by Rosie James
About the Author
A dedicated reader and scribbler all her life, ROSIE JAMES completed her first novel (sadly unpublished) before reaching her teens.
Significant success came much later, and over the last twelve years newspaper and magazine articles, short stories and romantic novels followed under her other pen name Susanne James.
Rosie’s four family sagas were the next stage, the plots reflecting her fascination with the human condition – how different, yet how alike we all are. And in every story one thing is guaranteed – a happy ending.
Also by Rosie James
Letters to Alice
The Long Road Ahead
Lexi’s War
Front Line Nurse
ROSIE JAMES
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Rosie James 2019
Rosie James asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © June 2019 ISBN: 9780008296254
Version: 2019-05-27
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Also by Rosie James
Title page
Copyright
Dedication
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
Epilogue
Dear Reader …
About the Publisher
For my ever-loving family … Including our precious dogs.
Chapter 1
November 1900
Randolph Garfield stood on the quayside and watched the last huge roll of tobacco being wheeled into his main warehouse. He nodded, satisfied at the superb quality of this consignment, but what had he expected? Virginian tobacco was the finest in the world.
As usual, his trusted foreman was checking each roll as it was stored away safely, and Randolph glanced at his watch. It was late and all the other workers had already gone home. But they would be back here again tomorrow morning, seven o’clock sharp.
Observing the proceedings closely, as he always did, Randolph tightened his hand on his walking cane. He liked the feel of its smooth, round marble head beneath his palm – palpable even through the fine kid gloves he was wearing – and considered the cane as something of a talisman, because it had belonged to his father who had never left the house without it.
Garfield Tobacco, its name marked out in huge steel lettering across the entrance of the three warehouses, was well known in the East End as it had been for two generations before Randolph. His father had died very young, which meant that Randolph had had to accept leadership of the family firm earlier than he might have expected. But he was not resentful in any way. He had been born into prosperity and enjoyed the life of the prosperous, and was giving 3-year-old Alexander, his only son and heir, the same privileges. So it was highly likely that Alexander, too, would follow in the family footsteps when Randolph no longer wished to head the business. He shrugged briefly. There was plenty of time to worry about that because, after all, he was only 40.
When the warehouse was fully secure, Randolph began to make his way from the docks envisaging how those gigantic rolls of tobacco would soon be transformed into thousands of cigarettes, cigars, plug and pipe tobacco and snuff, all supplying the never-ending needs of the public, rich or poor. The pleasure and solace of smoking was a gift of the gods. Certainly a gift for Garfield’s.
It was a miserable, late November evening, the gloom only slightly lessened by pale overhead lighting. Randolph took his usual route from the docks along the cobbled streets, past rows and rows of ramshackle, terraced houses and countless pubs. He had long since become accustomed to the poverty and deprivation all around, the overpowering scent of unwashed bodies and human excrement, of coal smoke hanging permanently in the air, the persistent smell of beer. There were always groups of children hanging about outside, few wearing any shoes, and who never seemed to go to bed, whatever time it was. Randolph doubted any of them had ever seen the inside of a classroom, despite the Education Act three decades earlier having decreed that education should be compulsory.
Throughout the area, various sorts of trading seemed to go on … there were countless private beer and cider houses, and women offering rags and old pots and pans for sale. A prolific number of people were engaged in the dangerous process of match-making, while little ‘match girls’ stood on every corner hoping to sell for a few pennies, and very young children persistently offered themselves to anyone willing to pay for it. Once, Randolph had been approached by a small girl, no more than seven or eight years old, earnestly offering him a ‘good time’. He had been appalled and had brushed her away, but the incident had haunted him for a long time afterwards.
But there was no doubt that the economy was booming, all the workshops and factories along the docks were doing well – including that of his great friend, Jacob Mason, whose business was in steel, and the manufacture of nuts, bolts and allied merchandise. Randolph walked on with a lighter step. It was a wonderful feeling to be successful at what you did. He and Jacob spent many happy hours discussing current topics and airing their opinions about the government. The two men had attended many meetings together but Randolph admitted that he did not always agree with his friend. Jacob had very strong views, and was always convinced he was right.
Now, Randolph began to reach quieter streets where the air was slightly cleaner, and he would soon get to the point at which he would normally hail a carriage to take him home to the house in which he’d been born – an elegant, three-storey dwelling in leafy Belsize Park. It was perfectly situated, and sometimes Randolph would take the long walk from Primrose Hill to Parliament Hill where he could be alone with his thoughts. And Hampstead Heath and Regent’s Park were close by, lovely open spaces for children to run and play. Randolph himself had done so and Alexander, too, sometimes went there with his nanny.
Randolph’s eyes clouded briefly. He could give his son everything that money could buy but he could not give him back his mother who had died giving birth to their only baby. They had planned to have many more children but it was not to be. Sybil had been 30 years old when she’d eventually conceived, and the love of Randolph’s life.
And although he was considered an attractive man, being tall and broad-shouldered with scarcely any grey hair, he knew he would never marry again. Alexander’s mother could never be replaced.
Trying to shake off the occasional bout of depression he suffered from, Randolph walked on more quickly. If he hurried, he might be in time to wish Alexander goodnight before the little boy fell asleep.
Suddenly, as he rounded one of the many corners of this lightly populated area Randolph’s progress was instantly halted, and he frowned. What had he almost tripped over just then? Something or other had been tucked to one side, but was certainly an obstruction to anyone walking by. He narrowed his eyes and crouched down, his expression changing to one of genuine horror as he realised what he was looking at.
He found himself gazing down into the small face of a very young baby whose large brown eyes were pooled in the purest white.
Still crouching, Randolph took a deep breath. This tiny infant had clearly been abandoned, in a cardboard box like rubbish. How could anyone do such a thing? Yet he could see that the baby was warmly wrapped in a huge, pale grey knitted shawl and soft white bonnet, and under the chin had been tucked a small pink teddy bear. Someone had loved this child …
Very carefully, Randolph picked up the box, and was surprised by its light weight. He held it to him protectively as he stood up and looked around. The street was quiet and deserted, with no sign of whoever may have left the child there, but luckily Randolph knew that no more than two hundred yards away there was the orphanage. It had been there for years, and he breathed a sigh of relief. They would take the child.
He walked very slowly towards the huge grey building, not wanting to disturb the baby, who had not made a single sound but was just lying there looking up at him. Randolph gritted his teeth. How could anyone leave this beautiful baby?
Randolph could not have been aware of the fragile young girl watching him from her hiding place, nor have heard the rustle of her thin skirt as she crept back into the shadows.
Reaching the orphanage, he rang the bell and waited, and after a few moments he heard approaching footsteps marching across a stone floor. Then, heavy bolts were moved aside and the door opened. A tall, angular woman stood there, unsmiling.
‘Yes? What is it? Then, on seeing a distinguished looking man there and not another vagrant begging for food, the woman moved to one side. ‘Oh … would you like to come in?’
Randolph accepted the invitation and carefully handed over the baby.
‘I found this a few moments ago,’ he said quietly, ‘down there at the far end of the road.’ He paused. ‘I am sure you will know what to do about it.’
The woman looked down at the box and tutted. ‘Oh not another little throw-out,’ she said abruptly. ‘It’s a pity these sluts of girls don’t think before they—’
‘Quite,’ Randolph said quickly.
Together they moved inside and the woman placed the box on a large oak table. And there in the pale lighting they could make out the neat printing on the side.
Angelina. Born 1st November 1900. Weight 6 lb. 3 ozs.
‘This little bastard’s only three weeks old, and tiny,’ the woman said. ‘It could have caught its death out there like that. Good job you came by when you did, sir.’
Just then, another woman approached and took in the familiar situation at a glance. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, her voice soft. She looked up at Randolph. ‘I am Emma Kingston, the superintendent here.’
She was a short, stout lady, her thick grey hair piled up into a knot, her face dominated by thoughtful blue eyes. Randolph smiled briefly.
‘I am sorry to disturb you, Miss Kingston,’ he said. ‘My name is Randolph Garfield and I found this child less than an hour ago. The box had been placed to one side of the pavement.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I am sure you will know how to deal with this … unfortunate matter.’
Emma Kingston glanced at the other woman. ‘Thank you, Mrs Marshall,’ she said, and with that, Mrs Marshall departed without a backward glance.
After she had gone, Miss Kingston studied the printing on the box, then picked up the baby and tenderly held it to her. She sighed. ‘I am afraid we do get children handed in here from time to time,’ she said, ‘but not usually this young, and not usually in a box.’
For the first time, the baby made a small pathetic gurgle – which made Randolph catch his breath. Why had this happened to him? And after such a long day!
After a moment, Miss Kingston said, somewhat apologetically, ‘Would you mind following me into my office for a few seconds, Mr Garfield? It is always useful to have something definitive to add to my records. Purely a formality,’ she added, ‘but you never know, someone may eventually come forward and claim Angelina … this little angel.’
Randolph followed the superintendent along the hallway and into the living quarters. There seemed to be a lot of doors, all closed, and despite this being an orphanage there was little sound. But of course, it was now getting very late.
In Miss Kingston’s office, Randolph took the chair he was offered and sat down. After putting the box with the baby in it down on a chair beside her, Miss Kingston took out a ledger and opened a fresh page. She looked across at Randolph.
‘I take it you are Mr Garfield of Garfield Tobacco?’ she enquired politely, and Randolph nodded.
‘Indeed I am,’ he said quietly.
‘So, Mr Garfield, would you tell me exactly when and where you found this baby’’ Miss Kingston said, and for the next two minutes Randolph told her the little there was to say.
Presently, Miss Kingston sat back, looking pensive. ‘It’s fortunate that we are still here,’ she said, ‘because the orphanage will be closing at the beginning of next year.’
Randolph was surprised. The place had always been here. He frowned. ‘So – what will happen to all the children?’ he asked. ‘Where will they go?’
The superintendent turned to take the baby in her arms again, rocking it to and fro comfortingly, and Randolph realised that the lady clearly loved children and must have looked after so many in her time. Unlike the other woman who had seemed cold and unfeeling.
‘Fortunately, we only have eight orphans with us at the moment,’ Miss Kingston said. ‘I have tried to cut back because of the impending closure, but normally there are fifteen children here. The ones remaining will be dispersed to other orphanages when we can find places for them. It can be anywhere in the country, of course,’ she added. ‘Not necessarily local.’
Randolph was feeling more unhappy with every moment that passed. Little children, little babies like Angelina, being passed around like parcels. He cleared his throat.
‘But why is the orphanage to close?’
‘Lack of funding, I’m afraid,’ the superintendent said. ‘Of course, we get a little parish relief but our principal benefactor died earlier this year, and sadly he left no provision for the orphanage in his will.’ She paused, smiling briefly. ‘He had been more than generous in his lifetime and I don’t think there was very much left in the end.’
Randolph looked away for a second. ‘And what will you do, Miss Kingston? Will you accompany any of the children who have been in your care?’
Miss Kingston shook her head sadly. ‘I think it is time for me to finish what has been my life’s work,’ she said, ‘though I had had every intention of remaining here for perhaps another ten years when I retire. But fate has taken a hand, so when the orphanage closes, that will be my own farewell, too.’
*
Randolph left the orphanage and walked on slowly. It was strange, but he had never given that place much thought at all – or rather, had never given those children much thought. They were safe and provided for, and much like the youngsters down by the docks, orphans were merely a fact of life. There had always been orphans and there would always be orphans. So why was he, Randolph Garfield, feeling uneasy?
Well, he knew the reason. That little child, that tiny baby, Angelina, had caused
him to stop and do something to help her. Those beautiful eyes looking at him like that had secured a place in his conscience.
And in his heart …
The following evening, Jacob Mason came to Number 1 Richmond Villas to enjoy a bottle of good red wine with his friend. This was a ritual which had taken place every other week for years, and the wine was always accompanied by a light supper of cold meats and pickles and a loaf of bread baked and served by Randolph’s housekeeper.
But the main purpose of these occasions was to talk shop, to discuss current events and the state of the world in general. And then they’d exchange news of more personal matters. Tonight, Randolph did have something to recount.
As the two sat either side of a bright log fire in his study, Randolph spoke up. ‘On my way home yesterday evening, Jacob, I had a most uncomfortable experience.’
Jacob sat forward, immediately interested. ‘Go on.’
‘I found … I happened upon … well, I discovered a newborn baby which had been abandoned in a cardboard box. And it was a complete shock, I can assure you’’
Jacob nodded, but seemed unsurprised at the news. ‘What did you do about it?’
‘I took the box to the orphanage just up the road from where I found it – and on the side of the box were the words – “Angelina, born 1st November 1900 weight 6 lbs. 3oz”.’
‘Oh well, that’s all right then,’ Jacob said casually ‘It’ll be fed and clothed and looked after until it can get out into the world and fend for itself.’ He sat back, satisfied with his own summing up of the sad facts.
Not for the first time in his life, Randolph felt angry at his friend’s attitude. To hear Jacob refer to that innocent child as an ‘it’ was upsetting. He let a moment pass, then said, ‘I was very surprised to learn that the orphanage is to close in the New Year. Due to a lack of funding, apparently.’
‘Well, money is what makes the world go around, as we all know,’ Jacob said cheerfully. ‘Other orphanages will take those kids I suppose.’ He took a drink from his glass. ‘Trouble is, Randolph, they can never be anything, amount to anything, give anything back,’ Jacob went on. ‘Just imagine the parentage! The genetic influence! I believe that orphans are usually illegitimate – bastards, in other words. So, genetically speaking, their prospects are hopeless. Hopeless!’
