by S. G. Rogers
Cover
Title Page
Larken
...
S.G. Rogers
...
Idunn Court Publishing
Copyright Information
Larken, Copyright © 2014 by S.G. Rogers
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
...
This book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.
...
Idunn Court Publishing
7 Ramshorn Court
Savannah, GA 31411
...
Published by Idunn Court Publishing, October 2014
...
This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this book can be reproduced or sold by any person or business without the express permission of the publisher.
...
Published in the United States of America
Editor: Kathryn Riley Miller
Cover Design: S.G. Rogers
Interior Book Design: Coreen Montagna
Dedication
Dedicated to Janniene
Chapter One
Miracle Orphan
1867, London
A MAN IN A BOWLER HAT walked into Larken’s hospital room and gave her a bright smile. Behind him, a porter wheeled in three battered trunks. The top trunk was so crushed, the contents could be seen through the gaping seams.
“Good morning, Miss Burke,” the man said. “You’re a very lucky girl.”
The statement was so absurd considering the circumstances, no ready response sprang to her lips.
“My name is Mr. Clubb, and I work for the train company.” He gestured toward the trunks. “We took the trouble to recover your family’s luggage from the accident site. Oh, and we recovered these personal items from your parents.”
He produced her father’s wallet, pocket watch, and fob, and her mother’s locket. Larken put out her hand for the items, noticing immediately the dark brown bloodstains on the back of the watch where her father’s initials were engraved.
“The train company has generously agreed to cover your hospital bills. In addition, we’ve contacted the newspaper to see if they would start a memorial fund on your behalf. They’ve dubbed you the Miracle Orphan, you know. It’s likely a great many people will be so moved by your plight, the fund will grow quickly.”
Mr. Clubb lifted his hat.
“Take care, Miss Burke.”
He left, along with the porter, who slid her a curious glance on his way out. When she was alone, Larken had enough presence of mind to open her father’s wallet to see how much money was inside. It was empty, unfortunately—a condition she was certain had occurred somewhere between the train wreckage and the hospital. She bit her lip with worry. The cuts on her back had begun to heal, and the hospital said she must leave that afternoon. How was she to get home without funds? And even if she could get home, how could a fourteen-year-old live alone without parents or a guardian? Overwhelming sorrow and loneliness dissolved her self-control and she let out a keening moan.
Her body was wracked with grief, and the cuts on her lower back ached and itched. The doctors had failed to remove all the shards the first time they tended to her injuries, but she was now at least glass-free. A nurse bustled into the room and stood with her arms akimbo.
“Stop your crying, lass! You’re not the only child ever to be orphaned. You can be sure a lot of children lost one or both parents on that death train.”
When Larken’s crying failed to ease, the nurse made a sound of frustration.
“I see your luggage has arrived. The police are coming to escort you to the orphanage, so unless you want to wear that hospital gown out in public, I suggest you change your clothes.”
Fear of the unknown ate at her center and robbed her skin of its warmth. Larken’s fingers felt frozen as the policemen ushered her into Mrs. Platt’s office and left without a backward glance. The matron eyed her up and down, handed her a uniform, and gestured to a screen in the corner. “Change into this, and I’ll lock up your dress with your luggage.”
“I’d like to wear my mother’s locket.”
“Suit yourself, but it won’t be my fault if it gets stolen.”
Five minutes later, Mrs. Platt escorted her down a long hallway and into a girls’ dormitory. The room was large and open, with beds jutting out from the walls like the ivory keys on a keyboard. When she passed through the phalanx of orphans, Larken felt their hard, unblinking stares upon her. She’d seen stray curs before with friendlier eyes. The matron assigned her a bed, turned on her heel, and retraced her steps through the silent, identically dressed residents. As soon as the woman disappeared, boisterous conversations resumed. Unsure what else to do, Larken sat on her bed and gazed at the floor. Nobody made any attempt to speak with her, but she could hear them whispering behind her back. Finally a tall girl with large bones strolled over, followed by several of the others.
“So you’re the Miracle Orphan, huh? You’re not better than any of us.”
A gulp. “I never said I was.”
“You’re thinking it. I’m Drusilla. If you want to get along here, you’ll stay on my right side.”
With a sneer, the girl strode off with her friends, surrounded by nervous titters and giggles.
For Larken, falling asleep that night was a struggle and staying asleep impossible. After she’d wakened from her nightmare for the third time, Drusilla hauled her out of bed, dragged her to the infirmary, and threw her inside.
“Sleep in there from now on, and leave us in peace!”
The door closed and Larken was cast into complete darkness. She crouched on the floor, whimpering and hugging her knees. The cuts on her back prickled, and her arm felt bruised from Drusilla’s iron grip. When something stirred in the corner, she scrambled back until she hit the wall and could go no further. Were there rats in the orphanage?
“Hang on,” a voice said. “It’s black as pitch in here.”
More stirring. A match flared, lighting the face of another girl about Larken’s age. The illumination revealed the girl’s huge eyes, elfin face, and completely bald head. To Larken, she resembled an unearthly, beautiful creature from a fairy story. The creature regarded her a moment before lighting a bedside candle.
“Hello. I’m Josephine Wilkes, but you can call me Josie.”
“Larken Burke.”
Josie beckoned. “There’s another bed in here. Although it’s probably lumpy, it’s got to be more comfortable than the cold floor.”
With one final sniff, Larken scrambled to her feet, went over to the empty bed, and sat down.
“You’re new,” Josie said.
“Yes. This is my first night.” Larken could not wrench her eyes from the girl’s head. “Forgive me, but what happened to your hair?”
“Lice. They’ll put me back with the others tomorrow.” Josie ran her hand over her bare scalp. “I look terrible, but honestly, it’s a relief not to itch anymore.” She paused “Why’d Drusilla toss you in here?”
“My nightmares kept her awake.” The bruises on Larken’s upper arm ached. “She’s mean.”
“Yes, but she won’t be here much longer. She’ll be turned out of the or
phanage next week on her seventeenth birthday. That makes her meaner than usual.”
“I should think she’d be happy to leave.”
“She has nowhere to go. Drusilla’s not clever enough to be a governess or nanny, so she’ll have to look for work as a maid if she’s lucky. If not, she’ll be working on her back.”
“I’m sorry?”
Josie peered at her a moment. “Never mind, it’s not important. I really shouldn’t talk like that to a lady.”
Larken was taken aback. “How do you know I’m a lady?”
“It’s obvious just by looking at you and hearing you speak. Don’t worry, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. We just don’t get many upper class girls in here.”
They talked half the night, and by morning the girls were fast friends. Even after a foster family from Rugby agreed to take Larken in three months later, she and Josie continued to correspond. Josie’s last letter came shortly before her seventeenth birthday, and Larken’s reply was returned to her with no forwarding address.
1871. Rugby, England
Mr. Howley shot Larken a baleful glance as she hastened into the dining room and slid into her seat. “You’re late.”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, Larken,” Mrs. Howley said in a singsong tone. “We’re used to it.”
The woman’s cheerful sarcasm slid off Larken’s back. Mrs. Howley might indeed be accustomed to her lateness, but in return she’d developed a callus where the woman’s frequent barbs were concerned.
“It was just so beautiful in the garden, I didn’t want to come inside for lunch.” Larken tossed her long golden braid over her shoulder so it wouldn’t fall into her food. “The rose bushes are covered with buds ready to bloom. It’s as if little fairies are wrapped up in the petals, waiting to be released.”
Mr. Howley rolled his eyes and shook his head in exasperation. “Would you please keep your prattling foolishness to yourself?”
Larken picked up her napkin and draped it across her lap. “Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Howley has some news which concerns you,” Mrs. Howley said.
The older woman giggled as if she knew a secret joke, and Larken became alarmed. If the news amused Mrs. Howley, it wasn’t likely to be a promising development where she was concerned.
“You’re to be married.” Mr. Howley cut a piece of sausage, popped it into his mouth, and began to chew.
“Married?” Wide-eyed, Larken shifted her gaze from him to Mrs. Howley, who was calmly sipping her tea. Neither of the Howleys seemed inclined to offer any further details.
“Well…is he a tinker, tailor, soldier, or sailor?” she blurted out. “Am I to be told his name at least?”
“Since you’ve no choice in the matter, none of that’s important,” Mrs. Howley said.
“So I’m to do as I’m told, without asking any questions?”
“You’re very fortunate, Larken. You’ve no dowry and no family. Few gentlemen of consequence would consider taking you at all, but this is a unique case,” Mr. Howley said.
“All well and good, but I think I should know to whom I’m being wed!”
Mrs. Howley rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “The man’s name is Mr. Brandon King, and he lives in Newcastle. He’s to be saddled with a ward in a month or so—a child whose mother died. Mr. King wishes to provide a new mother for the brat.”
“How exceedingly romantic!”
“Hold your tongue, you ungrateful wretch!”
“Knowing full well the joys of having an unwanted child foisted upon me, I’m sympathetic to Mr. King’s plight,” Mr. Howley said. “We answered his advertisement on your behalf, and fortunately he accepted your application.”
“An advertisement for a wife? Why doesn’t he just hire a nanny?”
“He seeks an atmosphere of permanence for the lad. A nanny may give notice, but a wife can’t run away,” he replied.
“You make it sound as if he’s Bluebeard.”
The literary reference apparently went over Mr. Howley’s head.
“I don’t know what color his beard is, but it can be nothing to you. He’s made it clear it’s to be a marriage in name only. His criteria were youthful age, a certain level of intellect, good breeding, and that the girl shouldn’t be so ill-favored she would embarrass him in society.”
“To be chosen from such a select few is incredible luck indeed,” Larken said.
Mrs. Howley leaned forward to shake her finger in her face. “Selfish, unthankful ninnyhammer! It’s only because of our generosity you’re not on the streets!”
The vehemence of her movement caused a distinctive gold locket hanging from her well-fed neck to swing on its chain. The woman quickly tucked the locket inside her bodice, as if to hide it from view.
“You leave first thing tomorrow morning…either to Newcastle or to a brothel. Your choice.”
“If she goes to a brothel, dearest, we won’t be paid,” Mr. Howley murmured.
Mrs. Howley curled her lip at Larken. “I advise you to choose Newcastle. With your disfigurement, no man would pay to bed you.”
Embarrassed, Larken averted her eyes. “I’m to travel by train?”
“Of course you’ll travel by train. It’s Newcastle, for heaven’s sake, not the church ’round the corner.”
A shake of the head. “You know I can’t manage the train.”
“Take a bottle of laudanum with you,” Mr. Howley said. “A few drops should set you right. It was very helpful when we brought you here from London, remember?”
Larken’s motivation to be liberated from her present situation was so overwhelming, she was willing to do almost anything. “Yes. Laudanum might work.”
Mrs. Howley curled her lip. “You’ve had five years to get over the accident. I’m of the opinion you’re an attention-seeking malingerer.”
Larken gave her a sweet smile. “Malingerer or not, if I don’t use the laudanum, I can’t take the train. Then I’ll be on the streets and whatever renumeration you’ve been promised for furnishing Mr. King a bride won’t be forthcoming.”
A sound of disgust. “Take the bottle then. Just mind you don’t overdo it and arrive at Newcastle any more of a drooling idiot than you already are.”
“I’m glad we’ve settled the matter,” Mr. Howley said. “Larken, I’ve left one of your old trunks in your room. Be sure to be completely packed before you retire this evening.”
Larken’s task of packing up her meager belongings was not overly arduous. When she was done folding her handful of dresses and shoes into the battered old trunk, it was only half full. Of course, the clothes were not the sum total of her possessions. She slipped out of the house and made her way to the garden shed in the back yard. Since neither of the Howleys could be bothered with tending the garden, the structure had long since ceased its original function, and had become Larken’s makeshift retreat instead. As she entered the shed, she waved at the far wall where an ancient orange work shirt, ragged overalls, and straw hat hanging on a nail resembled the body of a man.
“Hello, Mr. Marmalade. I’ve come to say good-bye. Oh, and to retrieve my things.”
Larken glanced over her shoulder toward the house. When she was certain no one was watching, she knelt, pulled up a loose floorboard, and lifted out a tin box wedged underneath. Inside the box were several yellowed newspaper clippings about the train wreck which had killed her parents. One headline read: “Death Train Tumbles Into Gorge.” Another said: “Miracle Orphan.” Underneath the clippings were a bloodstained Adelphi Theatre program, a packet of letters, the few pieces of her mother’s jewelry she’d managed to wrest from Mrs. Howley’s grasp, and her father’s heirloom pocket watch and fob. She ran her fingertips over the engraved initials H.A.P.—for Horatio Andrew Burke. A long-buried unpleasant memory surfaced…
“Do you think we ought to be rifling through the Burkes’ trunks this way? These things belong to the girl now.”
Mr. Howley’s whisper was loud enoug
h to reach Larken’s hearing as she lay awake in the dark.
“Shh. Keep your voice down or she’ll hear you! Why would a fourteen-year-old child need jewelry or a pocket watch? Besides which, I’m sure the Burkes would want us to have a few pretty baubles to pay us back for taking in their brat.”
“But the charity fund set up by the newspaper has raised a small fortune for her care, dearest.”
“Will our new carriage pay for itself? It’ll cost us a fortune to raise the girl when it’s all said and done. Larken’s not right in the head, if you hadn’t noticed, and disfigured to boot. She’ll likely never marry, so we’re stuck with her until we decide to throw her out. Here, take the watch. It’s handsome enough to suit you.”
Larken had bided her time, of course, but eventually managed to liberate the watch one afternoon during Mr. Howley’s nap. When confronted, she’d feigned ignorance of its whereabouts. Mrs. Howley had searched her room, but since the watch was hidden in the garden shed, the woman had turned up nothing. Mr. Howley reluctantly concluded he’d been the victim of a pickpocket and the matter was put to rest. Over the years, Larken had managed to steal back her valuables, one item at a time, and hide them under the protection of Mr. Marmalade. Although she was beaten quite severely each time something came up missing, she never confessed. The last remaining thing to recover was her mother’s treasured locket.
As she left the shed, she gave Mr. Marmalade a smile and a nod. “You’ve been good company, sir. Take care of yourself.”
With the tin box under her arm, Larken returned to the house.
As she passed the doorway to the kitchen, Mrs. Howley called out, “What are you doing so secretively?”
“Packing.”
Mrs. Howley appeared in the doorway, her gaze focusing on the rusty box. “What’s in there?”
Larken pulled herself up to her full height, which was easily four inches taller than Mrs. Howley. “Odds and ends I’ve collected over the years. Stones and pressed flowers and the like.” Her steady gaze dared the woman to do anything.
