Larken (2 page)

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 enough 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.

Mrs. Howley’s eyes narrowed and her lips thinned into a straight line. “Hurry up, then. I need your help in the kitchen.”

Larken pressed her face so close to the window, she accidentally left an oily smudge with her nose. With the patience of Job, her mother wiped the mark away with a handkerchief. Larken giggled and sat back in her seat.

“Sorry!”

Her father tweaked the end of her long, flaxen braid. “What has you so fascinated, Sunshine?”

“Riding on the train feels like we’re flying on the magic carpet from
Arabian Nights
. Our visit to London was the best ever!”

“I’m so glad. It’s not every day a girl turns fourteen!” her mother said. “A few years from now we’ll go back for your first Season.”

“I can’t wait!”

Gentle force pressed Larken into her father’s shoulder.

“What’s happening, Papa?”

He glanced out the window. “The train is going around a curve, that’s all. And it looks like we’re about to pass over a bridge.”

“I don’t like bridges.” A shudder.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, nothing will happen. Trains cross bridges every day.”

“It’s perfectly safe,” her mother added.

Despite her parents’ soothing words, as the bridge drew closer, Larken clutched at her father’s arm. Her mother gave her a sympathetic smile.

“Would you like to wear my locket for a little while? It’ll make you feel better, I promise.”

Larken’s mother reached for the clasp of her locket, but before she could unfasten it, the train’s brakes began to squeal and a horrible noise of grating metal made her eyes widen.

“What on earth is that, Horatio?”

Papa peered out the window, and his face lost color. “Hold on to something, Helen.”

He grabbed Larken and pushed her down beneath the seat just before the world lurched sideways in slow motion…

Larken woke up, reaching out into the darkness as if to brace herself for a fall. Gasping for breath, she sat up, hugged her knees, and willed her heart to stop racing. She supposed the dream always ended in the same place because she’d been knocked senseless when the train rolled off the tracks and into the gorge. When she’d finally regained consciousness, she was pinned in the compartment with her parents—who’d been sliced to pieces by broken glass and twisted metal. Larken had screamed until her throat was raw, but nobody came to help. She spent all night and the following morning in the wreckage with their bodies, and when she was finally rescued, she was soaked with her own urine and blood. Everyone on the train was dead except for her, she learned later, and she was dubbed the Miracle Orphan.

Chapter Two

Orphan Bride

T
HE
H
ANSOM
D
RIVER
M
USCLED
the shabby trunk through the front door of the cottage. The Howleys were waiting next to the cab outside, and when Larken caught sight of them, she paused.

“Oops, I forgot the laudanum! I’ll be right back.”

By the time she returned, the trunk had been loaded onto the back of the carriage and the driver was waiting to help her climb inside.

Mr. Howley pressed several coins into her hand. “That’s for your ticket. There’ll be somebody waiting to meet you at Gateshead.” He cleared his throat. “Good luck.”

“Thank you,” Larken murmured.

“Farewell,” Mrs. Howley said.

The woman made no move to embrace her, nor would Larken have welcomed it if she had.

“Good-bye,” Larken said.

The driver handed her into the cab, and moments later the horse surged forward. When Larken leaned out the window to wave, Mrs. Howley gave her a broad grin and held up the tin box, triumphantly. Laughing, Larken relaxed into her seat. The woman had stolen the box from her trunk when her back was turned, just like she’d predicted. It mattered little. Mrs. Howley would soon learn that the valuable contents of the tin box had been transferred to Larken’s reticule earlier that morning, and what remained were a few pebbles and several dead blooms from the garden. Furthermore, when Larken had ducked into the house—ostensibly to retrieve the laudanum—she’d snatched her mother’s locket from the woman’s dresser.