A Glimpse at Happiness E-Book

Jean Fullerton

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The 2nd novel in the East End Nolan Family series. The most talented voice since Dilly Court - an absorbing, thrilling and romantic historical saga with characters you'll fall in love with. When Josie O'Casey returns to London after twelve years in America, she is overjoyed to discover that her childhood sweetheart Patrick Nolan, who she believed to be dead, is alive and well. But Josie's happiness is short-lived - Patrick now belongs to another. Heartbroken, Josie vows to forget about Patrick and settle back into life in the East End. But the East End that Josie knew as a child is much changed. While Josie can remember only too clearly her poverty-stricken upbringing, her family's social standing has vastly improved since they've been away. And there are some who resent that Josie left behind the slums of London to return as a lady. Torn between two worlds, Josie is still drawn back to her childhood haunts - and to Patrick. When the couple are finally offered a glimmer of hope, their chance at happiness is threatened by the all-powerful Ma Tugman and her criminal empire. Now Josie must decide if she is willing to forsake everything for the man she loves... A sweeping historical romance perfect for fans of Bridgerton

Leseprobe

A Glimpse at Happiness

Also by Jean Fullerton

No Cure for Love

A Glimpse at Happiness

Perhaps Tomorrow

Hold on to Hope

A Glimpse at Happiness

Jean Fullerton

First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Orion Books, an imprint of Hachette UK Ltd.

This edition published in 2018 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

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Copyright © Jean Fullerton 2009

The moral right of Jean Fullerton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book isavailable from the British Library.

ISBN 978 178 649 5778

Corvus

An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London

WC1N 3JZ

www.corvus-books.co.uk

For my three daughters, Janet, Fiona and Amy, to thank them for their love and support and for putting up with a constantly distracted mother.

Acknowledgements

As with my first book, No Cure for Love, I have used numerous sources to get the period setting and feel of A Glimpse at Happiness right, but I have to mention a few books and authors to whom I am particularly indebted.

First and foremost, Henry Mayhew, deceased, for his detailed contemporary accounts of the poor in London Labour and the London Poor (edited by Neuburg, Penguin, 1985) and The London Underworld in the Victorian Period (Dover Publications, 2005). His painstaking reporting of the worries, concerns and language of the people he interviewed and scenes he witnessed allowed me to hear the voices and see the lives of the men and women of London as if I were there myself. My fellow East End author Gilda O’Neill’s book The Good Old Days (Penguin, 2007) has given me an invaluable insight into various aspects of 19th century life in East London, as did the out of print The East End of London by Millicent Rose (The Cresset Press, 1951). This account of East London was written before the slum clearances in the late 50s and early 60s and gives a tantalising glimpse into tight-knit communities clustered around the London docks before they were dispersed to high-rise flats and post-war estates. Judith Flanders book The Victorian House (Harper Perennial, 2003) helped me with the little details of Ellen and Robert Munroe’s family life, while Lisa Picard’s Victorian London (Orion Books, 2005) helped me with the details of Victorian London life, such as public baths. I also want to mention Love and Toil: Motherhood in Outcast London 1870–1918 by Ellen Ross (Oxford University Press, 1993). This detailed academic study has vivid accounts of the trials and tribulation of mothers struggling to raise their children in squalor and poverty in Victorian London. There are several photographic books of old East London that helped me visualise what the streets of East London looked like when Josie and Patrick walked them. These include East London Neighbourhoods by Brian Girling (Tempus, 2005) Victorian Street Life by John Thompson (Dover Publications, 1994) and Dockland Life by Chris Ellmers & Alex Werner (Mainstream Publishing, 1991). One photo in particular, The Bustle of the Pool of London at Black Eagle Wharf Wapping, which is part of the Museum of London collection, is particularly evocative. Google it and see what I mean. Lastly, and by no means least, I would like to mention author Lee Jackson’s brilliant website The Victorian Dictionary (http://www.victorianlondon.org/) which is packed with everything you could ever imagine about Victorian London.

I would also like to take the opportunity to thank a few people. My friend Dee, for being there for me always. My fellow historical author Elizabeth Hawksley, for her help in untying the knots in my plot. My many friends in the Romantic Novelist Association who encourage me, in particular Janet Gover and Fenella Miller. My lovely agent Laura Longrigg, who gets long emails from me detailing everything I’m doing and thinking but still smiles warmly at me whenever we meet. Finally, but importantly, a big thank you to the editorial team at Orion, especially Sara O’Keeffe and Natalie Braine, firstly for loving my stories and secondly, turning my 400+ pages of type print into a beautiful book.

Prologue

Wapping, East London, 1844

Ma Tugman, owner of the Boatman freehouse, wedged herself into her usual chair beside the counter of the main bar. The pub was the only thing of any worth she’d got from her old man. Snapper, her stubbed-nose terrier with a temper as short as his docked tail, shuffled under her chair and lay down with a loud huff. Ma’s broad hips spread across the surface of the seat and her feet just skimmed the sawdust-covered floorboards. She could feel the tightness around her ankles so she wriggled her toes inside her scuffed boots. The pain was always worse at the end of the day.

The Boatman was set a few streets back from the river and tucked up the side of Lower Well Alley. It wasn’t frequented by watermen with wages burning holes in their pockets, as the Prospect or the Town were, but then it didn’t have the peelers from Wapping police office passing through its doors either.

Ma rested her hands on the curved wooden arms of the chair and leant back. It was just after six and they would light the lamps in a while, but for the next half hour or so the light from outside would be enough. Not that it could illuminate much of the interior: most of the windows were covered by packing cases instead of glass, leaving the light from outside to cut through the darkness in haphazard shafts. Daylight never reached the back of the narrow bar, so the full extent of the beer stains and ground-in dirt on the floor remained hidden.

In the dim recesses of the room, men hunched over their drinks while a few of the local trollops jostled for their first customers of the night.

Ma thrust her hand under one pendulous breast and scratched vigorously. She had been a looker years ago but had long since given up wearing stays. She glanced across the bar at the thin young woman cleaning the tankards and yelled across at her to bring a brandy.

The girl dried her hands and brought over a bottle and short glass, just as the door opened to admit Harry, Ma’s eldest son. He stumbled in with his brother, Charlie, a step or two behind, then a wild-eyed Tommy Lee, a bargeman from Chapel Street.

Ma’s gaze ran over her first-born. He had his father’s looks – square and stocky. Unfortunately, he also had his father’s hair, which had started to disappear in his early twenties. Rather than try to comb over what was left of it, Harry had shaved his head clean with his razor. Ma shifted her gaze to her other son, Charlie, ten years Harry’s junior, and smiled. He had her slighter build and topped his brother by half a hand. He also had her golden hair, which she had spent hours combing and curling when he was a small boy.

Elbowing aside the men clustered near the door, Harry stomped across the floorboards, Charlie and Tommy Lee following close behind.

‘’Ows me best gal?’ Harry asked, kissing his mother on her forehead.

‘All the better for seeing my sweet boy,’ she answered smiling at his brother.

Harry’s lower lip jutted out. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a red and green apple. He threw it in the air, bounced it off his bicep and caught it again. ‘I got this from Murphy’s stall. He said I was to give it to you, to brighten your smile.’ He handed it to her.

Ma slid her knife from her skirt pocket. She held it in her palm for a second to feel the smoothness of the ivory handle. It had been her Harry’s and his father’s before that, and it would no doubt pass to her son Harry in time. It was well crafted, balanced and razor-sharp. She ran her thumb up to the pin at the top of the handle and pressed it. The blade sprung out.

Suddenly, Tommy stumbled and looked for a moment, as if he might fall to the floor. Charlie dragged him upright and, holding him tight by the arm, said, ‘Look who we found skulking in the Ten Bells.’

Ma looked Tommy up and down. ‘The Ten Bells? What took you so far from home then?’

Sweat glistened on Tommy’s narrow forehead.

‘Me ma’s talking to you,’ Charlie growled, ‘and I ’ope for your sake you’ve got an answer.’

Ma waved her knife in the air and it gleamed in the light. ‘Now, Charlie, Tommy didn’t mean no ’arm.’ She began paring the skin from the apple.

‘Nah, nah, I didn’t mean no ‘arm at all, Mrs T,’ Tommy replied, his body losing some of its tension. ‘I just fancied a stroll and found myself up Shoreditch way.’

Harry snorted. ‘Long bloody stroll! Your old lady hasn’t seen you for a week.’

‘And neither ’ave we,’ Ma added, slicing into the apple and popping a wedge in her mouth. ‘Bring ’im ’ere.’

Snapper, who’d settled under the table to gnaw at his haunches, heard the change of tone and sprang to his feet. Tommy yelled and lurched away but Harry and Charlie thrust him towards Ma and held his hands down on the table.

Tommy’s eye fixed on the blade in Ma’s hand as it twinkled in the light. She paused, savouring his terrified expression then, with a twist of her fingers, she gripped the knife and slammed the blade through Tommy’s outstretched hand.

An ear-piercing yell tore through the bar. Snapper barked and danced around their feet. Some of the patrons looked up but most, knowing where their best interests lay, continued to stare into their glasses.

Still clutching the ivory handle, Ma leant forward. ‘And how is your old lady and those four lovely kids of yours?’ she asked in a conversational tone.

A rivulet of blood was rolling off Tommy’s hand, staining the tabletop beneath.

Charlie shook him. ‘Me ma asked you a question.’

‘She . . . she’s f . . . fine, Mrs Tugman.’

‘And the children?’

Tommy was all but on his knees now in an effort to minimise the pull on his injured hand. ‘Grand. They’re grand.’

Ma’s free hand shot out, grabbed the tattered scarf around Tommy’s neck and hauled him towards her. He lost his footing and would have fallen but for his hand nailed to the table.

‘If you want ’em to stay that way, Tommy Lee, when my boys give you something to take upriver, you fecking take it.’ Ma wriggled the blade. ‘Understand?’

He nodded and, as Ma yanked the knife out of his hand, he collapsed. Snapper barked a couple of times at the crumpled heap then waddled off.

Ma’s hand went to her chest.

‘Has ’e upset you, Ma?’ Harry asked, glaring at the man on the floor.

‘Just catching my breath,’ she replied.

Harry circled around Tommy, who was now coming to and scrambling to his feet.

‘You upset me ma,’ he shouted, and booted Tommy in the stomach.

Tommy fell sideways, holding his bleeding hand, and vomited into the beer-soaked sawdust. Charlie went to boot him, too.

‘That’s enough!’ Ma barked. ‘Throw him outside. And you’ – she jabbed her index finger at the girl behind the bar – ‘get a bucket and clear up this mess.’

Harry and Charlie heaved Tommy up once again, dragged him to the door and threw him out to the street.

Ma wiped the blade of her knife on her skirt and resumed eating her apple, but felt a sudden sharp sting under her arm. Letting the knife fall to her lap, she slid her right hand between the buttons of her grubby blouse, over to her left armpit, where she caught her minute tormenter between her thumb and forefinger. She extracted it and idly studied the flea as it struggled. ‘You can hide from Ma and give ’er a nip when she ain’t looking,’ she told the insect as she cracked it between her black-rimmed nails, ‘but she’ll get yer in the end.’

Chapter One

Stepney Green, 1844

With her hand on the polished banister, Josephine O’Casey, known as Josie ever since she could remember, lifted her skirts and made her way down the uncarpeted stairs from the main part of the house, to the kitchen. The heat from the room burst over her as she opened the door. Tucking a stray lock of her auburn hair back behind her ears, she stepped down to the flagstone floor.

The kitchen of number twenty-four Stepney Green was half below street level. The range, with its two ovens, roasting spit and six hotplates, dominated the space. Daisy, the maid, lit it at five in the morning and it supplied the household not only with food but, thanks to the copper incorporated into its design, a constant stream of hot water.

Standing with her back to Josie was Mrs Woodall, the Munroe family’s cook. Her wide hips shook as she furiously stirred the contents of one of the large saucepans.

On a normal day Mrs Woodall accommodated the erratic working hours of Josie’s stepfather, Dr Robert Munroe, as well as the vagaries of the tradesmen and the children’s fads and fancies; however, today was not a normal day, and the usually unruffled cook looked as if she was about to boil over, just like one of her pots.

‘Oh, Miss Josie, it’s you. I thought it was your mother again,’ Mrs Woodall said, some of the worry leaving her face.

Josie smiled. To her knowledge her mother, Ellen, had already been down to the kitchen three times in the last two hours and by the look on Cook’s face she was expected again.

‘You’d think the Queen of Sheba was coming, the amount of dishes I’ve got to prepare,’ Mrs Woodall continued.

Queen of Sheba! No, someone much more important: Mrs Munroe, her stepfather’s elderly mother.

‘Can I do anything to help?’ asked Josie, skirting around the stained chopping block which still had the odd chicken feather stuck to its surface. She, too, had escaped from the turmoil upstairs.

Apart from her trips to see Cook, Ellen had visited the guest room twice to check that the bed linen was properly aired, and her temper was shortening by the minute.

‘Thank you, Miss Josie, but I’ve taken the plates up and now I just have to wait for the meat to cook and the fruit to arrive.’

There was a crash from the floor above. Josie and Mrs Woodall looked up.

‘Your poor mother,’ tutted Mrs Woodall, and, turned her attention to the pile of cabbage sitting ready to prepare. ‘She shouldn’t be running about in her condition.’

Josie agreed and, pushing her way past the basket of potatoes on the floor, went over to the roasting hook to rewind the clockwork that had begun to slow.

Mrs Woodall gave her a grateful smile. ‘I could do with Daisy down here to help,’ she said, attacking the wrinkled leaves of the Savoy cabbage with her vegetable knife. ‘I don’t know why nurse needs help with the children.’

Josie repositioned the dripping tray under the roasting side of beef turning in front of the fire. ‘George and Joe have been up since dawn,’ she said. ‘Their racket woke Jack, who grizzled for an hour, and then the girls got out of bed. Poor Nurse has to help Miss Bobby and Lottie into their best clothes and take the rags out of their hair, and at the same time try to soothe Jack, who’s teething. She needs Daisy to make sure they are all ready on time.’

Mrs Woodall looked unconvinced. Josie noticed the jam tarts on the cooling tray by the open window.

‘I can see your eyes, Miss Josie,’ Mrs Woodall said, a small smile lightening her face. ‘I suppose I had better let you make sure they’re all right before I send them up with the afternoon tea.’

Josie grinned, then went over and scooped up a tart. She blew on it for a second and then popped it in her mouth, licking her fingers.

Mrs Woodall’s gaze ran over Josie and her eyes grew soft. ‘With your sweet tooth, I’m surprised you stay so slim. It must be all that dashing about you do.’

Large windows let light into the kitchen but, since the kitchen was below street level they remained firmly shut to keep out the dirt that would blow down from above. To keep the temperature of the room down, Mrs Woodall worked with the back door ajar.

‘And where is the grocery boy?’ she asked herself now, glaring around the room as if the pots and pans might know.

‘I’m sure he’ll be here soon. Mr Grey is very reliable,’ Josie assured her.

‘He is, but that boy of his, Jaco, is a bit flash for my taste. I caught him chatting with Daisy outside the back door last week,’ Mrs Woodall replied. ‘How am I supposed to make Dish of Orange without oranges, I ask you?’

At that, there was a double-tone whistle and the young man in question stepped through the back door.

‘Morning, Mrs W,’ he said, swinging his basket up onto the work surface beside the deep sink.

Mrs Woodall pointed at Jaco with her knife. ‘I’ve been expecting you for hours and I’ll have something to say to your master when I see him.’

‘Now then, hold your horses there, it ain’t my fault I’m late.’ Jaco repositioned his cap at a preferred jaunty angle. ‘The missus’ brother been away at sea for nigh on two years and he come back last night. They’re all a bit foggy, you might say, this morning after the celebration.’

‘Where has he been?’ Josie asked, thankful to talk about something other than Mrs Munroe’s imminent arrival.

‘According to him, everywhere – India, China and other savage lands,’ Jaco replied, squaring up the bottom of his colourful waistcoat. ‘Brought back all sorts of things, he did. Some strange cups with no handles from Japan, a bolt of silk from Bombay and some carved masks that scared the nippers.’

‘It’s a pity he didn’t bring some oranges with a bit of juice in them,’ commented Mrs Woodall, squeezing one of the fruits with a work-worn hand.

Jaco turned to Josie. ‘As I said, all around the world and sailed back on the Jupiter on the evening tide.’

Josie’s mind whirled.

The Jupiter!

Why did that name ring bells in her head?

‘Anyhow, Mrs W, Mr Grey says to tell you he’ll be by in the morning for the rest of the week’s order,’ Jaco said. He winked at Mrs Woodall. ‘Oh, and tell Daisy I was asking after her,’ he said, dashing up the steps two at a time.

‘I’ll do no such thing,’ Mrs Woodall called after him.

Turning back to the table, she seized a large potato and jabbed her knife into it. ‘The cheek of him,’ she muttered, scraping off the skin in short strokes.

The kitchen door opened and Bobby, Josie’s twelve-year-old-sister, appeared around it. Nurse had worked a miracle on Bobby’s straight hair and her young face was now framed with reddish-blond ringlets.

‘Mother’s asking for you,’ Bobby said.

Giving Mrs Woodall a brief smile, Josie followed Bobby up the stairs.

Shoving the niggling issue of the Jupiter aside, she reached the ground floor of the house and stepped back onto the hall carpet, the smell of lavender and beeswax tickling her nose. The door to the parlour, the main family room to her right, was open wide and Josie glanced in.

The sofa and chairs sat at right angles to each other with their cushions plumped and the whatnots standing ready to receive books and drinks as required. Josie’s embroidery hoop lay across her needlework box on the table by the window. Ma had wanted to tidy it away but Josie had argued that it would show Mrs Munroe that they spent their leisure time in industrious pursuits.

Mounting the stairs to the first floor, her eye caught the print of the steamship her stepfather had bought shares in. A smile lifted the corners of her mouth. That’s it! The Jupiter.

She peered at the name underneath the picture. It wasn’t the Jupiter, it was the Juno.

For goodness’ sake, she thought. The Jupiter was threatening to turn into one of those questions that tap at your brain for hours until you remember the answer.

‘Josie!’ her mother’s voice called from above her.

‘Just coming, Mam.’ Josie hoisted her skirts and made her way up to the next floor.

When Robert Munroe had left New York ahead of them to take up his post as Chief Medical Officer of the nearby London Hospital, and to find his family a suitable house, he had asked Josie what she would like in her bedroom. She had said two words: pink and lace, and now her bedroom incorporated both with pink candy-striped wallpaper, darker toned curtains and lace bed hangings. The room also had a rosewood wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a marble-topped washstand. As Josie had spent the first half of her life in a one up, one down cottage by the Thames she hadn’t yet grown tired of the pleasure of her own room. It was a far cry from the creaky wooden bed with the straw-stuffed mattress that she, her mother and her gran used to share all those years ago.

Josie stared around her bedroom as images of her old house, its cracked glass in the windows and its ragged curtains, drifted into her mind. Instead of the Turkey rug on the wooden floorboards she saw the old rag rug covering the beaten earth and shabby furniture.

Ellen’s voice cut through her musing.

‘For goodness’ sake, Josie, where have you been?’ she asked, laying the skirt of Josie’s best dress on her bed alongside four petticoats. ‘You need to get ready. They could be here any moment.’

Josie shut the door. ‘There’s hours yet. Pa has to get to the Black Swan to collect her and then get a cab back.’ She began to unbutton the bodice of her workaday brown dress. ‘Mam, stop worrying or you’ll get a headache and then Pa’ll have something to say.’

Robert Munroe wasn’t actually her father. Michael O’Casey had died before she could walk, let alone remember him, so Robert was the only man she’d ever called Pa. She’d first met him when she was twelve and he had just set up his medical practice around the corner from where they lived in Anthony Street. Her gran had called Dr Munroe to their old ramshackle home one night after Josie had returned home from school with her throat feeling as if she’d swallowed broken glass. From that very moment, he became one of her favourite people, and had remained so ever since.

A soft look crossed Ellen’s face and she ran her hands over her swollen stomach.

‘Why don’t you sit down while I freshen up, then you can help me with my laces,’ Josie said soothingly.

Ellen duly sat down and patted the dark auburn bun at the nape of her neck. She glanced out of the window again and her fingers drummed on the armrest.

‘Don’t worry. I’m sure Mrs Munroe isn’t as fierce as all that,’ Josie said, as she sponged herself down.

‘Maybe so, but I’m sure she still regards me as a godless papist who nearly ruined her son and forced him to live in America for the last twelve years,’ her mother replied, fiddling with her hair again.

‘I’m sure she thinks no such thing.’

Ellen raised an eyebrow.

Before they married, Josie’s mother and stepfather had been at the centre of an infamous, trial. Danny Donavan, who had the look of a bulldog chewing gristle, had ruled the dockside area for years with a fist and a blade of iron until Robert Munroe exposed his corrupt practices. Donavan was sent to trial at the Old Bailey, and it was Ellen, who used to earn a few coppers singing in Danny’s pubs, who supplied the vital piece of evidence against her boss. The trial was reported widely; so too was Ellen’s relationship with the reforming young doctor. They had married, but because of the scandal, Robert had been forced to practise in America for the past twelve years.

Although Robert’s father, the Reverend George Munroe, had gone to his grave refusing to acknowledge his son’s marriage to an Irish Catholic, his mother was more pragmatic. After Ellen and Robert had been married for eight years and produced five children, Robert’s mother had graciously condescended to acknowledge Ellen.

Josie put on a bright smile. ‘Besides, I’m sure that once she sets eyes on her grandchildren she won’t mind if you’re the Pope’s sister.’

‘It’s been hard on your father being apart from his family. He has longed for his mother to meet us all and I am determined that nothing should mar his joy.’

Josie reached for the towel. ‘Mam, what was the name of the ship we sailed to America on?’

Ellen shrugged. ‘I can’t remember.’ She stood up slowly and then, going to the bed, picked up the new, finely worked corset she had bought for her daughter in Regent Street.

Ellen shook it at Josie and grinned. ‘Now then, Josie Bridget O’Casey, turn around and prepare yourself.’

She slid the corset on Josie, who fastened the hooks at the front. Josie held her breath and her mother pulled the laces at the back. Pulling each side together she worked her way down and tied it off temporarily. Josie let out her breath.

‘We’re not done yet, my girl,’ her mother told her.

‘You know Pa said it can be dangerous to lace too tight,’ Josie said, hoping her mother gauged her waist to be slender enough.

‘Just a pinch more,’ Ellen said. She repeated the process.

After five more minutes of being pulled back and forth, Ellen drew the two sides of the corset together at the back and finally tied the laces. She tipped her head to one side and admired her daughter. ‘That’s not too tight, surely,’ she said. ‘I read in the paper that there are young women of your age with waists of eighteen inches.’

‘What, fainting in the street?’ Josie replied, twisting back and forth. ‘It’s all right for you. You don’t have to wear one.’

Ellen laughed ‘You look grand, so quit your fussing and get dressed. You can’t greet Robert’s mother in your underwear.’

Josie stepped into her fine petticoat and then the other three padded ones and Ellen tied them at the back. She held Josie’s dress aloft so she could slip into it.

‘The turquoise and green in that fabric really suits you,’ Ellen told her as she snapped the last metal clip in place.

‘I loved the colours when we saw it in the warehouse.’

‘It brings out the colour of your hair and eyes,’ Ellen said. ‘And I’m not the only one to think so. That young doctor, Mr Arnold, your father invited to dinner last week could barely find his food on his plate for looking at you.’

‘We were talking about his work, that’s all,’ Josie replied, lowering her head. She was acutely aware that her cheeks were turning red.

‘It doesn’t matter what you were talking about,’ Ellen said, straightening the pleats around the neckline of the dress. ‘He is from a good family and his grandmother left him well provided for.’

Josie had noticed William Arnold’s interest but hoped that her mother hadn’t. He was pleasant enough but when he shook her hand there was no strength in it. She pulled a face.

‘And if not him, what about Mr Vaughan? I could see he was very taken with you and his father owns most of the High Street.’

‘Mother! We have only been home a month and already you’re wanting to marry me off. Will you just stop throwing young men at me?’

‘Only when you decide to catch one. You want to marry, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do, but you didn’t marry Pa to be provided for,’ she said, and her mother’s eyes flew open. ‘You married Pa because you loved him.’

‘That is entirely a diff—’ she caught Josie’s amused expression. ‘I just want the best for you, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘I don’t want you to have to wash other people’s dirty clothes to put food on the table or—’

‘Sing in a public house to keep my daughter from the workhouse,’ Josie said.

The iron-rimmed wheels of a coach sounded below. Josie and Ellen dashed to the window. A carriage had slowed and the driver halted the horse. He stowed his whip, then hopped down from the top box. The door opened and Josie’s stepfather jumped down. He straightened his coat and held out his hand. The coach lurched and a woman stepped out. She was dressed completely in black and her hat had a modest brim by fashionable standards, with only a Petersham band around the crown by way of adornment. The half-veil of the hat hid all but the tightly drawn lips of the woman. She straightened up stiffly and stared up at the house.

Taking her son’s arm with one hand and leaning on her cane with the other, Mrs Munroe mounted the seven whitened steps to the front door.

Ellen rushed from Josie’s room. ‘Judy! Daisy! Quick, quick! Mrs Munroe has arrived and we should already be downstairs. Bring the children down at once.’

As Josie joined her mother, Bobby, and ten-year-old Lottie, were already making their way down to the parlour below. Both wore their new clothes, and their tight ringlets bobbed either side of their faces.

Following them was Nurse in her navy uniform and starched white apron, carrying baby Jack while guiding six-year-old Joe down the stairs. Nine-year-old George followed in his new sailor suit, complete with a hat.

Josie just stood, caught in the moment, hardly able to breathe.

Patrick! The Jupiter was the first ship he had sailed on.

Her head spun for a second as memories of her first love, Patrick Nolan, danced in her mind. The ache of a loss that had dulled but never disappeared rose up in her.

Josie continued to stand unseeing, as her mind took her back twelve years to when she and her mother had lived in the tiny cottage by the river. She was thirteen then and her head had barely reached Patrick’s chin. He had been her ‘fella’ and she had been his ‘gal’. He had signed articles on the Jupiter just before she and her mother had sailed for America and he had visited them each time his ship brought him to New York.

It was seven years since she had waved goodbye to him from the quayside in New York. She remembered thinking that, with a strong wind behind him and a swift turn around in London, he would be back to her within the year. As he kissed her goodbye he’d told her that when he came back he would ask Dr Munroe’s permission to court her.

He had never returned.

Chapter Two

As the sun dipped behind the wharves that lined the Thames waterfront at Wapping, Patrick Nolan leapt nimbly onto the quayside, looped the rope in his hand around the squat iron mooring then pressed the coil firmly with his studded boot. From Ratcliffe Cross to the Regent Canal Basin the sail barges, like the one Patrick captained, were being tied up and made trim for the next day.

Running his hands through his unruly black curls, Patrick stretched his body to relieve the knot in his back. The soft breeze ruffled his open shirt as he untied his red kingsman – the handkerchief around his neck – and shook the coal dust out before retying it, setting the knot at a jaunty angle. The brightly coloured squares were almost a symbol of the bargemen and were as important to their safety as the tarred keels of their boats, especially when they carried the highly prized and lucrative coal up river. Although the job turned a good profit, coal dust seeped into lungs day after day and rotted them unless the men were careful to keep it out as they worked.

Adjusting his knot again and with a last glance over the boat, Patrick snatched up his jacket and slung it across his shoulder, leaving his shirt sleeves rolled up.

He’d had a good day. He’d loaded a full hold of coal from a Newcastle collier before the sun was up and, helped by the strong spring tide, had landed it by mid-morning at Pimlico Pier. He’d trimmed the sails and made it back to the Regent Canal Basin just after two, when he’d picked up another half hold of coal that he then ferried to Blackfriars.

Now, turning his back on the jagged black mountains of coal heaped in the yards, Patrick Nolan fell in step with the other men tramping home over the cobbles. He passed many people who greeted him with a cheery wave and a smile, their teeth flashing white in their coal-blackened faces. He had known most of them since they were children, and when he’d arrived back in Wapping five years ago he’d been surprised by the ease with which he had slipped back in to old friendships. He’d even secured a lucrative captaincy on one of Watkins & Sons new barges, but then the fact that he’d worked his way up from deck hand to able seaman had helped to establish his credentials.

Although it was not yet six o’clock, some of the local trollops were already milling around between the warehouses. They eyed Patrick boldly and one blew him a kiss, but though he grinned and winked in response, he didn’t pause. He had more sense than to risk his health by accepting an invitation from one of the riverside doxies.

Putting his hand to the polished doorplate of the saloon bar door of the Town of Ramsgate, Patrick shoved it open.

Inside, the narrow bar was packed. The Town did a brisk trade with all those who worked on the river. As it was Saturday, those men who had been paid at the end of the week would stop in at any one of the dozens of public houses in the area for a swift pint before the more reliable of them headed home to give their wives the weekly housekeeping. The first customers in that evening had found themselves seats on the benches against the wall, but most stood elbow to elbow while they sank their foaming pints.

Patrick elbowed his way through the throng. He was a regular customer in the Town of Ramsgate, most of whose patrons were his neighbours, living in two-up, two-down houses like his own in the streets surrounding the London Docks. And, like Patrick, although most of these men had been born in the overcrowded slums of London’s East End their names – Docherty, Murphy, Riley, Sheehan – told of their ‘Old Country’ origins. Many of them greeted him with a slap on the back and a ‘Good man yerself, Pat’, while others pressed him to have a drink.

By local standards, the Town was a respectable house. When, a few years back, it was still common practice for riverside ale houses to act as recruitment agencies for casual labourers, Arthur Kemp, the landlord, hadn’t expected a man to spend half his earnings on drink at the bar before giving him work. For that reason alone Patrick gave the Town his custom. Although the Town looked as if it had been hammered in between the warehouses, it had been there forever, long before the warehouses were built. Arthur was fond of telling people that Nelson had stopped at the bar before Trafalgar, a tale which some wag always greeted by asking if he’d had to wait as long as the rest of them to get served.

The smell of newly laid sawdust drifted up and mingled with the bitter aroma of fresh beer and stale sweat, and men vied for space, shouting and laughing under the grey haze of tobacco smoke. Shouldering his way to the bar, Patrick caught sight of his boyhood friend Brian Maguire, who could almost match Patrick’s height but was of slighter build. He was to marry Mattie, Patrick’s eldest sister, in three months’ time.

Brian grinned at his future brother-in-law. ‘I thought you’d be in,’ he said, flicking back a wedge of unruly red-gold hair. ‘Where have you been today then?’

Patrick smiled. It was common knowledge that he’d sailed around the globe twice, and the men around the port never tired of asking if he’d seen any elephants or sea monsters. It was goodhearted banter and Patrick took it as such, but it was a constant reminder that he now had to be content with the Thames when once he had sailed the oceans.

‘Pimlico and Blackfriars,’ he replied. ‘And no, I didn’t see any whales, just a couple of mermaids.’

Brian laughed and Patrick caught Arthur’s eye. The landlord wiped his hands on his apron and swaggered over.

‘Evening, Pat. Good to see you,’ he said, reaching up and taking a battered pewter tankard down from the ironwork above the bar. ‘What’ll you have?’

‘Pint of your brown,’ Patrick replied.

Arthur hooked the tankard under the brass spout, pulled on the pump handle and the ale spurted out. He placed the drink on the wooden counter.

Patrick handed him thruppence and then sipped the frothy head off in a noisy slurp before gulping down a couple of refreshing mouthfuls of the ale beneath.

Arthur Kemp rested his hands on the bar and leant forward. ‘I was down by the river earlier and saw your top sail full up and cutting upstream,’ he said. ‘How’d you get that new boat straight off the blocks?’

A grin spread across Brian’s face. ‘I’ll tell you, Arthur, it’s because he’s got such a pretty face.’

Arthur laughed, and then glanced down to the other end of the bar. ‘My new barmaid seems to think so.’

Patrick followed his gaze to where a young woman at the other end of the bar was studying him. When she caught his eye, a blush spread across her cheeks and she looked away.

‘New girl?’ Patrick asked. She was curvy enough and her rear swayed pleasingly as she moved.

‘Started yesterday. She’s a bit slow with the orders but the customers like her.’ Arthur winked at him. ‘Your brother Gus seemed to think so when he was in here earlier.’

Patrick studied the girl again and a smile creased his face. ‘I’m sure he did.’

Brian called for another drink. Patrick put his hand over his tankard. ‘I’m heading off after this one. Annie and Mickey will be waiting for me.’

‘You know, Pat, those nippers are a credit to you,’ said Brian. ‘That young Annie is as bright as a button and pretty as a flower in the sun, and Mickey’s got the same quick cheek about him as his old man, so he has.’ He used the back of his hand to wipe the beer froth from the fair bristles of his top lip. ‘After Rosa left not many men would have done what you did. After all, you with only six months from sitting the captain’s exams and getting your own ship, yet you gave it up over night to look after your kids and see them right.’

‘They are my children,’ Patrick replied, remembering coming home three years ago to find Mickey in a filthy bum-cloth, two-year-old Annie trying to feed him a crust of bread, and his wife nowhere in sight.

‘Even so, you could have left them with yer mam and gone back to sea. That’s what most men would have done,’ Brian replied.

‘I’m not most men.’

‘No . . . no you’re not,’ Brian agreed, picking up his tankard only for someone to shove him from behind. His mouth slipped from the tankard’s rim and beer splashed down his front.

‘What the fec—’ Brian stopped as he saw who had jostled him.

Patrick eyed the newcomer coolly. Harry Tugman was about five years older than Patrick but his baldness made him look even older. The top of his head just reached Patrick’s chin, which meant he had to crane his short neck to look into Patrick’s face. He wore tight corduroy trousers that sagged at the knees, a grubby grey shirt and a shapeless, oversized checked jacket, but there was no way on God’s earth that any of its remaining buttons could ever now be fastened into their corresponding buttonholes.

Harry Tugman was tough, but not as tough as Patrick Nolan, who had learned to handle himself in some of the roughest ports on the globe.

Harry smiled, revealing a set of uneven brown teeth. ‘Ma wants to know when you’ll be calling.’

‘Does she?’

‘Aye. She’s asked you twice before and is a bit surprised you haven’t been by, considering she wants to put a bit of business your way.’ Harry leant on the bar between Patrick and Brian. ‘For a few easy hours’ work you could earn yourself double what you’ll earn in a day hauling coal.’

The buzz of voices stopped, and out of the corner of his eye Patrick noticed Arthur grabbing two bottles from the counter, hiding them underneath and locking the money drawer. Brian left his beer and stood at Patrick’s right shoulder.

Patrick drained the last of his drink and turned to face Harry. ‘I’m sure that Dan Riley thought the same until the police caught him. Now he’s in the clink and his wife and kids are on the parish.’ He drew himself up and stared down at Harry. ‘I know your ma’s business and I want no part in it,’ he said in a clear voice.

Harry poked a black-nailed finger into Patrick’s chest. ‘Now, you listen here, you thick Paddy. Ma don’t have the likes of you saying no. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll not get ’er riled.’ Spit sprayed from his mouth as he spoke.

‘You might still wet yourself when your ma looks at you, Harry, but I don’t.’

There was a low rumble of laughter from the back of the room and Harry’s face flushed crimson. ‘Why you—’

A hard smile spread across Patrick’s angular face. ‘Now you listen to me, Tugman. Tell that old mother of yours that if she wants to move her pilfered stuff upstream she can look somewhere other than at my barge.’ He paused and cast his gaze around the pub. ‘Now, I’m just having a quiet drink so I suggest you hurry home like a good boy, and give your ma my message.’

Harry’s knuckles cracked. A number of the men around the bar stood up.

For one moment, Patrick thought the man’s temper would get the better of him and a part of him hoped it would – but then Harry’s toothy smile returned.

‘That’s right, lads, you have a quiet drink before you head home to your old ladies,’ he said with a forced laugh.

The men sat down again but their eyes remained fixed on Patrick, and on Harry, who thrust his face up close to Patrick’s. ‘You and your bog trotters had better think again, Nolan, or be careful where you walk at night.’

Patrick held his gaze until Harry turned and shoved his way back towards the door.

When he’d gone, Brian whistled through his front teeth. ‘Jesus, I thought there’d be blood.’

Patrick downed the last mouthful of his ale. ‘I didn’t. The Tugmans don’t fight you face to face; they slit your throat in the dark. I judged we were safe enough.’

Brian signalled for the barmaid and she hurried over, all blue eyes and eagerness. Patrick guessed she wouldn’t be behind the bar for long; some eager fellow was bound to persuade her to marry him. She smiled and a dimple showed itself on her right cheek.

‘Same again?’ she asked, running her gaze slowly over Patrick.

He held up his hand. ‘Not for me. I have to get home.’

‘You married then?’ she asked, looking disappointed.

Patrick gave her the smile that had served him well in every port he’d ever been in. ‘Not necessarily,’ he said, sliding his empty tankard towards her and turning to leave.

‘Tell Mattie I’ll be around later,’ Brian said, searching in his pocket for the price of his next drink.

The barmaid pulled hard on the pump. As she leant over the bar her cap caught in the ironwork above her head. Her hair tumbled out and Patrick stopped in his tracks as he watched the rich auburn curls sliding over her shoulders.

Suddenly, he wasn’t in the crowded bar of the Town but at the May fair at Bow Bridge by the river Lea, with a laughing girl on his arm. He could almost smell the lavender she had used for rinsing her dark, auburn hair. It transported him back almost thirteen years, to a past before their lives had changed completely.

Although he’d tried not to think about Josie O’Casey, over the years and in different places the memory of her dark green eyes and inviting smile had stolen back to him in dreams. He pushed the thoughts away. There was no point. He could never go back, and remembering the future he’d planned with her on that bright May morning would only add to his other regrets.

Tapping her foot lightly on the carpet in time to the music, Josie watched her two younger sisters at the piano. Lottie was turning the pages for Bobby, who had been practising for weeks in anticipation of her grandmama’s visit. Now her playing was perfect.

Josie’s gaze moved on to the person her sisters were so eager to please: Mrs Munroe, in widow’s black, sitting straight-backed on the sofa beside her son. Josie hadn’t realised how much her stepfather resembled his mother. They had the same broad forehead and strong jaw. He’d also inherited his commanding height from her and his strongly defined nose, although on her it had a beak-like quality, especially when she tilted her head back.

Bobby came to the end of the piece and everyone applauded. She jumped down from the bench and went over to stand in front of her grandmother. ‘I hope you enjoyed that piece, Grandmama.’

The severe lines of Mrs Munroe’s face softened as she took Bobby’s hand in her bony one. ‘It was beautiful, Robina,’ she said. ‘I think the pianoforte is an excellent instrument for girls.’

Robert’s face registered surprise. ‘I don’t recall your having a musical ear, Mother.’

Mrs Munroe shook her head. ‘I do not commend it for its musical merit but because it forces a girl to sit up straight, and reading music helps her to develop an eye for detail, which is so necessary for checking tradesmen’s bills.’

Next, Lottie bounced off the piano stool, hopped across the floor and collided with Bobby. ‘I turned the pages, Grandmama.’

Mrs Munroe regarded Lottie for a long moment and the little girl shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

‘So I noticed, Charlotte. Now, I’m sure your governess will be coming to take you upstairs.’

‘No, the children stay down until bedtime and then Mam takes them up,’ Josie put in. ‘I help her, of course, and it’s great fun isn’t it, Mam?’

‘It certainly is,’ Ellen agreed.

‘How quaint,’ Mrs Munroe said coolly, ‘but one must always beware of spoiling children. I was most diligent in that regard myself, was I not, Robert?’

Josie had always thought that her stepfather’s Scottish childhood sounded bleak. Since meeting Mrs Munroe, she understood why.

‘No one could ever accuse you of spoiling your children, Mama, but Sir Robert told me that the Royal family themselves favour a more informal family life,’ said Robert.

Mrs Munroe’s substantial eyebrows rose up. ‘Sir Robert? You mean Sir Robert Peel?’

‘I met him last week in the House of Commons to discuss the defeat of Graham’s Factory Act. The care of children in general came up.’

Mrs Munroe looked suitably impressed. Josie knew that as part of his work on the Government Health Improvement Board her stepfather met members of the Cabinet regularly but it was a rare day when he mentioned it.

‘Now children, play nicely until supper time,’ Ellen told them. ‘And no, Lottie, you and George can not go out and play in the garden. It’s too late and – will you look at the sky? – before the clock strikes the hour the rain will be falling.’

Mrs Munroe’s expression chilled as Ellen’s Irish lilt, always more pronounced when she was agitated or worried, crept into her speech.

The children did as they were bid. Lottie delved into a large pine chest in the corner of the room and handed Joe his wooden soldiers. George pulled out a stagecoach with a brightly painted horse pivoting between the shafts and trotted it across the rug in front of the fire.

‘Do they have toys in the parlour in America, too?’ Mrs Munroe asked, as George started making clip-clop sounds.

‘Certainly,’ Robert replied. ‘They spend all day with Miss Byrd, their governess, so when I am home Ellen and I like to enjoy our children together.’

‘Well, they are utterly delightful, and so clever. You have done well, Ellen. Five children in twelve years and three of them boys.’

‘We were blessed with seven but . . .’ Ellen said quietly.

‘You must expect to lose an infant or two,’ Mrs Munroe replied briskly. ‘One must not question God’s will.’

‘That does not lessen the grief,’ Robert replied. His mother made as if to speak but he continued. ‘But now we are to be blessed again.’

Jack, who had been sitting contentedly, playing with his rattle on the rug between his parents’ feet, started to fret.

Josie jumped up immediately. ‘Let me, Mam,’ she said, scooping the infant off the floor and placing him on her lap.

Mrs Munroe turned to Josie. ‘And what do you intend to do now you have returned to London, Josie?

‘I am going to visit the British Museum and, of course, I can’t wait to visit the Tower of London and see the Queen’s jewels. Mrs Martin, who lives two doors down, told us how she visited the Tower of London when she was a young girl. The animals have gone to the Zoological Gardens now but Pa said he will try to get us a visitors’ pass.’

Mrs Munroe’s expressive eyebrows travelled upwards. ‘I am disappointed that you do not have plans to spend some of your time in charitable works.’ She placed her hand theatrically on her bosom. ‘Our Lord himself went amongst the poor and sick. Can we, Josie, do less?’

Josie smiled sweetly. ‘I have renewed my acquaintance with Miss Cooper, whose father runs a mission in Wellclose Square. She has a number of young ladies who visit the poor and I plan to join them.’ She omitted to add that she and Sophie also planned a trip to Regent Street.

The lines around Mrs Munroe’s lips slackened a fraction and she inclined her head at Ellen. ‘I have always said that the most effective way of protecting a young woman’s reputation is for her to have acquaintances with a serious turn of mind. I have insisted on such with my own daughters and I am glad to hear you do the same, my dear Ellen.’

Lottie left her toys and came over to where the adults were sitting. ‘Grandmama,’ she said standing in front of Mrs Munroe with her hands behind her back. ‘If you are staying with us for eight weeks that is fifty-six days.’

Mrs Munroe smiled. ‘That’s very clever, Charlotte, but a young lady shouldn’t do multiplication too often as it can upset the female humours.’

Fifty-six days! thought Josie, I’m sure I’ll be crossing them off in my journal.

Chapter Three

‘Honestly, Sam,’ Josie said to the young man beside her. ‘You will only be gone for a few moments and I will be perfectly safe here until you return.’

Sam, the young lad who helped around the house, didn’t seem convinced. ‘I don’t know, Miss Josie. This is a very rough area,’ he said, looking anxiously along the cobbled street. ‘And your father insisted that I stay close by you at all times.’

Josie gave him the warm smile that always made him blush. Sam was only a few years older than Bobby and Josie wouldn’t normally have taken advantage of his crush on her. However, after walking the two miles to Miss Cooper’s house, her new shoes had raised painful blisters at almost every point they touched.

‘The London dock offices are just there,’ she said pointing down Wapping High Street to where the tall warehouses surrounding the docks blocked out the late afternoon sunlight. ‘There is always a hansom cab or two waiting there for business. It’s no more than a two-minute walk.’

Sam eyed a couple of dark-skinned Lascars, slouching against the wall in their loose-fitting tunics, with clay pipes hanging from the sides of their mouths.

‘Dr Munroe wouldn’t like it if—’

‘Sam! I think you forget that I was raised in these streets and I will be perfectly safe for the five minutes or so it takes you to fetch a hansom,’ Josie said firmly.

He gave her a dubious look but then turned and sped off, dodging the wagons passing in both directions.

As Josie looked down the bustling thoroughfare that followed the bend of the Thames from St Katherine’s Dock through to New Crane Stairs, childhood memories flooded back into her mind. As a child she had thought the main road busy when she’d passed along it on her way to school but she couldn’t remember seeing the volume of traffic that now rolled by. Matching cart-horses, wearing blinkers and nosebags, hauled laden drays from the wharves towards the city and a driver, his cart piled high with hay just unloaded from a barge from Essex or beyond, called out a warning and Josie stepped back against the wall. She bumped into an old woman with a shovel in one hand and a bucket in the other – the ‘pure’ collector, harvesting the dog shit to sell in the Southwark tanneries – who gave her a grumbling look, but shuffled off to search for newly laid whorls to harvest.

Josie, using her rolled umbrella for support, picked up one foot and then the other in an attempt to alleviate the pain in her heels and toes, then glanced towards where she had seen Sam going on his way. Where is he? she thought, moving along to the end of the wall.

The corners of her mouth turned up in a little smile as she spotted a group of children throwing stones into squares scored in the dirt, then bobbing and hopping up and back in turn. How many times had she done the same? She couldn’t remember being as ragged as the barefooted children on the other side of the road, but she must have been just as grimy; even now, the hem of her skirt was covered in dirt after walking only two miles. And the smell! She had completely forgotten the cloying stench at low tide that made you breathe through your mouth, and she hadn’t remembered the two-ups, two-downs in the narrow side streets being quite so dilapidated. And although, as Josie knew, there were now street cleaners with carts and stiff brushes, the roads were still filled with all manner of filth.

The rattle of iron wheels over cobbles jarred her from her reminiscence. She stepped back to let the carriage pass, but it stopped in front of her, and a gloved hand lowered the carriage window. A man in a black silk hat looked out, ran his index finger along his moustache and smiled at Josie.

‘Looking for a little company, my dear?’ He looked her up and down appraisingly.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Josie said, glaring at him, not quite believing what she’d heard.

The man gave a low chuckle. ‘You look like a sparky little minx,’ he said, ‘and I can be very generous. Ask any of the other girls.’ His eyes drifted past her to where two gaudily dressed women, with rouged lips and cheeks, loitered against the buildings.

Alarm shot through Josie. Where on earth was Sam? It was only five minutes to the dock offices and he must have been gone a full ten by now. Ignoring the man, she turned sharply away and, unseeingly, studied the bobbing top sails of the river barges until the carriage moved on. Josie let out her breath, but then heard another carriage approaching. Gathering her wits, she started off towards the police office a few hundred yards away. At least she would be safe there until Sam found his way back.

‘Oi! Miss Hoity-Toity,’ called one of the whores. ‘Sling your hook.’

Josie glanced across at the two young women in their low cut gowns and painted faces.

The other girl stuck two fingers up at Josie. ‘You, go find your own pitch.’

Driven by humiliation, and anxiety about Sam, Josie ignored the harsh pain of her blisters and headed towards the police station, hearing the girls sniggering behind her.

As she passed the Prospect of Whitby and New Crane Dock someone shouted from above. ‘Watch yer!’ Josie looked up and saw a massive wrought-iron crane fixed to the side of the warehouse, its hook dangling from the rope looping around in mid air, and at that moment two empty wagons rolled out from Red Lion Street and blocked her path completely.

Josie tried to squeeze between the wooden side of the cart and the wall but the man steadying the sacks raised his hand. ‘Sorry, ducks, you can’t go that way.’

‘But I need to get to the police station,’ Josie protested, increasingly conscious that in her ruby silk gown and tailored jacket she made a strange spectacle beside the other women in their knitted shawls.

She must have taken leave of her senses to send Sam off like that. If she’d been thinking half straight she would have recognised the utter foolishness of wandering alone on the waterfront. She had to get to the station and fast, before anything else happened.

‘If you goes down there,’ he pointed along Wapping Wall, ‘there’s a cut through to Coleman Street and that’ll take you to the High Street.’

Damping down her annoyance and holding her skirt high to avoid the muck, Josie stepped off the pavement, over the slime congealing in the gutter, and in to the dark alleyway.

*