from him.

  “I won’t be long, if that’s your concern?” she said coldly.

  After several agonising minutes, the sentry got up from his stool and let himself out the back door.

  He disappeared from view for a moment, but Clary could hear the tantalising jangle of keys closely followed by the scrape of one of those keys in the lock of the entrance door. She was waiting for him as the door swung wide, making him jump in fright.

  “If you’re not back at these gates in half an hour, at the very most, I’ll have to inform the Head Matron,” the sentry told her, as he stepped aside to let her through.

  Clary flashed him a smile. “You tell her, and you make sure to give my name.”

  The sentry cast her a confused expression as she walked on, heading up the same long driveway that she had been forced down by the Head Matron’s hand.

  If that vile woman had only allowed Clary to say farewell, or had permitted her to return to see Dolly whenever she liked, then perhaps it would not have come to this. But now, Clary was more than ready to face the Head Matron if she had to.

  Taking a breath, Clary stepped up into the familiar building and paused for a moment in the entrance hall. It smelled of varnish and vinegar and lye soap. No, that was not quite right: it smelled like home.

  She drank in a breath of that unique scent, before hurrying across to the left-hand corridor, that branched away from the entry.

  Please, Lord, give me the time I need to find the documents, with enough time left to see my beloved Dolly before I have to leave. She sent the quick prayer up to the heavens as she slowed to a casual walk, fearing that she might alert suspicion if she moved too quickly.

  With her heart thundering in her chest, she carried on through a network of corridors, discreetly looking through the interior windows she passed to catch a glimpse of the children at their schooling. It warmed and saddened her heart in equal measure to see them invested in their education, and to see clean, rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed faces instead of the filthy, gaunt-cheeked, hollow-eyed faces of children less fortunate.

  Every child deserves this chance. Every child deserves to be fed, and loved, and educated, and made to feel safe. I hope you all know, one day, just how lucky you are.

  Continuing on, and slipping down a narrow hallway on the right, Clary found the room she had come here for: a place prohibited to anyone other than the governors and the Head Matron.

  Here, she knew she would find the documents that her mother had given in to those self-same governors, when she had petitioned for Clary’s position. Of course, she knew she could have asked for them, but as the Head Matron would never have agreed, Clary had been left with no choice but to take what was rightfully hers.

  She reached the door and tested the handle. To her surprise, it gave without any resistance from a lock, and swung wide to reveal an immense library of bookshelves. However, instead of Shakespeare and Chaucer, these shelves held large, leatherbound ledgers, containing the details of every child who had ever been brought into this place.

  Closing the door behind her, she began to scour the shelves. Fortunately, they were not organised alphabetically, but by date of arrival. If they had been arranged according to the alphabet, Clary knew her search would have been over before it had begun, for she still did not know the initial of her surname. Did it begin with a “C” like her father’s, or did it begin with another letter, given to her by her mother?

  It took her ten minutes to find the year she needed.

  “There you are,” she murmured excitedly, as she took the book down and sat cross-legged on the floor with it in her lap.

  Taking a deep breath, she began to flick through the pages until she came to December. Dolly had always told her that she had been brought here in the winter, just before the new year began, so at least she had some sense of where to look to find her name.

  Using her finger as a guide, she drew the tip down the slightly yellowed paper. After flipping through a few more pages, her heart jolted in her chest, all the air rushing from her lungs in a pained gasp. Two names sat at the top of the page in black, elegant cursive. Indeed, she might have continued past it, if she had not noticed the initials of the father.

  “F.C.” She swallowed. “Frederick Cross. His name is Frederick Cross.” Her eyes took in the name beside the label of “mother” and her heart jolted again. “Rebecca Tennyson. Your name is Rebecca Tennyson, and you are… my mother.”

  She had to pause for a moment to catch her breath, suddenly overwhelmed. How could two names on a page feel like someone had punched her in the gut?

  Her eyes continued down the page, and a small, sad whimper escaped her throat as she came across the third and final name.

  The one nobody had given her when she arrived here. The one she thought nobody at all had given her. Yet, there it was, written in ink upon the paper, as clear as day: Cassandra Tennyson.

  “I had a name.” Clary choked on a sob. “You gave me a name. I must’ve meant something to you if you named me, so… why didn’t you come back? Ma, Pa, why didn’t you come back?” Her tears splashed onto the paper, prompting her to turn her face away so she would not disturb the ink and wash away the story of her existence with her liquid heartbreak.

  A few moments later, she managed to gather herself enough to keep reading. Within those pages, she found not only the story of her own beginnings, but her mother’s story, too.

  “You were my age when you gave birth to me, and I was born on the fourteenth of December.” Clary paused, for she had always thought of her birthday as the twenty-ninth, when she had been brought here. “You were an apprentice schoolmistress. Are you still?”

  For some reason, the notion left a bitter taste in Clary’s mouth. It seemed all too cruel that her mother should be taking care of other children, and educating them, whilst her own child thought herself abandoned.

  Shaking off the sudden pulse of anger, she resumed her reading.

  “And you, Frederick Cross—you were a sailor. A merchant sailor. Twenty years of age when you fathered me.” She frowned at his last known location, which was detailed as aboard a ship called the “Silver Dawn.” “So… does that mean you left my mother? You don’t have the same surname, so you can’t have bee
n married.”

  Some of the truths unravelled as she read on. She discovered that her father’s ship had never disembarked at the London Docks, and he had been presumed absent. Indefinitely. It also said that her parents had met one another at those very same docks, whilst her father was unloading cargo and her mother was purchasing fish. It further detailed that her father did not appear to be a married man when they had met, and that her parents had been engaged before he became absent.

  Did something happen to you, Father? Is that why you never married? Were you lost at sea? A thousand questions rattled through her mind as she continued to devour the notes on her life, though she was pleased to find that there had been no force when her parents coupled. It had been a consensual act, at least according to the governors’ transcription.

  A fresh gasp escaped her throat. “He didn’t know my mother was pregnant.” She read the next sentence and her heart cracked. “No-one knew she was pregnant. That means no-one knew I existed. Is that why no-one claimed me?” If something had happened to her mother and father, then it stood to reason that she would have been left here at the hospital. For how could anyone have come for her if they did not know she was in the world?

  Just then, she heard the door to the documents room open. She froze on the ground, terrified that the slightest flutter of paper might alert the intruder to her presence. And yet, she knew she could not leave this room without the documents, even if it meant tearing the pages from the ledger.

  Footsteps approached, scuffing on the parquet floor, coming right for her.

  Chapter Twenty

  Clary’s heart threatened to explode from her chest as the footsteps drew nearer. Her gaze darted around, searching for an escape. Even if she managed to get the book out into the hallway, took the pages pertaining to her, and left the rest of the book for someone to find, she would undoubtedly become a suspect. But she did not have the heart to take the entire book, and potentially steal hope away from someone else who did not know where they had come from.