Ghost of the Thames (7 page)

Three girls were already working in
the kitchen, and Sophy didn’t miss their quick exchange of looks at
the mention of the visitors’ wishes.

“Wash up and make yourself
presentable.” The matron looked down at the dirty hem of Sophy’s
dress. “Now how could you get so much dirt on a dress that you’ve
been wearing for only a day?”

Luckily, the matron had more important
things to attend to than waiting for an answer.

“Go upstairs and tell Maddie to loan
you her black Sunday dress. Hurry, girl. Mr. Dickens is an early
riser and they might already be on their way here.”

The older woman turned away and Sophy
hurried upstairs.

The girl Maddie was not in her room,
and Sophy looked into a couple of other rooms, asking for her. The
girls ignored her.

By the time Sophy had brushed out and
pinned her hair up neatly, there was still no sign of Maddie. The
sound of voices downstairs told her that the esteemed guests had
arrived.

“Downstairs. Now. Tibbs is calling for
you,” Julia, another resident, stuck her head into the bedroom,
conveying the message curtly before running back
downstairs.

Sophy found the black woolen dress
among Maddie’s meager belongings and put it on. The dress was too
large in the waist and chest, and the length was too short. The
coarse neckline scratched her skin. She stole a hasty glance in the
mirror, and a stranger stared back.

“Sophy,” Julia hissed from the stairs,
coming back up.

“I’m on my way,” she said, hurrying
after the other woman.

“Maddie will kill you for stealing her
dress,” Julia warned, looking sideways at her clothing.

“I didn’t steal the dress. Mrs. Tibbs
said to borrow it.”

When the two of them stepped into the
parlor, the conversation ceased and everyone’s gaze turned to her.
The awkward silence filled the room. Four of the girls, dressed in
their colorful—albeit identical—frocks, stood beside Mrs. Tibbs
against the bookcase. There were three guests. Two elegantly
dressed women were seated on the sofa by the window. A man of
medium height and build and wearing a fashionable gray suit was
holding court in the center of the room. Though standing at ease,
the gentleman conveyed a sense of barely constrained energy, like a
coiled spring or a hunting dog pulling at his leash.

“Mr. Dickens, this is Sophy,” the
matron announced. “This is the young woman about whom I have been
writing to you.”

Julia hurried away and joined the
other girls by the bookcase. Sophy curtsied and considered joining
the others, but there was no room.

“You may all go now,” the man
addressed as Mr. Dickens said, dismissing the girls. His eyes never
left Sophy’s face, though, and she felt a power of observation in
those eyes that she had never encountered before. “We’d like to
have a few words with you, Sophy, if you please.”

It was obvious that the rest took
offense at being asked to leave, but none dared voice it. The room
was too small for so many, and Sophy backed out to allow the others
to leave first. This put her out of the sight of the guests and
vulnerable to those leaving.

“Ye’ll be paying for this,” one
whispered to her face.

“Ye think ye are better than
us?”

Julia tried to kick her in the shin.
Another came close, shouldering Sophia back into the hall. The
angry glares were enough to tell her she was already considered a
villain. Any other time and she would try at least to reason with
them, but right now she only wanted to make a good impression on
the guests. She’d seen enough behind that tavern at Hammersmith
Village last night to know how important it was to have a decent
roof over her head and a bed to sleep in.

She stepped back into the room and
crossed over to stand next to Mrs. Tibbs. Everyone’s attention
remained riveted on her.

“Sophy. Sophia,” Mr. Dickens repeated.
The man’s gaze was intense, but there was a hint of kindliness in
the face, as well. He studied her critically for moment. “Do you
have a last name?”

“I am certain I do, sir. But, as you
undoubtedly know, my memory has failed me at present.”

“Do you know where you come
from?”

“No, sir.”

“Your age?”

“No, sir.”

“I am told that your first
recollection is that of being in the river.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you claim that someone helped you
out of it?”

Sophy was uncomfortable with the sharp
questioning. Regardless of having seen twice, there was no way she
was going to admit to anything that might cause others to consider
her crazy.

“I do not
clearly
recall
everything that I said that first night. I was told I sustained a
blow to my head. I do not believe I was thinking or speaking
clearly then.”

“Well,
was
there someone who helped you out
of the river?”

“I
can
say,” Sophy said firmly, “that I
swam to shore by myself.”

“And how did you get a blow to the
head?”

“Mr. Dickens, are you going to
introduce us?” The younger of the two women sitting on the sofa
broke in, her tone congenial, but she had the air of a person not
accustomed to being ignored.

The gentle reprimand was a blessing.
Dark hair, regal face, attractive, impeccably dressed, there was no
question she was the guest of honor and the other lady a companion.
Dickens bowed graciously, almost theatrically, Sophy
thought.

“Miss Angela Burdett-Coutts, the
benefactor of Urania Cottage. And Mrs. Brown, her friend. May I
present Sophy.”

Another curtsy.

Eavesdropping on
conversations this morning, Sophy had learned a great deal of the
background of the benefactors. Mr. Dickens was a successful
novelist and his name was familiar to her. Miss Burdett-Coutts had
inherited about three million pounds of her grandfather’s money
some ten years ago, making her the richest woman in England. What
was most interesting to Sophy was that even the girls at this house
sang her praises, for all the money she gave to poor. This was the
first time Miss Burdett-Coutts was visiting the Cottage. Dickens,
it appeared, was in charge of all things, as this was
his
idea and
his
charity project. To
live here, one had to be chosen by the novelist himself.

Miss Burdett-Coutts whispered
something to her friend, and then Mrs. Brown spoke.

“Avez-vous parler
français?”

“Oui, madame.”

“Êtes-vous parler
couramment le français?”

“Je ne sais
pas
, Mrs. Brown.” Regardless of
understanding what was being asked, Sophy didn’t know if she was
fluent in French or not, so she answered honestly. Mrs. Brown
didn’t relent, though, and asked several more questions in French
about Urania Cottage, and whether Sophy had found any friends among
the girls living here. Sophy hesitated in telling the truth, and
instead offered information having to do with whom she shared her
room and who had loaned her this dress.

Sophy noted Mrs. Brown’s slight nod of
approval.

“We’ve heard about your reading and
penmanship,” Miss Burdett-Coutts said next. “Can you draw,
Sophy?”

She hesitated. “I really don’t know,
miss.”

“Do you play any
instruments?”

“I am sorry to be a disappointment in
my answers. But I honestly did not remember if I knew even a word
of French until Mrs. Brown spoke to me. And the same holds true of
reading and my penmanship. Each thing that I try is . . . well,
somewhat of an adventure.”

Once again, there was a moment of
silence as everyone just stared. Sophy held her chin high, her
spine straight.

The two ladies shared a private
whisper before Miss Burdett-Coutts motioned to Dickens. Crossing to
her, he bent down and they exchanged a few words. Sophy dared a
glance at Mrs. Tibbs. She was stone-faced and only stared at her
employers. Dickens straightened up and stood beside the
couch.

“Mrs. Tibbs tells us,” he said, “that
you are concerned about finding a place to live, considering your
present state of mind.”

“Yes, sir. That is true. I don’t know
if, in the past, I have ever worked, or even considered working.”
She paused. “But I intend to find employment as soon as I am able
to take inventory of what I might be qualified to do. Until then,
however, I am at a loss as to how I shall live.”

The man studied her for a few long
moments. She felt like he was trying to look directly into her
soul. She could not make up her mind about the novelist. She could
not decide if he approved of her or even believed what she said
about her loss of memory.

“You clearly have more training than
many tutors I might engage to teach reading and writing to these
girls,” he told her. “So we can start by giving you a teaching
position—temporarily, of course—here at Urania Cottage.”

A wave of relief washed over Sophy.
She looked at the two seated women, knowing that their
recommendation had convinced Dickens. “I am grateful for the
opportunity.”

“Living here on the
premises, you will be expected to provide more than just lessons,”
he said. “Urania Cottage is a house of reformation. Our intention
is not only to secure a future for these girls, but to change
the
way
they live
their lives. We do not run some grim workhouse or prison. But how
you conduct yourself is of grave importance. Where you go. With
whom you keep company. Abiding by rules of the house—”

There was a knock at the front door,
and Dickens paused. Mrs. Brown turned in her seat and looked out
the window.

“How delightful. Captain Seymour is
here.”

The relief of seconds ago turned to
utter panic. Sophy guessed the novelist might not consider walking
to Hammersmith Village in the middle of the night appropriate
conduct. Taking an oar to the side of a man’s head would be out of
the question, too. And having a ghost as a confidante would seal
her fate. If the Captain said anything, Sophy knew she would be on
the street in an instant.

“I would be happy to go over the rules
with her,” Mrs. Tibbs said to the novelist. “But if you would like,
perhaps Sophy could see the Captain in.”

“Yes, please do,” Miss Burdett-Coutts
said.

Sophy curtsied and hurriedly left the
room. Captain Seymour had just handed his hat and cloak to one of
the girls in the central hall. There was no need for ceremony.
Sophy grabbed the man by the arm and pulled him into a room across
the way, closing the door.

“What is it?” he asked, concern
evident in his face.

“Mr. Dickens has just offered me a
tutoring position here,” she whispered quickly. “So please,
Captain. Do not mention last night.”

“Are you asking me not to share an
escapade that Dickens would surely appreciate, one complete with
physical combat and the rescue of a dozen unfortunate women and
children?”

“You can share whatever you wish, so
long as you leave my name out of it entirely.”

“But I enjoy mentioning your name.
Sophy, the liberator of—”

“You are playing the
devil.”

“And you, miss, are enticing this
devil by closing the door and pressing yourself against him in a
darkened room.”

Her breath caught in Sophy’s chest.
She did indeed have him pressed against the door, her hand on his
chest, her face only inches away from his. She immediately took a
step back, jerking her hand away as if stung. He caught hold of it
before she could escape, though.

“Oh! I am sorry. I didn’t mean
to.”

Her words caught in her throat. His
thumb caressed the palm of her hand before letting go. His dark
gaze set her face on fire. She took another step back.

“Please, Captain,” she managed to say.
“No mention of seeing me last night.”

“As you wish.” He gave a
curt nod. “Then I believe it is safe to assume that I am
not
here to take you to
Hammersmith Village.”

She returned the nod. “Your friends
are in the parlor.”

“I know. I saw the carriage outside.
Give my compliments to your guests and tell them I didn’t want to
intrude on their business. Just say I stopped in to check on the
woman I ran down last week.”

“Yes. And we just spoke. She is
fine.”

“I can see that. In fact, she is far
more than fine.” His gaze traveled from her face down to the hem of
her dress.

Sophy’s face burned even hotter. “Now
you should go.”

“I should.” He studied her for a
moment longer before reaching into his pocket and taking out a
card. “The next time you have one of your dreams and want to go
somewhere dangerous in the middle of the night, come to me first.
I’ll take you there.”