by Iris Cole
Maybe I can explain my way out of it. Maybe I can tell them that this information belongs to me, and there’s nothing they can do to stop me. And yet, she knew that the Head Matron and the governors would not see it that way. They would see it as theft, undertaken by someone had been cast out of this hospital for inadvertently causing the death of a child.
A figure appeared at the end of the aisle, and Clary sucked in a deep breath.
“Clary? Is that ye?” Dolly emerged from the gloom, clasping a hand to her chest. She looked much, much older than the last time Clary had seen her, like she had aged ten years in the span of four months.
Her skin had taken on a sallow appearance, and her eyes were hooded, with dark crescents beneath, while her usually robust stature had become alarmingly thin.
Clary exhaled sharply. “Dolly! You gave me the fright of my life! I thought the Head Matron was coming to boot me out.”
“The porter came in to say that he’d let a lass in to see me. Poor dolt didn’t recognise me, ‘cause I had a mask around me mouth. I told him I’d pass the message on to the Head Matron, but I knew it were ye, lass. Somethin’ in me knew. And I had a feelin’ I knew where ye’d be comin’, too.” The older woman hurried up the aisle as Clary got to her feet, the two of them wrapping their arms around each other in a fond, desperate reunion.
Clary buried her chin into Dolly’s shoulder. “You’re skin and bone, Dolly.”
“Aye… I’ve not long recovered from the sickness that took hold of them other nurses. Some fever, though I couldn’t tell ye which. I’ve not eaten or slept much since ye left, truth be told. Even if I hadn’t got sick, I’d have been sick in me heart.” Clary heard the tremor in Dolly’s voice. “I should never have let ye take the rap for me mistake, lass. I’ve regretted it every day.”
Clary smiled sadly. “You’ve got nothing to regret, Dolly. Rose likely would’ve died no matter what we did. It’s tragic, and it’s terrible, but no-one is to blame,” she assured. “And if I had the choice again, I would still have taken the responsibility in order to preserve your employment. I couldn’t live with myself if I had to watch you get marched out of those doors by that wretched harpy, after giving thirty years of your life to this place.”
Rose’s passing had weighed heavily upon Clary’s mind, haunting her often since the day she had been kicked out of this hospital.
If she had not spent those three months in Manchester, she might have continued to blame herself, thinking of everything she could have done differently that might have saved the little girl. But her time in the slums had taught her that, sometimes, a child died no matter what treatment they received.
And when it came to soaring fevers in new-born babies, the chances of survival were painfully slim.
“I’ve missed ye. I’ve missed ye so very much,” Dolly murmured.
Clary hugged her surrogate mother tighter. “I have missed you more.”
“Speakin’ of skin and bone, ye don’t look like ye’ve been eatin’ proper.” Dolly pulled away slightly, so she could observe Clary closer. “Where have ye been, lass? I got word from the matron at the Saint Pancras Orphanage that ye were supposed to start workin’ there, but ye’d not shown up. So, I tried to find word of ye elsewhere, but it was like ye’d disappeared.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “I tell ye, I feared the worst. I’d been grievin’ ye, lass. And then I see ye here, and… well, I wasn’t sure if ye were a figment of me imagination at first.”
Clary gestured down to the open book. “I’ve been looking for my mother and father, and I finally found them.” She sighed, knowing there was a still a lengthy road ahead. “It has taken me to places I never expected.”
Keeping hold of Dolly’s hands, she told her surrogate mother everything that had happened since she had departed the hospital.
She explained about the terrifying experience in the alleyway, and how Bill had appeared to save her. She told Dolly about dressing as a man and stowing away on a ship to Manchester, where she had eventually found herself stuck, with no money to leave.
She described the slums, and the mill, and the women whom she had shared a room with, and the destitute children whom she had helped. Finally, she explained about her encounter with Captain Dunbar, and how that had led to the arrival of the baby boy, Shea, and how his survival had led to her return to London, thanks to Alwyn’s connections.
“I knew there was only one other place I could go, to have a hope of finding more information about my family,” she concluded. “So, I came back. But I wasn’t just here to look through the ledgers. I was going to come and see you before I left, I promise.”
Dolly’s expression transformed into one of deep sorrow. “I can’t believe ye went through all that. It isn’t right that the governors keep all this hidden away. There must be countless lads and lasses like ye, who deserve to be shown these ledgers, so they can find out who they are.”
“I have what I need now, and that’s all I can ask for,” Clary replied encouragingly.
“Although, once I’ve found my mother and father, I’ll be raising a petition to the government, or anyone who’ll listen, to have these documents given to the children here when they come of age.”
Dolly mustered a smile. “Ye’re tougher than ye were before ye left. I don’t know whether to be glad, or whether to be sorrowful. Ye shouldn’t have had to see all that, out in the world.”
“I’m pleased I did,” Clary insisted. “It has taught me so much about life that I knew nothing about. I was sheltered here, and whilst that is nice in its own way, it isn’t reality.”
Dolly stroked Clary’s cheek. “Ye look a proper woman.”
“I am.” Clary smiled.
“So, what will ye do now?” Dolly eyed the book on the floor.
Clary took a deep breath. “I’m going to find Frederick Cross and Rebecca Tennyson, and then I’m going to let the past rest.” Her voice hitched. “My mother named me. I had a name, and I didn’t know it until today.”
“Ye did?” Dolly’s eyes widened.
Clary nodded. “My mother named me “Cassandra.” I hope that means she’ll be pleased to see me, when I find her.”
Lines of worry creased Dolly’s features. “Lass, I know yer heart’s set on it, but what if there was a reason she didn’t come back that won’t satisfy yer? Won’t you heart be broken again?”
Clary stroked a tear from Dolly’s face. “If she bothered to name me, maybe she misses me.” She paused. “But it won’t change who I am, Dolly. I’m Clary O’Shea, and I always have been, and no matter what I find, I’ll still think of you as my mother.”
Dolly folded Clary into her arms once more, the two women holding one another in a way that only family can. All of Clary’s memories were shared with this magnificent, fierce, wonderful woman, who had chosen to look after Clary, and make a daughter out of her.
They might not have been flesh and blood, but that was not important. The love between them was all that mattered, and though Clary still wished to meet and get to know the woman who had given birth to her, no-one would ever replace Dolly.
“Just as I’ll always think of ye as me daughter,” Dolly whispered. “And I’ll be waitin’ here, to listen to everything ye’ve discovered, once yer adventures have come to an end.” She pushed Clary away gently. “But ye should get goin’, before the Head Matron find ye in here.”
Clary dipped to place a kiss upon Dolly’s cheek. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.”
“It’s been the pleasure of me life, and it’ll continue to be.” Dolly stood back as Clary crouched down and tore the documents out of the ledger. Folding them up and slipping them into the neckline of her dress, Clary restored the book to its former resting place, before hurrying away from the documents room and back out into the hospital.
She did not stop until she reached the gates, where the porter let her out into the wider world with a suspicious glare in his eyes.
He could think what he liked about he
r. He could go running back to the hospital to try and inform the Head Matron again. She did not care, for she already had what she had come for.
Chapter Twenty-One
Walking along a cramped and filthy street, avoiding the splashes from the murky puddles as carts and heavy boots sent rancid sprays flying, Clary scoured the densely packed terraces. She had an address from the documents she had taken: 4 Worksop Lane. Though she did not know what she would find when she got there. Was it the address of the Tennyson family? Was it the address of the Cross family? Or was it something else?
“Ah… there you are.” She spotted a doorway with a number “4” carved directly into the wood. Above the number, she read the words: Warder’s Boarding House. No drunks. No men. No skinflints.
Clary frowned at door, feeling somewhat disheartened. If this was a boarding house, then it did not seem likely that she would find her family inside. Unless the name “Warder” was a pseudonym, and this place was run by someone who shared her blood. She knew there was only one way to be sure.
Approaching the door, she let herself into a narrow, musty corridor, that reeked of stale urine and the acrid aroma of gin. Evidently, someone had broken the rules detailed on the door. She walked along on stealthy feet, listening to the sound of a baby crying overhead, and the stifled sob of a woman in distress. They were not new sounds, for a similar underscore had been a constant part of her life in Manchester.
Presently, she came to a sawn-out square in the wooden wall. A woman sat framed within the square, perched on a chair in a tiny room behind, counting coins. She looked up as Clary came to a stop.
“Are you the proprietor?” Clary asked.
The woman nodded. “Aye, I’m Sally Warder, and this is me boardin’ house. Is it a room ye’re wantin’? Do ye want one to yerself or will ye be takin’ a shared room?”
“I’m actually looking for someone.” Clary swallowed, to moisten her dried throat.
“Do they owe ye money?” Sally’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t have violence in me boardin’ house, so ye’ll have to wait ‘til the girl comes out.”
Clary shook her head. “No, it’s… I’m… Goodness, let me begin again.” She took a breath. “I’m looking for someone who might’ve lived here, temporarily, seventeen years ago. Her name is Rebecca Tennyson. She gave birth to me in the winter—the beginning of December, to be exact—and took me to the Foundling Hospital. I know it was a long time ago, but I was wondering if you—”
“Aye, I remember her,” Sally interrupted, before Clary could finish. A melancholy expression deepened the wrinkles upon her face, and made her stern eyes soften with pity. “I’ve never forgotten that’un.”
Hope swelled in Clary’s heart. “Do you know where I can find her? Have you spoken with her since then?”
For a long while, Sally said nothing. She simply looked at Clary, like she was trying to commit her to memory, or find some semblance of the baby that Clary had once been.
The silence worried Clary, for Sally’s demeanour did not seem optimistic. It thrummed with despondency, as though she were not saying anything because she did not know how to phrase bad tidings.
“Ye look like her,” Sally said, at last. “Yer eyes are different, and yer hair, but yer face… it’s like I’m starin’ right at her. We were friendly, yer ma and I, while she were here. I were the one who told her to take ye to the Foundling Hospital, so she could get ye back one day.”
“So… she wanted me?” Clary’s voice cracked.
Sally nodded. “Oh aye, she loved the bones of ye.” She paused. “But if ye’re here, searchin’ for her, then I’m guessin’ she never did come back for ye?”
Clary gave a slight shake of her head.
“It won’t have been ‘cause she didn’t want to,” Sally insisted, as she reached down beneath the makeshift ledge, and produced a small, dusty box. “Yer ma was determined she was goin’ to make somethin’ of herself—a schoolmistress, if me old memory serves—and then go and fetch ye back. But… I’ll be honest with ye, me girl, she wasn’t well after ye were born.”
Clary’s stomach lurched. “What do you mean?”
“She had her a fever. Delirious, some days. Clearer on others.” Sally riffled through the contents of the box, though Clary did not know what she was looking for. “She were in a bad way the day she took ye to the hospital to have her meetin’ with the governors. I wanted her to stay here, to rest awhile, but she refused. She said she were goin’ straight to her family, so she could start on gettin’ her life back together. Poor thing couldn’t walk right, but she wouldn’t listen to me.”
Clary gripped the ledge that protruded from the roughshod window, feeling her knees buckle.
This woman, who had known Rebecca Tennyson, and been with her during that time, did not sound hopeful that Rebecca was still living. And much as Clary would have liked to believe otherwise, she had witnessed so many births in Manchester.
She knew what could happen to mothers if they were not treated properly afterwards. There were all kinds of complications, and even without knowledge of the full symptoms, Clary had a feeling her mother had suffered an affliction of the blood, stemming from the womb.
“Wait here girl.” The old woman got up from the chair and moved to a corner desk where she pulled out a locked box. Turning the key, she opened it and fossicked through until she found what she was looking before.
“Here.” Sally said, perching herself back in the cut-out. She pushed a curled, yellow scrap of paper across the ledge. “Yer ma left that with me. It’s the address of her family. I don’t know if ye’ll find yer ma there, but… I wish ye well, and I wish I had better news for ye. Still, at least ye can rest easy, knowin’ ye were loved, me girl. She adored ye.”
Clary took the piece of paper and held it as though it were a fallen butterfly, its wings so thin and fragile that they might break at any moment. An address scrawled across the yellowed paper, written in a visibly shaky hand. It should have been an encouraging gift, but Clary wondered if she was about to follow a trail that would lead to nothing but two graves.
She loved me… She wanted me.
Even that could not comfort her, for it only made Clary more desperate to meet the woman who had given birth to her. What good was the love of a mother, if the daughter could not return the sentiment?
It felt cruel, almost, to find out that she was adored, and that a promise had truly been made by her mother, to come back and collect her from the hospital.
“I’m sorry, me girl.” Sally reached out and patted Clary’s hand.
Clary cleared her throat. “Thank you for this.”
“It’s the least I can do,” Sally replied, drawing her hand away. “If ye do find her, will ye tell her she’s in me thoughts?”
Clary nodded. “Of course.”
Unable to bear the closeness of the narrow corridor, and the pitying expression in Sally’s eyes a moment longer, Clary turned and hurried back the way she had come.
She burst out into the chilly afternoon air and sprinted down the street, not caring for the people she knocked into as she ran. They called after her, throwing insults, but she could not hear anything but the rapid thump of her heart, and the rising devastation that crashed inside her head.
Finding an alleyway that branched off from the main street, she darted into it and pressed her back flat to the wall, drawing in harsh, gulping breaths.
Overwhelmed with misery, she slid down the wall until she crouched, hunched and sobbing, in the saturating gloom of the alley. Her cries of pain splintered the air, sounding like a wounded animal, but there was nothing she could do except let the tears come.
“I was wanted,” she rasped. “Heaven help me… I was wanted.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Red-eyed and weary, though cried-out for now, Clary managed to hitch a ride on the back of a cart to the borough of Hackney. On the journey there, she watched the city of London pass by in its stark conflict of terrible poverty an
d heightened wealth. She mustered a smile for the rake-thin children who chased the cart, still finding a reason to play even though they had nothing. And she mustered some sense of wonder when she set eyes upon the majestic architecture, though she could not spare a smile for the finely dress ladies and gentlemen who turned their noses up as she passed by.
You don’t even realise how fortunate you are. You believe you’ve a right to everything you have, when I doubt any of it has been earned. You ought to share your wealth, be charitable, help those less fortunate…
She leaned her head against the wooden side of the cart and thought of Bill, out there upon the open ocean somewhere. Or would he be in America by now? Would he be on his way back? Had he made it to that far-off country, or had a storm dragged him down to the briny depths, never to be seen again?
Her hands closed, as they often did, around the twin coins that rested against her chest.
Lord, keep him safe. He has a good soul, and I fear this world would be a darker place without people like him.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Presently, she arrived at a surprisingly clean and welcoming street, where terraces bundled together. Thin, but much healthier looking children ran amok across the cobblestones, shrieking as they sought to tap one another on the back. Clary had seen the game before, at the hospital, and it warmed her to see it being played here. Evidently, these children did not have much, but they had far more than some.
She jumped down off the back of the cart and thanked the driver, before he went on his way to make the rest of his deliveries.
A few mothers, chatting outside a doorway, cast a cursory glance in her direction, but it was not the kind of harsh, dismissive glare that she had experienced in Seven Dials. It was more a look of curiosity.
Clary crossed the road to the door that marked the address she sought. From within, she could hear children laughing, and the gruff tone of a man calling out to his wife. She knew terraces like this rarely held just one family, and she hoped one of the rooms within might be home to hers: the people who had raised Rebecca.