Ghost of the Thames E-Book

May McGoldrick

• Herausgeber: Book Duo Creative
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 385

Beschreibung

Spine-tingling suspense and heart-throbbing romance in a poignant and unpredictable tale of Victorian London! Captain Edward Seymour—the last of a long line of distinguished Royal Navy officers—has returned from sea to find that his niece has disappeared. Combing every inn and hellhole of the city's darkest corners, he desperately hopes to find some trace of the girl. Then one night, as he returns home from yet another fruitless search, a mysterious woman falls under his carriage. With no idea of who or where she is, Sophy finds herself being led from the cold, murky waters of the Thames through danger-filled alleyways of London by a ghost...and into the path of Seymour's horses. Fate...or the supernatural...has thrown them together. But Sophy needs to solve the mystery of her identity, and Edward Seymour is the only person who can help her.

Leseprobe

GHOST OF THE THAMES

MAY MCGOLDRICK

withJAN COFFEY

Book Duo Creative

Thank you for reading. In the event that you appreciate this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review, or connect with the authors.

Ghost of the Thames. Copyright © 2011 by Nikoo K. and James A. McGoldrick

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: Book Duo Creative.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Epilogue

Edition Note

Author’s Note

Also by May McGoldrick, Jan Coffey & Nik James

About the Author

PRAISE FOR MAY MCGOLDRICK NOVELS

May McGoldrick novels are:

"Richly Romantic." - Nora Roberts

"Enchanting." - The Philadelphia Inquirer

"Wonderful." - Jill Marie Landis

"Passionate." - Susan Wiggs

“I saw her in the fire, but now. I hear her in the music,

in the wind, in the dead stillness of the night.”

—Charles Dickens

1

London

“It is not time, Sophy. Take my hand. Wake up.”

The voice was in her head. A dream. A woman, calling to a stranger.

“Sophy,” the voice persisted. “Take my hand. Come with me.”

She knew no Sophy. She knew no one.

She opened her eyes, immediately stunned by the thick cold surrounding her. She was under water, sinking in a long, black funnel. The weight of the water crushed her. She opened her mouth to cry out and swallowed filth.

A hand reached for hers. She took hold of it. A lifeline of hope, pulling her upward. Kicking her feet, Sophy burst through the surface, sputtering, gasping, and coughing up the foul water.

As her coughing subsided, she became aware of chill air slapping her face. She was in a river, floating with the icy current. Wiping slime from her eyes, she glimpsed a distant embankment through the fog. Shadowy openings of stairs and rickety docks led from the river to dark alleys. Far above the hulks of boats crowding the water’s edge, the dim light of a lantern shone for a moment in a dingy window high up in a dark building. A moment later, the current had taken her past it.

“Swim ashore, Sophy. Come with me . . . come.”

There was no one else in the water with her.

“Where are you?” she croaked.

“Here! Come toward me, Sophy. Follow me.”

Sophy turned in the water and saw her. Golden hair floated around the young woman’s shoulders. Her face was bright, like a full moon breaking through the clouds.

“Come, Sophy. I need you. I need your help. Come.”

Sophy kicked her feet and swam toward her. She seemed to get within an arm’s length of her guide’s outstretched hand but could not reach her. Sophy’s lungs were burning, her arms and legs leaden with exhaustion. Her head felt ready to explode.

“I . . . cannot.”

One foot, then the other, touched the muck at the bottom of the river. Holding herself firm against the current, she looked up to see the girl was already ashore, a few yards away, standing by the rotted piling of a decrepit pier, waiting for her. Boats lay side by side along the muddy bank, lines running up toward the river’s edge and disappearing ashore.

A couple of unsteady steps and Sophy was standing waist deep. The blast of cold air cut through the thin knit shirt plastered to her skin. She fought the urge to sink back down into the murky river.

“Here. This is for you.” A dark cloth lay half submerged.

Sophy forced her legs to travel the last few steps to the water’s edge. Her body shivered, and her fingers trembled as she wrapped herself in the coarse rag of what was once a blanket. Climbing onto the dock, she sat heavily. Her head was pounding, and she pulled the makeshift cloak around her.

Sophy tasted blood and grime in her mouth. The aching pain in her head didn’t ease but grew worse as moments ticked by. She wanted to sleep.

Huddled beneath the wet blanket, her body wracked with the cold, Sophy looked up at the young woman standing not ten feet from her. She appeared to be dry, dressed in a flowing white gown, totally unaffected by the cold. She was young, little more than a girl. Too young to be moving about in a city all alone.

“You cannot stay here, Sophy. We must keep going.”

“Is that my name?”

“Your friends call you Sophy.”

“I don’t remember anything. My name. Or any friends. Or what I was doing in the river.”

“You will, in time, remember all of it. But now we need to be on our way.”

“Why? Where are we?” Sophy asked, shivering.

“You are in London.”

She knew of the city, but she could not recall if it was her home or not. The name evoked no memories, at all. The sudden realization that she knew nothing of her past was paralyzing.

“Who are you?”

“That’s not of any importance.”

“Are you my relation?”

"No. Tonight, in this river, was the first time we met.”

“It was dangerous for you to come after me. Why did you save me?” Sophy asked.

“It was not your time.”

Her questions skipped like pebbles over smooth water. Sophy’s head throbbed. The blanket did little to warm her.

“You know my name. Can you take me to my people?”

“No.”

Where to go? Whom to seek? Was anyone out there who could help her? These questions and so many others were piling up, a mountain of confusion crushing her.

“We need to go now. Follow me.”

Her rescuer was backing away. Leaving her. Sophy didn’t know how she was able to find the strength to push herself to her feet, but she somehow managed. Clutching the blanket around her shoulders, she slipped into the shadows behind her guide. Buildings loomed above her. The stones were slick beneath her feet, but her new friend stayed ahead of her. Sophy soon found herself moving through winding alleyways she was certain she had never seen before.

Dark riverfront warehouses soon gave way to lanes lined with shuttered shop windows and faded signs. As the two women moved farther from the water, Sophy began to see people huddled around doorways and sleeping in corners. No one even looked at them twice.

Sophy was out of breath and feeling faint by the time her guide paused on the gleaming stone pavement of a wider street. The byway was empty of people, and the upper floors of shops and houses jutted out over the lane. Some had signs hanging above doors, and most were in darkness. The flicker of candlelight glimmered in one window of a house at the corner.

“Where are we going? To whom are you taking me?” Sophy asked, trying to focus.

“I’m taking you to a person who can help you and keep you safe.”

The girl looked untouched by their travels. Her clothes appeared unblemished, in spite of the mud and slime of both river and alley.

“Who will help me?” Sophy asked, trying hard to believe there could be such a person.

Then, right before Sophy’s eyes, like a candle suddenly snuffed out, the young woman disappeared.

Before she could even utter a cry, Sophy heard the clatter of horses. As she turned, the driver’s shout rang out, but it was too late.

The carriage was upon her.

* * *

“Ho! The devil! Look out there!”

The shout of the driver was accompanied by the neighing of his horses, and Edward Seymour felt the carriage clattering to a stop.

“What is it, man?” he called, throwing open the door and climbing out.

“She went under the blasted horses, Captain.”

“A woman?”

“Aye, sir. Is she dead? Can you see her?”

Edward glanced up the dark street. There was nothing visible on the pavement behind the carriage. The door of a house opened. The light of a candle appeared. Some late-night revelers staggered into the street. One was pointing under the carriage. Edward looked and saw her—a heap of blanket, dirty arms and legs sticking out from under it. The blanket had caught on the underside of the carriage and dragged the woman. The restless horses’ hooves stamped inches away from her head.

Edward yanked the blanket free and pulled the woman clear. He crouched next to her.

“Like a ghost she came, Captain.” His driver, looking down from the carriage, was still shaken. “She appeared out of nowhere. I couldn’t stop.”

“She just rolled up outta the dark,” someone chimed in.

“No one in the street, to be sure, gov, or we’d ’ave seen her.” Everyone had something to share. The crowd around them was growing. Someone held a candle over the body.

She wasn’t moving. Edward looked at the wet, matted hair and touched her head. His hand came away, covered with blood. He pulled the blanket from her face. An open gash was visible at the edge of her hair, bleeding profusely. Her face was covered with dirt.

“Don’t!” She tried to lift her head, but it sank again to the stone pavement. “Wait–I–p”

The driver sighed audibly. “Well, the bloody chit’s alive, at least.”

“If we’re to keep her that way,” Edward said, “we need to get her to a doctor.”

“The hospital at Lincoln’s Inn Fields is close enough, sir,” someone standing near was quick to suggest.

Edward knew the place. That was where medical students of King’s College practiced. That hospital sat squarely in the midst of poverty and disease.

“Bachao,” she murmured, stirring.

“She’s addled, Captain,” the driver said darkly. “The chit’s talking nonsense.”

Weakly, she tried to raise herself off the stone pavement. She didn’t have enough strength, though, and she sank down again.

She was dressed in a man’s shirt and ragged breeches with no stockings or shoes. She had the distinct smell of the river to her.

“Open the carriage door. We’re taking her to a doctor,” Edward ordered.

He tucked the wet wool blanket around the woman and lifted her off the ground. Even soaking wet, she was no heavyweight.

The crowd separated, and someone held the door as Edward settled the injured creature inside the carriage on the seat across from him. She mumbled words under her breath as if she were carrying on a conversation. Edward couldn’t make them out. She was mixing a language he couldn’t identify with English words.

“Where are we taking her, Captain?”

“Urania Cottage in Shepherd’s Bush,” Edward ordered.

He’d learned about the home for destitute young women a fortnight ago. Set up as charity by his friends Charles Dickens and the heiress Angela Burdett-Coutts, the place was intended to be a refuge for young fallen women wishing to improve their sordid lot in life. Edward had stopped there and shown his missing niece’s miniature to the matron this past week.

For weeks now, searching for the sixteen-year-old Amelia had been occupying every minute of Edward's time.

“Kotaai,” she moaned.

“Go!” Edward shouted to his driver. Settling into his seat, he peered through the darkness at the pile of rags across from him. He could smell the muck of the river from here. What she was and why she was dressed in sailor’s rags was not difficult to guess. He wondered if she’d intentionally put herself in front of his horses.

The coach started with a jolt. The shouts of the driver rang out through the street. Her head lifted off the seat, and through a blanket of tangled hair she stared around the darkened carriage.

“Where is she?” She appeared to be conscious for the first time.

“Who?” he asked, leaning forward. “Who is it you're looking for?”

“The girl. Please . . . what happened? Where is . . . ?” She pushed herself up straight. She was shivering violently.

In spite of the foreign words she’d muttered, there was no trace of an accent now. In fact, the refinement of her speech startled him. He removed his cloak and draped it around her shoulders. From the little he could see of her face, it was obvious she was young. Her fingers pulled the edges of the cloak around her. She was burrowing into the newfound warmth.

As the carriage swung up onto the Strand, the dim light coming in the windows afforded Edward a better view of the wounds on her head. He could see she was still bleeding.

“I need to –” she whispered, looking up.” I cannot lose her.”

“Who?”

“The girl.” She looked around as if trying to find her phantom friend. “The girl I was following.”

“You were the only one on the street.” “She saved me from the river. Dragged me out. She didn’t have to, but she . . . she was there.” She wasn’t listening to him. Her words were slurring, and her head began to sink back onto the seat. She caught herself and looked up at him. “She knew my name. She asked me to follow. I need to get out.”

“What is your name?”

Her fingers clutched the cloak around her, and her head sank back.

“Your name?” he asked.

“She called me Sophy.” The blood was oozing from the cuts on her head. He reached over and pressed a handkerchief against the wounds that he could see.

“Bachao.”

After more than a dozen years of sailing the seas with the British Navy, he had encountered many tongues. This one was vaguely familiar. Perhaps Java. Or one of the dialects of India. But he wasn't sure. “Where does your friend live? Perhaps I can take you to her.”

Her head was nodding. She was losing the battle to stay awake. Whatever strength she had in her was quickly ebbing. She did not respond.

He studied the battered woman. Faceless, wretched creatures that had only been a nuisance to toss a coin to before were now real human beings to him since his niece had gone missing. Imagining the poverty, the violence, the troubled lives, and bad decisions they’d made—all the circumstances that had pushed them into this miserable situation in life—only fueled his fears of what had happened to Amelia. He felt sick whenever he thought of what her disappearance might have led her to.

And that thought was with him all the time. It was why he could not give up the search.

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of Urania Cottage. The woman seemed to have fallen sleep. The house was dark. Edward stepped out as the driver climbed down and tied the horses to a post.

“Knock at the door and rouse the matron,” he directed. “Have the woman decide which room I can carry this one to. Also, have them send for a doctor.”

Edward started to climb back into the carriage and stopped short. The barrel of his own pistol was pointed directly at his chest.

“I want you to take me back to where you found me,” Sophy said. “Now.”

2

“Put that down before you hurt yourself,” the man said quietly.

“I am an excellent shot,” she said, her throat hurting as she spoke. She could not recall anything of her past, not even her own name. But she had no difficulty remembering how to fire the pistol in her hand. “It is not I who will be hurt.”

It was difficult to string words together without a stutter. All she wanted to do was to lie back on the carriage bench and sleep. But she couldn’t. She had to get back to the girl she’d left on the street. The one person who had some information about Sophy’s past.

“No one is going to stop you.” He stepped back. “You are free to go to whatever godforsaken place it is you wish to return to.”

She watched him warily and kept the pistol trained on him as she edged along the seat toward the carriage door.

“That’s not too easy for me to do. I have no knowledge of where we are or which direction…” She stopped as a wave of nausea washed through her, and the taste of bile rose into her throat. The pounding in her head was increasing and she could barely keep her eyes open with the pain. She pushed his cloak off her shoulders and tried to climb out of the carriage.

She landed on the pavement on all fours, and her stomach emptied. The foul taste of river filled her throat and nostrils as she heaved.

A pair of men’s boots appeared next to her head. He crouched beside her.

“You appear to be having a rough night, I would say.”

She managed to nod and looked down. The pistol escaped the filth emptying out of her. She picked it up and, without looking, offered it to him. A large hand wrapped around hers as he took the weapon.

“So who is this friend that you are so desperate to get back to?”

“I know nothing of her name or where she lives. But she knew me. And that is reason enough for me to get back to her. I cannot recall anything about myself.” Another wave of retching silenced her.

“Well, you are in no condition to be dropped off at some street corner.”

He had a deep, soothing voice. It was the voice of one accustomed to speaking with authority. Others were gathering around them. She could hear the buzz of voices and questions. “I think it would be best if you were to stay the night at this house. It is a safe place. You have wounds that need to be seen to. By tomorrow, perhaps whatever it is that escapes your memory now will come back to you. In any case, you will have an easier time finding your friend in the daylight.”

Sophy wanted to argue, but her body protested any option but remaining on all fours on the pavement.

“Mrs. Tibbs, where can we take her?” he asked someone, making Sophy's decision for her.

Moments ticked by, but they could have been hours. Sophy couldn’t tell them apart. As more instructions were given, she clung precariously to consciousness, wavering between confusion and lucidity. She was able to focus again when strong hands took her by the shoulders and sat her back. She felt the heavy cloak draped around her and before she knew it, he had lifted her into his arms.

As the man moved smoothly up a few stairs and into a house, something tugged at Sophy’s memory. Images of struggling to stay alive, of water. Still conscious of how vulnerable she was, Sophy felt safe in this man’s arms.

“You are too kind, Captain,” she murmured.

“You’re in this condition because my driver ran you down with my carriage.”

They were moving up a flight of wooden steps. A moving candle flickered ahead of them.

“No, I am in this condition because…” She was sinking again. “I am . . . I don’t know why I am here. Or what I have done. But you are not responsible for it. I am certain.”

* * *

Now that Edward had a moment to clear his head, he questioned his judgment in bringing Sophy to Urania Cottage.

What Edward knew about the place was that the philanthropist Angela Burdett-Coutts and her writer friend, Charles Dickens, had specific intentions regarding how the residence was to function. The Cottage was large enough to eventually house a dozen girls and two matrons. The girls, most not yet twenty years of age, would be found in the prisons and workhouses and allowed to come to the shelter only by particular invitation. The rehabilitation plans consisted of teaching them how to read and write and keep house, with the ultimate goal being for them to migrate to Australia or Canada or to find jobs as domestic servants, capable of earning their own living or running decent homes of their own. Each candidate was interviewed by Dickens personally, each had to receive a letter of invitation, and each had to agree to the terms of it before they were offered a tidy little bed in the Cottage. Angela and Dickens had expressed a specific concern about allowing in girls who would set a bad example for the rest. No one could walk in off the street and be offered shelter.

Regardless of his friendship with the two philanthropists, Edward knew that he was taking advantage. He would have to make other arrangements for the injured woman, if she didn’t disappear on her own when the sun came up.

Edward waited in the parlor, knowing it was his responsibility to stay around until the doctor saw to her and gave him a report on the extent of her injuries.

Mrs. Tibbs had gone upstairs to help Sophy. He had spoken with her last week and shown her the miniature portrait of Amelia. Older, no nonsense, strongly built and with a gruff voice, the woman had that quality that was intimidating enough for most girls, even these fallen denizens of the streets. He’d seen male versions of the matron running the crews of a dozen ships over the years.

He heard occasional whispers and the light tread of bare feet on stairs, but Edward had yet to see the faces of any of the girls presently living at Urania Cottage. Finally, the heavy step of the doctor could be heard on the stair, and a moment later the portly man joined him in the parlor.

“How does the girl fare?”

“She’s more asleep than awake and replies with nonsense to whatever I ask. But I should say that the cause of that is due to the blow to her head she received sometime during the night.”

“She was dragged under my carriage before the driver could stop.”

“I dressed the scratches and bumps from that mishap, Captain Seymour. Those look worse than they are. But I believe the more telling injury happened earlier.” The doctor never sat, never put his bag down. He stood near the door with his cloak on as if he’d already been called to the next patient. “I believe before she stepped into the path of your carriage, she had taken a good blow to the head. The blood was crusted around one good sized gash that is still oozing a bit. I think that is the blow responsible for the memory loss she is struggling with right now.”

“She will remember whatever it is she’s forgotten, won’t she?” Edward asked.

“I should think so. But I can’t say for certain, mind you, whether she shall recall it tomorrow, next week, or ever.” The doctor looked about the simply furnished room. “Knowing what some of these women live through day in and day out on the street, I’d say it may be advantageous for her not to remember much of her past. She’s definitely young enough to become one of Mr. Dickens’s charity girls.”

“When can she be up and about?”

The doctor shrugged. “She’s shivering like a willow with the onset of fever, all caused by the shock of her injuries. Seeing the filth on the clothes Mrs. Tibbs stripped off of her, I’d say the girl has seen not only the surface of the river but the bottom of it, too. The worst of the bleeding should stop after another change of the dressings. But she needs to overcome that fever before you can safely put her back on the street, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Edward wasn’t putting anyone on the street. At the same time, he didn’t want to disrupt any working arrangements at Urania Cottage. He paid the doctor and sent him on his way as Mrs. Tibbs came down the stairs.

Concern was etched on her face. “As far as I can see, Captain, she is not taking anyone’s bed at the moment. I must tell you, though, that we never know when Mr. Dickens might be sending a girl to us.”

“I understand, Mrs. Tibbs. I’ll speak with Mr. Dickens tomorrow. I only expect her to stay here until she’s past the fever.”

The woman nodded. “One of the girls helped me clean her up and put her in a nightgown. The doctor gave her some medicine, and she’s now asleep. Still, would you like to see her before you go? I don’t think you’d recognize her.”

There was no need for him to look in on her. He could make whatever arrangements were necessary for her care and their paths need never cross again.

“I believe I will look in on her before I go,” he said, surprising himself.

Edward followed the matron upstairs. Two young women were peering into Sophy’s room, and they disappeared inside another bedroom as he climbed to the landing.

“I’d like to leave her some money, in case she’s better and wishes to leave tomorrow or the day after.”

“The girls living here have all sworn to give up their old ways and be honest young women,” Mrs. Tibbs told him, holding up the candle and looking into his face. “As you know, Mr. Dickens has no patience for anyone who strays from the decent, hardworking path once she’s started on the road to redemption.”

The two of them stood in the doorway of the darkened space. He could see the room was sparsely furnished. Three cots had been arranged side by side. The bed with Sophy on it was the only one occupied. Edward took two five-pound notes from his pocket and held them out to the matron, whose eyebrows shot up in surprise at the sum.

“You will give this to her for me.”

He knew the money was enough for food and rooms suitable for someone of the girl’s station for a month or more.

Mrs. Tibbs took the money and walked in. Edward watched her tuck the notes under Sophy’s pillow. She held the candle over the sleeping patient’s face. “She is laboring to breathe, sir.”

“The doctor believes she’ll recover.”

There wasn’t much that Edward could see from the doorway. Curiosity made him enter the room and move to Sophy’s bedside.

“The important thing is that she…” He stopped and stared, his thoughts shattered.

High cheekbones, smooth skin, straight nose, generous lips. Even with her eyes closed and with the bruises and the dressings on her head, the young woman was striking. He didn’t know that he’d ever seen a face so beautiful.

“None of us expected to find such features under all that dirt,” Mrs. Tibbs commented, understanding his reaction. She moved the candle from Sophy’s face down to where her fingers peeked from under the blanket. “And the girls helping me change her out of those men’s clothes noticed that there’s not a single callous on these hands of hers. She hasn’t been surviving on the streets doing hard labor.”

The note in the woman’s voice was unmistakable. The matron believed Sophy was a high-priced prostitute, and Edward had no reason to dispute her assumption. The thought of his niece Amelia, though, brought with it awareness. He straightened up to his full height and glared down at the woman.

“We don’t know the circumstances, Mrs. Tibbs, which have brought her here. And until she can speak on her own behalf, I suggest that it may be imprudent to make any conjecture. Don’t you agree?”

“Of course. Of course, you are correct, Captain.”

Edward had to get out of this room, out of this house. All of a sudden, too much of what lay before him was a sordid reminder of everything that could have befallen his niece.

“See to it that she gets what she needs, and I will speak to Mr. Dickens tomorrow,” he said, stalking out of the room.

The matron followed him downstairs and stopped him at the door.

“Oh, Captain, one more word, if you please.”

Edward turned and looked at the woman.

“I was going to send word to you through Mr. Dickens, but since you’re here.” Mrs. Tibbs paused. “I don’t mean to give you false hope, but one of our girls was talking only yesterday to a relative of hers, a girl just out of the workhouse. Don’t know if she’s trustworthy at all, to be blunt, but this other one would like to meet with you. Seems she believes she’s seen someone resembling your niece.”

“Of course, I’ll meet with her.”

“I should warn you Captain. These girls have nary a penny and will say anything if they think there is a reward to be had.”

Every false trail he’d been following for the past two months had started this way. Always someone who knew someone else. Always for the right amount of money. Always someone who might look like Amelia.

No matter how far-fetched a story sounded, though, Edward had no option but pursue the trail to its end. He took out a card and handed it to the matron.

“Have the woman stop at my residence, Mrs. Tibbs. I’ll see what information she has to offer.”

3

Edward’s search for his niece had been futile, thus far. Every lead, no matter how hopeful, had taken him nowhere. He believed that Amelia had gone off with a midshipman, Henry Robinson, but Edward had found no proof that the two young people had left London, or that they had even boarded a ship out of the country. Such undertakings were expensive, and eloping to Gretna Green cost money, as well. But Edward found out that Henry’s pay for his last voyage had never even been collected. Even if Amelia had gained access to some money by selling some of her jewelry, none of the innkeepers on the roads north toward Scotland had seen any sign of the pair.

And so Edward continued to search. They were not in London, as far as he could tell, and yet they did not appear to have left it, either. His friend Charles Dickens had his own thoughts on the matter, Edward knew, but the writer had so far been extremely judicious in sharing his opinion. He simply kept his contacts in London alert for any sign of the girl and her midshipman, and reported any news that he thought would be helpful to Edward.

It was the novelist’s routine to walk for miles every day in the afternoon, and Edward found himself joining the man more and more often, as he had done today. As they started to cross the bridge, the Parliament Building--with its half-built clock tower--glowed in the late afternoon light on the far bank of the river. Beyond it, the smoke of a thousand cooking fires hung like a cloud over the roofs of the city.

“About that woman I left at Urania Cottage,” he began.

“I believe Mrs. Tibbs wrote that her name is Sophy?”

“Yes,” Edward replied. “Following the accident, while she was drifting in and out of a conscious state, Sophy spoke in a different tongue. One that I could not identify.”

Dickens looked up at him sharply. “That is curious, considering your travels, Captain. Miss Burdett-Coutts speaks of you as a person who is knowledgeable about every language known to man.”

“Well, our mutual friend has been known to exaggerate from time to time. In any event, this language was not a dialect I could be certain of. Of course, she only uttered a few words of it. When she spoke English, however, her use of the language was perfect. Quite refined, I would go so far as to say.”

“That is very curious, indeed,” Dickens mused.

Edward made no mention of the woman’s beauty. Since leaving Urania Cottage last night, he hadn’t been able to erase the image of her face from his mind. He also could not forget the matron’s comment about Sophy’s smooth hands.

“Do you have any suggestions as to where she could be moved if she does not recover her memory anytime soon?”

“Where she could go depends on her ability to do work and on her state of mind. How did she come across to you last night?”

“She seemed to be hallucinating and kept mentioning a friend that she’d been following on the streets. I saw no such person at the time of the accident.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Dickens said.

“But I am most concerned about her memory,” Edward continued. “What if she cannot recall who she is or where she belongs?”

The writer shook his head, glancing down over the railing of the bridge as they walked. His gaze was moving from one small river craft to the next.

“If there’s even a hint of lunacy,” Dickens said finally, “it will be difficult to find a place for her.”

“No. No. I don’t think this is an issue of insanity. Whatever she is suffering, it seems to have come from the blow to the head—something that she should be able to recover from.”

Edward chided himself for giving any reference of madness. The care for insane paupers was a huge topic of discussion in London these days. Even this morning’s newspapers had been filled with complaints about the overcrowded conditions of Hanwell Asylum in West London, and those complaints had been matched by others regarding who was going to pay for another expansion of the hospital.

“Well, my suggestion,” Dickens concluded, “is to leave her at the Cottage for at least a week or perhaps a fortnight. We can house her until she recovers fully from her physical injuries. So long as she makes no trouble, I’m perfectly happy to have the bed occupied rather than have it sit empty. I’ll let Miss Burdett-Coutts know of the arrangements.”

Good enough, Edward thought.

“But Captain,” Dickens added, casting a side glance at him. “Please ask your driver to try to avoid running down any more young ladies. At least, in the middle of the night."

* * *

The murmuring voices droned from dawn to nightfall, rising and falling, but never growing distinct in Sophy’s head. She had no idea whether one day or a month of days had passed.

After a while, she was more conscious. Her head still ached, but the pounding began to subside. She realized that she was lying in a clean but austerely furnished room. She began to recognize the young and older women who came and went, but she could not speak to them. With the passing time, however, she spent more hours awake than asleep, questioning her own memories of the river and of the girl who led her out of it. None of it made sense.

Captain Seymour was the only real person she remembered from the night of her accident. The deep reassuring voice. The strong arms that had lifted her with no difficulty at all and carried her up here. The dark eyes that she’d glimpsed for a moment before he placed her in this very bed. The clean, masculine smell of the sea when she had buried herself in his heavy cloak. He was a man impossible to forget. He had definitely made an impression on the others in the house, too.

She awoke one morning with sunlight illuminating the far wall. She pushed herself upright, waited until the room stopped spinning, and then stood up. The light was warm on her face. Then the nausea gripped her, and she sat on the bed again. In a few moments, the queasiness began to relent.

“The Captain left you some money under your pillow the night you arrived,” Mrs. Tibbs said without greeting.

Sophy turned and saw the matron standing in the doorway. One of the residents stood behind her, holding a tray with clean bandages.

“How long have I been here?” she asked, her voice rough from lack of use.

“Good to see you can talk,” Mrs. Tibbs said curtly, placing a basket that she was carrying on the bed next to Sophy’s. “Four days.”

The matron sat down beside her and unwrapped the dressing around Sophy’s head. Without a word, she inspected the wounds.

“Well, these are healing nicely.” She waved her helper away. “We won’t be needing the dressings. The air will do the wounds good.”

The girl backed out of the room without a word and disappeared. Sophy could hear her footsteps on the stairs.

“No fever or chills, I take it?” Mrs. Tibbs asked.

“None. Just a little weak.”

“Not surprised.”

Sophy turned and took the two five-pound notes from under her pillow.

“The Captain is quite generous with his money, I’d say,” the matron said. “Keep it safe, and don’t make it a temptation for the other girls by flashing it around.”

Sophy pushed the notes back under the pillow. She needed to know what to do, where to go, and what was expected of her. She looked up at Mrs. Tibbs.

“Am I to leave today?”

The woman didn’t immediately answer and looked at her. “Do you have somewhere to go?”

“No,” Sophy replied uncertainly. “I don’t think so.”

“Do you remember anything more than what you told the Captain the night he brought you here?”

“No, I don’t.”

Sophy glanced at the window. She could see the brick house next door and beyond it the roofs of the neighboring buildings. She took a deep breath and looked back at the matron. The thought of having to find lodging in a strange city when she barely had enough strength to sit up in bed was terrifying.

“Would it be possible to stay here for a little longer?”

“For today. Beyond that, I shall need to send a message to our benefactor and ask his advice.” The woman reached over and pulled the basket from the other bed onto Sophy’s. “But it’s time you made yourself useful. Here is some mending. And there is a decent dress in there that you can change into. You won’t be given a frock like the rest of the girls. That is only for those who are invited to join us here.”

The matron stood abruptly and started for the door, but then stopped. “You do know how to sew, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Sophy answered as brightly as she could.

Mrs. Tibbs appeared satisfied with the answer and went out the door.

Left alone, Sophy took the clothing from the basket, laying it on the bed beside her. She knew what sewing involved, but as she held the three balls of thread in her hand, her confidence wavered about her ability to do the job well. Holding the needle, she realized she was nowhere near as comfortable as she had been holding the Captain’s pistol.

She changed out of the nightgown and into the dark woolen dress and busied herself with the mending. The room grew dark as the afternoon progressed. She didn’t hear the approaching footsteps but looked up at the feeling of being watched. It was the same girl who had brought bandages that morning.

“Supper in the kitchen for us, if ye be wanting it.”

“Thank you. I certainly do,” Sophy replied, throwing the sewing to the side and following the girl down the stairs.

Other than Mrs. Tibbs, she remembered three girls who had been frequent visitors to her room. One of them shared the room. Two others had taken turns feeding her and changing the bandage on her head when needed. All three of them minded their own business when they were with her, and there was no deviating from their assigned duty. Sophy was simply another task to them, like hanging out the linen, or washing the floor, or beating the carpet out in the alleyway beneath her window. None of the three had ever asked any questions.

As she stepped into the kitchen, Sophy could smell the stew simmering on the stove. The other women shifted aside to let her eat, making no overtures to friendship.

When she was finished, she placed her dish in the waiting tub of water and went out without a word.

Several rooms opened off the central hall and she saw, as she passed, one of them served as a library, of sorts. She eyed the shelves of books and spotted a newspaper on a table. Sophy slipped in. Picking up the newspaper, she glanced at the year and date.

“Well, at least I know that,” she murmured to herself as she looked at the headlines and columns. Moving to a window for light, she sat herself in a chair and was soon immersed in the news of London and the empire.

“Anything interesting in there?”

Sophy looked up and saw Mrs. Tibbs standing in the doorway. The woman’s normally stern features showed no anger.

“It is all interesting, thank you.”

Mrs. Tibbs moved over to her and pointed to a specific line. “Read this aloud.”

Of all the news, Sophy thought, that was least interesting. She complied, though.

Railway Signals. The following circular has been issued by the Great Western Railway. On and after the 4th day of October⁠—

“And this line.”

Marriages. On Saturday last, at St. George’s Hanover Square--

Mrs. Tibbs continued to point to different articles and lines in the newspaper, which Sophy read, knowing this was a test.

“Who taught you to read so well?” the matron asked finally.

“I don’t remember.” Sophy folded the paper and looked up.

“What else can you do?”

“My sewing is competent enough, I believe,” she said with a smile, hoping to make a friend.

The matron’s features showed nothing. The older woman picked up a book that was sitting on the table, opened it to a random page, glanced at it, and handed it to Sophy.

“Go to the desk, if you please, and copy out the first three lines from this page. You will find chalk and a slate in the top drawer.”

If this was another test, Sophy knew she had passed it, for a few moments later Mrs. Tibbs was looking with open admiration at her penmanship.

When the matron saw Sophy watching her, her expression hardened. “Go up to your room. I will send for you in the morning.”

* * *

After four days in bed, Sophy was unable to sleep, so she lay on her back, watching darkness fill the room. The girl who occupied one of the other beds had come in and was now asleep.

There’d been so much in that newspaper that Sophy had wanted to read. She’d never had a chance to look past the front page or search for any report of a missing person. Perhaps she had family out there looking for her right now.

Urania Cottage was silent and dark. She didn’t know how late it was—and she was certain she’d get into trouble if discovered—but she left the room and crept downstairs.

The newspaper was where she had left it. The parlor was dark, and she did not dare light a candle. Moving to the window, she pulled a curtain aside, hoping to gain some light from the street.

Sophy saw her. The young woman dressed in white. She stood on the sidewalk, facing the window, motioning to Sophy to join her outside.

4

Hammersmith was a village of old clergymen and drunkards, churches and taverns, and sometimes it was difficult to tell one from the other. Situated near the river to the west of London, the dark lanes of the sleepy village had been gradually swallowed up by the expanding reaches of city. What had once been a quiet country village was now a dank and sullen huddle of ramshackle dwellings, warehouses, and brothels.

Edward was told the Broken Oar Tavern was a decrepit place, sitting on the navigable stream that opened directly onto the broad Thames. The ancient inn attached to it had, for a decade at least, been used by sailors drinking up their pay between voyages. The girl who came to his Berkeley Square house late in the afternoon had mentioned that she’d heard talk of a young midshipman who’d taken a room there with his woman for almost two months. Though the sailor came and went regularly, after the first day no one ever saw his girl. There were rumors of her being “quality.”

It was well after dark when Edward arrived at the tavern. Taking a quick glance, he thought the descriptions he’d heard earlier were far too generous. There appeared to be not a straight line or a sound piece of timber in the structure.

Edward ducked his head and entered a taproom thick with smoke. The smell of stale urine and old ale vied with tobacco for dominance. A lamp hung on a post by a bar and a small fire flickered on a large hearth, but the dark corners hid the faces and the transgressions of those wiling away their hours. Between him and the bar, two dozen faces turned and measured his worth, including several painted women of indeterminate age who sat on laps or hung on the arms of other customers.

A short man peering from the casks and bottles lining the wooden surface of the bar nodded to him. “First time ’ere, sir, I reckon. So what can I be gettin’ for ye?”