Daughter of the Shipwreck

by Lora Davies

Genres: Historical Fiction; International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

He kicked and struggled as his sister was carried out through the shallow water to one of the boats. The distance between them seemed to stretch out and out. There was nothing he could do. He cried out to her, his voice hoarse with tears, ‘I will find you! I promise!'
London, 1820: Nineteen-year-old Mercy, the orphaned daughter of an African prince, has come to live with the well-to-do Dr Stephens and his wife, Catherine, a passionate campaigner for the abolition of slavery.
Mercy throws herself into Catherine's work, eager to help until – at an exhibition that has all of London talking – one particular painting makes a disturbing impression on her: conjuring vivid images of creaking wood and the screams of drowning people. Its effect on Dr Stephens is even stronger – a connection that seems almost personal.
Meanwhile, Mat, a young black sailor, scours the city in search of the men who kidnapped his sister many years before. When his path crosses with Mercy's and he realises the girl he has been mourning is alive, it sets events in motion that will destroy everything Mercy thought was true about her old life – and her new one.
But as the names on Mat's list are found dead, one after the other, the newly reunited siblings face a new danger. Someone is silencing all witnesses to the horrors of their past – and they could be next. But Mercy has had enough of secrets. She will have justice – no matter what the cost.
An utterly gripping and powerful novel about family, secrets, identity, and risking everything to be true to yourself. If you liked The Foundling, The Miniaturist or Amy Snow, you will love Daughter of the Shipwreck.

Release date: August 10, 2021

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

There was nothing to announce the end of the world. It had been a normal day. The children had walked to the market with Mama that morning. They had eyed the ivory ornaments, the rolls of cloth in all the colours of the rainbow, the squat earthenware pots, the mountains of fruit and vegetables. They’d giggled behind their hands at the market traders – men and women from faraway towns and villages, who wore strange clothes and spoke words the children couldn’t understand.

They had sniffed hungrily at the meat cooking over the firepits and begged Mama for a treat, as they always did. Mama had ignored them, prodding and sniffing pineapples, yams and plantains, her slim arms jangling with bracelets as she haggled with the traders. At last, she had relented, as she always did, and bought them each some dried fish. The children had devoured it greedily on the way home, licking their fingers long after any trace of the salty fish remained.

In the afternoon, they had played with the other children while their parents went to work in the fields. They were still too young to work, though Matondo knew that soon he would have to join the adults in planting and picking the crops or caring for the animals. For now, he revelled in his status as the oldest boy in their little gang, teasing his sister and their friends, leading their games, winning their races and play-fights, and proudly showing off the little knife that Papa had made for him.

That day Matondo had played the pebble game. Each child took turns to throw a stone into the air while the others gathered as many sticks as possible in the time it took to catch the stone. Matondo had won, running in circles, hooting with pleasure, holding his stash of sticks high above his head. His sister Malundama, soon bored of the game, sat and drew pictures in the dusty ground with a stick, lips pursed in concentration. Later, the children had dashed home before the sun went down, with dusty hands and scratched knees, breathless with laughter and hungry as a pair of lion cubs.

There was nothing to announce the end of the world. It was night when it happened. The family were getting ready for bed. Matondo and Malundama had washed their hands and faces. Mama had cleared up the remnants of their chicken stew and was throwing the vegetable scraps to the goats. Papa was in the yard, the smoke from his pipe drifting gently up into the quiet night air. The whole village was settling down to rest, only the bleating of a goat breaking the silence from time to time. Without warning, a gang of men burst upon this peace and quiet with violent shouts, with flaming torches, with sticks and clubs.

When they heard the men, Mama opened the back door and forced the children outside. She bent and kissed them both – a quick, fierce kiss – and then pushed them towards the forest at the edge of the village.

‘Run,’ she whispered. ‘Run!’

And they obeyed. Hesitating only for a moment before turning and running out into the dark night, blood pounding in their ears.

They stopped when they reached the first line of trees and looked back towards the village. They saw the men breaking down doors, grabbing whoever they found inside by the hair, the arm, the leg, dragging them outside, beating them, throwing them to the ground, tying them up. They could hear men bellowing in anger. High-pitched screams and shrieks that sounded more animal than human. The dull thud of wooden clubs on flesh.

They gripped tight to each other’s hands as they watched a woman wielding a stick, trying to fight off two of the men. It was Mama. Matondo fought the urge to run towards her. If only he had his knife. She was strong and she fought hard but there were two of them and she was quickly thrown to the ground. The boy covered his sister’s eyes, clamping his hand firmly over her face, but he found that despite himself, he could not look away.

He watched the men kick Mama. Again. And again. And again. With each kick she moved, her body jerking and twisting this way and that, but then she lay still and the men walked away. Matondo waited for her to get up. He willed her to get up.

One of her legs was bent outwards at an odd angle. It reminded him of a goat that had been born in the village that spring. It had been unable to stand, its legs splayed out to the sides, and so his father had killed it, cutting its throat as the mother goat looked on. He remembered how the mother had searched for her kid for days afterwards, giving out a long, low cry and sniffing at the ground where the kid had lain. Matondo felt his insides turn to liquid and he bent double, retching.

His sister pulled at his arm and he looked up to see flames rising from the huts as the men began to set them alight. Touching their huge torches to the thatched roofs, laughing as those trapped inside began to scream. He grabbed Malundama’s hand and they ran.

They ran until their lungs burned, until their shoeless feet were ripped and bleeding. Matondo was stronger and faster but he would not leave his sister, holding fast to her hand and pulling her along behind him. Tears ran down her face and she gulped for air, tripping and stumbling over roots and branches until at last her brother slowed and gestured that they should hide, pointing to the deep, dark undergrowth and pulling his sister under the leaves and twigs, forcing her down beside him, holding one finger to his lips.

There they waited, sweat itching and crawling down their backs. Through the canopy of leaves, they could still hear the men. The crashing of branches as they moved through the forest, the shouts and whistles as they signalled to one another. Sometimes it seemed that the men must have given up and the children looked at each other with eyes wide with hope, but then they heard more shouting and they held each other tight, burying their faces into one another’s necks.

It had been quiet for a while now, save for the buzz and click of countless insects and the trilling and cawing of unseen birds. Through the branches, they could see the sky slowly beginning to lighten. Signalling at her to stay still, Matondo uncurled himself from his sister’s embrace and slowly, slowly he raised himself up, breaking through their sanctuary of leaves and peering around.

The smell of burning still hung in the air and the thought of their home razed to the ground was like a punch to his stomach. The thought of Mama brought tears, which he fought back, rubbing at his eyes with dirty, scratched fists. Crying would do them no good. He had to think.

Dawn was coming now and there was no sign of the men. Matondo took his sister’s hand and drew her gently out from their hiding place. They were both stiff and sore and they stretched their aching arms and legs, and picked thorns, leaves and tiny insects from their skin.

It would be too dangerous to go back to the village – if there was anything left of it. They would have to press on, Matondo decided. On into the forest until they found people and could beg help from some kind stranger. Mama had taught them which plants were safe to eat and how to find water. They would survive. He would make sure of it.

They began to walk but Malundama was tired, her feet hurt and she wanted Mama. Now that she no longer needed to be quiet, she started to cry. Huge, loud sobs that shook her whole body. He tried to comfort her, rubbing her back as Mama used to do, but it did no good. He too wanted to fling himself to the floor and cry and cry and cry.

A sound to his left caused Matondo to look round and as he did, something hard crashed into the side of his head and he felt himself slumping to the floor. The blow to his ear made the whole world silent and, as if in slow motion, he saw the round O of his sister’s crying mouth widen in surprise as arms reached down and lifted her up. He felt rough hands on him, ropes tightening and burning around his arms and ankles. Then dizzyingly, sickeningly, he too was hoisted up. The trees seemed to spin and he felt as though he were falling, falling, and then the trees faded and everything was black.

Mercy started with fright when the horn sounded. Three loud blasts that ripped through the quiet of the still-dark dawn. As the stagecoach lurched into motion, she realised that the sound was just the signal that they were on their way. A signal that her new life was about to begin and that it was too late now to turn back.

Not that she could have turned back, even if she’d wanted to. The house was all closed up, the servants disbanded, the animals – even Mrs Whitworth’s parrot, Palamon – all given away. It had been awful to see the house like that, so soulless, so brutally and utterly empty. It was the only home that Mercy had ever known and now she would never see it again. It seemed impossible.

Mercy turned her face to the window to hide her tears. She had already attracted enough attention from her fellow passengers, not only for her black skin, which drew curious stares wherever she went, but also for her outfit of black crêpe and bombazine. Her mourning attire had been hastily pulled together with the help of Old Sarah, Mrs Whitworth’s maid. She had soaked Mercy’s grey dress in a tub of coal-black dye for a whole day and night and, with a flash of her needle, had transformed the lining of an old cape into a sombre covering for Mercy’s bonnet. Her black shawl and gloves had been Mrs Whitworth’s own – bought when she herself had been in mourning for her husband, twenty years or so ago.

‘She has no need of them now,’ said Old Sarah sadly as she handed them over to Mercy.

And indeed, Mrs Whitworth had no more need for shawls or gloves or anything else where she was going. Mercy had read once that the Ancient Egyptians used to put food and drink, personal belongings, even animals and people into the tombs of the dead. It had seemed such an odd idea but, at the funeral, as Mercy watched the soft earth cascading onto the coffin, she had thought how lonely it looked, and the thought of Mrs Whitworth lying down there all by herself in the dark was almost too much to bear.

Her benefactor was – had been – a great collector. The house was a riot of trinkets and oddities of all descriptions: ornamental thimbles, vases and porcelain, a model of the Parthenon made entirely from cork. Mrs Whitworth had been a great lover of animals too. She adopted endless cats and dogs, a three-legged goat called Nelson and of course Palamon, her talking parrot. Mercy had arrived into this chaotic assemblage as a young child of four or five – not that she could remember that far back – and like the various wounded or abandoned animals in her care, Mrs Whitworth had shown her nothing but love ever since. Mercy felt the tears come again and turned her face to the window once more.

The sky was beginning to lighten, though the moon was still visible, floating pale and ghostly amidst the grey. Mercy watched as the gently rounded hills and sheep-dotted fields of Worcestershire flew past. They were so familiar, so ordinary, yet now as they rushed out of view, she tried to take in every detail, to sear the images into her memory. Who knew when or if she would return?

Mercy had tried to picture London, her destination. She saw mansions and palaces, art galleries and fancy tearooms, ladies and gentlemen in all the latest fashions. She had even heard that there was a menagerie of wild animals in London; lions and bears and snakes that one could go and look at. Incredible.

She was nervous – scared even – of what her future might hold. She knew very little about her new home – had never even heard of Dr Stephens, in fact, until the letter had arrived shortly after Mrs Whitworth died, inviting her to come and live with him. He was a cousin of Mrs Whitworth and must have taken pity on her, she supposed. All Mercy knew was that she was to help his wife, Mrs Stephens, with her work and in return she would have free bed and board. What that work was she didn’t yet know. Mercy had never given much thought to her future, had imagined she would live out her days in the sleepy village of Hamblin, but now she had the opportunity to meet people, to make friends – to do something with her life. Alongside the fear, she felt a prickle of excitement.

The coach had picked up speed by now and Mercy felt her stomach roll like a tombola drum as they galloped along. It would be fourteen hours until they reached their destination. Fourteen long hours. How on earth would she stand it? She’d chosen a seat inside, given the time of year but she wondered now, as she rattled from side to side, pressed close to her neighbour on one side and the hard interior of the coach on the other, if she had made the right choice. It was already growing stuffy from the breath and bodies of the closely packed passengers and she would give anything for a gulp of fresh air.

Just then the coach lurched suddenly to the right and Mercy felt herself lifting right off the bench, so that for the briefest moment she was floating in the air before she crashed back down with a thud. There were gasps and cries from the wide-eyed passengers and one lady made the sign of the cross. She had heard that sometimes coaches overturned and she had a sudden vision of cracking wood and flailing limbs. And what about highwaymen? It was said there were some of them still about. She closed her eyes and took a steadying breath. Be brave, Mercy, she told herself. Be brave.

That night, cold and stiff from her journey, she arrived at last at the house that was to be her new home. It wasn’t as big or as grand as she had imagined. It was part of a terrace, flanked on either side by identical houses, each with steps leading up to the front door. She took the crumpled letter from her pocket one more time. 17 Cowley Street, London. Yes, this was definitely the right address.

She took a deep breath, the unfamiliar smog thick in her nose, and went up the steps. A metal plate next to the door read Dr Edwin Stephens in curly letters. She knocked gently and waited. Nothing. She knocked again, a little louder, feeling a creeping anxiety as the door remained resolutely closed. What if they had changed their minds? The thought was terrifying yet also strangely exhilarating for, if no one answered, where would she go, what would she do? She lifted her hand to knock for a third time but just then the door swung open to reveal a woman; somewhat older than Mercy and a little taller, with dark, glittering eyes and a ready smile.

‘You’re here! Come in, come in!’

The woman ushered Mercy into a warm, bright hallway and closed the door behind her, shutting out the cold and the dark.

‘I hope you’re not too tired from your journey? My, what a long way it is! Put your bag there, yes, that’s right, just there. We’ll take it up to your room later. And your bonnet and shawl and whatnot can go there for now.’

As the woman swept her through the hall, Mercy glimpsed the impression of a brightly patterned rug, of wall lamps burning brightly, of an ornate grandfather clock. Was this the mistress? The housekeeper? Her dress was very fine – silk by the looks of it – but her manner was so informal.

‘Goodness me, how late it is! You must be hungry. Come through and get warmed up.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Mercy said. She heard her own voice cracking as she spoke and realised dimly that she hadn’t spoken to anyone since she had said her goodbyes early that morning. Already, that seemed a lifetime ago.

The woman led Mercy into the parlour, where a fire burned in the hearth, and then stopped, looking her up and down. Mercy was all at once acutely aware of her travel-worn dress, dusty at the hem and creased from the journey. She felt her hands vainly patting at her skirts.

‘I have some bread and butter,’ the woman said suddenly. ‘And tea. We must make some tea! I sent the servants to bed as it was getting so late but I’m sure I can manage tea. Now sit. Sit yourself down there.’

Mercy perched obediently on an armchair by the fire. So, this was the mistress then. Mrs Stephens. She was younger than Mercy had expected, probably only thirty or thereabouts. She had glossy brown hair worn parted in the centre, with tight curls at either side of her face, which bounced and jiggled as she moved.

‘Now, please, have some of this. You must be starved!’ she said as she handed Mercy a plate with some neatly cut triangles of impossibly white bread, spread thickly with butter.

‘Thank you, ma’am.’

She hadn’t eaten for hours but Mercy forced herself to eat slowly, taking delicate nibbles of the bread. She didn’t want to seem uncouth. Mrs Stephens took a seat on the other side of the fireplace.

‘How was your journey?’ she asked.

‘Very good, ma’am, thank you,’ she replied, keen to forget the terrific jolting of the coach, the stares and whispers of the other passengers, the aching in her back and buttocks from hours and hours of sitting on that narrow wooden seat. ‘It was most kind of you to pay my fare.’

The woman waved her hand in a dismissive gesture.

‘No trouble at all, Mercy. It is Mercy, isn’t it?’

She nodded and Mrs Stephens went on.

‘Religious, I imagine? Like Faith, Hope and Charity? Well, we need all we can get of those at the moment. Where does it come from? Your name?’

‘Mrs Whitworth chose it, I believe.’

‘Of course, of course. You lived with her since you were quite young, I understand?’

‘That’s right. She took me in when I was only four or five. After my father died. She was very good to me.’

The thought of Mrs Whitworth, of her familiar face, was like an unexpected blow and Mercy was mortified to feel tears welling in her eyes.

‘Oh dear. I am sorry. You’ve only been here five minutes and already I’m interrogating you! Here, have this. You can keep it.’ She handed Mercy a handkerchief. ‘We were so sorry not to be there for the funeral,’ she went on. ‘You must miss her terribly. But I hope you shall be happy here. Edwin and I are very glad to have you. Very glad. Now, dry your eyes and I shall go and find my husband. He’ll want to meet you, I’m sure.’

Mercy pressed the handkerchief to her eyes, willing back the tears. She must make a good impression. This was her chance for a whole new life, and she mustn’t sit there crying like a child in front of her new employer. But Mrs Stephens wasn’t at all what she had expected. When she had heard she was to work for a doctor’s wife, she had imagined a stern, upright sort of person. A smell of camphor oil and sensible shoes. But Mrs Stephens wasn’t at all like that. She was bright. And pretty. And that silk dress was beautiful.

Even the handkerchief was exquisite, Mercy thought as she folded it neatly. It was embroidered with a pattern of ivy leaves and edged with fine lace. And now it was hers. She tucked it carefully into her sleeve. She took another bite of bread and stretched out her feet towards the fire, feeling some life coming slowly back into her cold, tired limbs.

So this was her new home. She could hardly believe it. While the outside of the house hadn’t been very impressive, the interior certainly made up for it. The room was furnished in tones of dusky pink and peach with thick, tasselled curtains that hung all the way to the floor. It was all so – tasteful. There were vases and vases of flowers – hyacinths and hellebores and others Mercy had never seen before. A bookcase lined one wall but the room was dominated by a large cabinet in one corner that looked like something you might find in a museum.

With no sign of Mrs Stephens’s return, Mercy went to have a look, her reflection glancing darkly back at her from its glass doors as she approached. The objects were evenly spaced on the shelves, with rectangular labels, written in a neat hand, laid next to them. It was a good deal more organised than Mrs Whitworth’s sprawling collections. A plate, decorated with sprays of painted flowers in blue and ochre, was labelled Porcelain, China, 1700s, and what Mercy took to be a metal teapot was, in fact, a Beer-jug, Tibet, date unknown.

Fascinated, her gaze travelled along the shelf to a wooden cylinder with a narrow slit along its length. At each end a carved wooden head extended, one male, one female, each one with perfectly rendered facial features and curled hair. Tiny jewels were inlaid where their eyes would be. Slit-drum, Congo Basin, 1800–05, the label read. It was beautiful and she thought vaguely that she had seen something like it before. Mercy touched her fingertips lightly to the glass.

‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’

Mercy spun round to see a tall, slender man standing in the doorway. He was dressed in black, and his auburn hair was cut close to his head and receding at the temples. He was old – forty, at least – but he had a kind face.

‘I’m sorry if I startled you,’ he said. ‘My wife suggested that I come and introduce myself. I’m Dr Stephens.’

‘Pleasure to meet you, sir,’ said Mercy, bobbing a small curtsey.

The doctor looked at her for a moment. She was used to that, of course, but there was something about his expression that she couldn’t place. Almost as if he was searching for something in her face. Then he smiled and offered her his hand. He had long, slim fingers, perfectly manicured.

‘Welcome to London, Mercy,’ he said.

He pressed her fingers gently and then released them. For a fleeting moment she had the oddest feeling that she’d met him before, but just as quickly it was gone.

‘I see you have discovered my pride and joy,’ he said, gesturing to the cabinet.

‘Yes, sir, I’m sorry, I—’ Had she been too bold? What was it Mrs Whitworth used to say? Curiosity killed the cat.

‘Not at all. They are there to be looked at, after all. I have rather a passion for collecting. That one is from Africa.’ He tapped the glass in front of the wooden drum.

‘Have you been there, sir?’ She looked up at him.

‘Africa? Yes. Yes, I have. Many years ago. I worked as a doctor in Sierra Leone.’

Sierra Leone. What a beautiful-sounding name. Mercy remembered seeing it on a map; perched on the coast of the vast Atlantic Ocean. She’d never met anyone that had been to Africa before.

‘I should love to hear about it, sir,’ she said, but before the doctor could speak again, Mrs Stephens appeared at the door bearing a tray of tea and cups.

‘I hope I’ve got everything!’

She placed the tray down with a clatter and began to pour the tea.

‘Well, you must both excuse me, I’m afraid. I have work to do,’ said the doctor. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Mercy. I’m sure my wife will see you settled in. Tell you everything you need to know. Good night.’ He nodded stiffly and made for the door.

‘Take Mercy’s luggage up, won’t you, dear? Make yourself useful!’ Mrs Stephens called after him.

‘Husbands must have their uses,’ she said with a smile as he closed the door behind him. ‘Do you have thoughts of marriage, Mercy?’

‘Oh, I… No – I…’ Mercy felt the heat rising to her face.

‘You’re perhaps a little young. How old are you, my dear?’

‘I’m nineteen,’ Mercy said. ‘At least, I think I am. Mrs Whitworth didn’t know my exact age when she took me in.’

‘Of course,’ said Mrs Stephens. ‘There I go again, interrogating you! You must forgive me. But a pretty thing like you must have her admirers?’

‘Oh, no, ma’am, no…’

‘Such wonderful hair! May I?’

She reached out a plump white hand. Mercy stood unmoving as Mrs Stephens patted and stroked at her hair. She had endured this many times before but it was no less infuriating for that.

‘Wonderful! Wonderful! So soft. Like a little lamb. Now sit. Please. Sit.’

Mercy returned to her seat and blew into the cup of hot, strong tea, letting the steam rise up and obscure her face. Mrs Stephens was only trying to be kind.

‘So, tell me about yourself,’ said Mrs Stephens, regarding her with a beady look that put Mercy in mind of a magpie.

‘Well, I…’ Mercy stuttered. What did she mean? What was there to tell?

‘My husband tells me you’re a princess!’

‘Oh, well, I suppose so,’ said Mercy, trying to draw her shoulders back a little. It was hard to feel regal under the penetrating gaze of Mrs Stephens. ‘Sort of. My father was an African prince, you see.’
. . .