Stray Angel

Book 0: Workhouse to War

by Kay Brellend

Genres: Sagas

Synopsis

East London, 1915. While the man she loves is away fighting, Lily Larkin wakes up at dawn to carry crates of apples to the market stall. Left in charge of Greg's warehouse, she has blossomed from a street urchin into a shrewd tradeswoman. But the market is a man's world and she attracts some unwanted visitors, including Greg's old rival Scully. Luckily, Lily recruits her old friends, Margie and Fannie, as helping hands. But Lily has one trouble she must keep secret: before dying, her mother gave birth to a child who was spirited away. Searching every corner of the city to find her long-lost sister, Lily soon discovers there is a world of wickedness within London's poorest alleys.

Release date: July 29, 2021

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

‘Is she as scrawny as a newborn should be? The major mustn’t suspect a thing or I’ll be out on my ear. I’m not stumping up cash for her if she won’t pass muster.’

‘She’s very small and appears to be only hours old, m’m.’ The elder of the two women had pulled back an edge of grubby wool to gaze at a tiny, crinkled face still smeared with vernix. The infant was so pale and still she could have been a corpse, but the baby peddler who’d brought her into the house had assured them she wasn’t. Vera Priest stroked a minuscule cold hand. She gave a satisfied nod as the scrap of humanity responded to her touch by curling her fragile fingers.

‘I’d better have a look at my daughter then.’ The younger woman had been carrying on this conversation while styling her long auburn hair at the mirror. She discarded the brush onto the mantelpiece and came to inspect her purchase. Having gazed with faint distaste at the swaddled infant, she drew a finger through its downy hair then wiped the digit on her skirt.

‘Well, she is fair like him so that’s something. She’ll have to do. If you deliver a letter to his club, the major will come by tomorrow for a look at his daughter. He won’t part with another penny until he’s seen the evidence his bastard’s arrived. It’s not a boy so he’ll be disappointed. But there we are.’ She shrugged her silk-clad shoulders.

Vera suspected the major would be disappointed thinking his by-blow had drawn breath, but she kept that to herself. The distinguished fellow had not been happy when his mistress had told him she was pregnant. She’d subsequently miscarried but he’d never been advised of that. By then he’d found himself a new fancy piece. His cast-off had been determined to get what she saw as her due. A meal ticket for the foreseeable future was in the offing for as long as he believed he’d fathered a child with her.

He was an honourable man and shouldered his responsibilities, however unwelcome, Major Beresford had assured his ex-paramour through gritted teeth. His hoity-toity wife might contest his good opinion of himself, though, should she discover a regular stop-off point on his way home from chairing the Board of Guardians meetings. He pretended he went to his club in St James’s for a nightcap; Cheapside was where he actually headed, because that was where he housed his lady friends.

‘Is Mrs Jolley still here?’ A noise from beyond the closed door had drawn their attention from the motionless bundle.

‘She is, m’m.’ Vera knew why the baby peddler had reminded them of her presence by banging the hall chair against the wainscot. ‘She insists on being paid before she leaves. I did ask her to meet me tomorrow somewhere away from here, to get rid of her quickly. She wouldn’t have it, though, and said she’d wait.’

‘I’d rather get the dratted woman settled up now. Her sort can make a nuisance of themselves. I shan’t give her an excuse to come back again.’

While her employer went into the hallway, Vera was left holding the baby. She tiptoed closer to the door to peep through an aperture and watch the transaction. Twelve pounds was counted out in one-pound notes and handed over. The recipient, dressed head-to-toe in ugly black garments, and looking for all the world like a poor widow, counted them again with the speedy efficiency of a bank teller. Satisfied none was missing, there was a brief conversation between the two. Vera was about to turn away when she heard Mrs Jolley mention the name of the child’s mother. Vera pressed closer to the door, her jaw dropping and her eyes growing round as she listened. Mrs Larkin had been a respectable widow, fallen on hard times, who’d passed away in childbirth in the Whitechapel workhouse infirmary. Mrs Jolley wasn’t a workhouse officer. She was a go-between and had decided to stress her credentials and assure her customer she’d only sell a baby of good blood. Not that she needed to go to the trouble. Betsy Finch would’ve taken a piglet in a blanket if she knew she could pass it off as her lover’s illegitimate offspring and continue living comfortably. But even Betsy, mercenary schemer that she was, would have baulked at getting involved with a woman as downright cruel and criminal as Mrs Jolley, had she troubled to delve into the woman’s character. Mrs Jolley said her fulsome thanks and a goodbye. A moment later Betsy came back into the room. ‘You’ll find a wet nurse for the creature, won’t you, Vera?’

‘I will, m’m,’ Vera said, licking her parched lips. ‘Did Mrs Jolley say the mother’s name was Larkin?’

‘I think that was the name she mentioned; poor old stick pegged out having this one.’ Betsy shuddered. ‘Glad I didn’t have to go through that business. Buying a kid is so much easier.’ She giggled, starting to brush her hair again, then pinning it up into an elegant bun. ‘I’ll be bloody glad when I can stop hiding away and go out again now the deed’s done.’

‘Did Mrs Jolley say if it was Maude Larkin in the workhouse?’

‘Don’t think I heard more than Larkin mentioned.’ Betsy turned around, frowning. ‘Why, you don’t know the poor cow, do you?’

‘Just a name from the past,’ Vera said. ‘It jogged my memory. All forgotten now.’ In fact she had never met Maude but, while still working as an office char, Vera had been acquainted with the woman’s husband. She’d overheard Charles Larkin speak affectionately about his wife. Vera had felt sorry for Charles when his world fell apart because he fell prey to a vixen, masquerading as a respectable lady. At least Betsy Finch was honest about who she was, even if she did intend pulling the wool over the major’s eyes about this pathetic orphan.

‘Well, what are we going to call this little perisher?’ Betsy sighed, sending the baby an aggravated stare.

Vera uncovered the mite’s face again, seeing that her eyes were open, staring at her. She searched the baby’s features for a likeness and persuaded herself she’d found it. ‘How about Charlotte?’ Vera said. ‘I think that name would suit.’

‘Fine sodding New Year this is going to be!’

‘What is it, m’m?’ Vera called out, having heard her increasingly foul-mouthed mistress ranting in the front parlour. Since she’d been abandoned by her high-born lover, Betsy had let her standards slip.

Not long ago the letter box had chimed as the postman used it. Usually Vera would collect the letters from the mat, but Charlotte had been coughing and she’d been rubbing the little girl’s back. Vera took her hand to lead her down the stairs. ‘Come and say good morning to your mama, my dear.’

They entered the parlour to find Betsy Finch with a piece of paper shaking in her rigid fingers. ‘The bleeding bastard’s only gawn and died on me!’

‘Mind your tongue! I’ll take Charlotte back to her room, then we can talk.’ Vera had rebuked her employer before about the language she used in front of the child. At one time Betsy would’ve slapped her servant down. Now, she couldn’t be bothered, having either been at the rum, or be feeling the effects of it. Her first boyfriend had been a sailor and Betsy had developed a taste for his tipple.

When Vera returned, having settled the little girl on her bed with some toys, she found Betsy sitting in an armchair, her elbows dug into her lap and her head in her hands.

Vera retrieved the paper that had been screwed up and hurled to the floor. She already had an idea of the bad news the letter might contain. Having flattened it enough to read it, she felt her heart sink on being proved right. The major had been killed in action in France. At Ypres. Vera was thankful that at least his commanding officer had responded to their enquiry. Perhaps he’d had other such letters from desperate females, petitioning for news of their ‘dear close acquaintance Major Beresford’, as he’d not been in touch for a long while.

Her mistress could feel satisfied that the unpaid allowance, the long silence, hadn’t been an intentional snub as she had suspected. Vera knew men better than the younger woman did, though she’d only had a close relationship with her late husband. Betsy had never sought intimacy with a fellow’s mind, just another part of his anatomy and his wallet. Vera had tried to persuade her mistress that the major was a creature of habit and something other than spite had caused his regular payments to suddenly stop.

‘Well, you know what this means, don’t you?’ Betsy scrubbed her eyes with a hanky and pursed her lips. ‘We’re both out on our arses, and the kid too.’

Vera was getting on in years, but she could get another live-in position as a general domestic and build a small nest egg on which to retire. Her mistress, though decades younger, had only one quality to rely on. When Vera had started working for Betsy Finch five years ago, the girl had been a vivacious good-looker of twenty-four. It had been easy to see how she’d caught the major’s eye. Now, though, she was no longer nearly as attractive as once she’d been; she was embittered and appeared older than her years due to heavy drinking and keeping bad company. Betsy had been supplementing her allowance from the major by ‘seeing gentlemen’, although to give her her due she hadn’t started doing that until he had put her off. When too pie-eyed to know what she was doing, she sometimes brought one of the punters home with her. Thankfully it had been a rare occurrence. But Betsy wasn’t as discreet as she needed to be – hence her suspecting the major had sussed her out and cut off his funding.

Over the years he had turned up a handful of times to see his ‘daughter’. The first time had been just after the child arrived, to satisfy himself there indeed was one. His last visit had been several months ago, when he’d appeared on the doorstep looking smart in his army uniform. He’d patted Charlotte on the head, asked if she could write her name and read some words – both of which she could, courtesy of Vera having spent time teaching the four year old her numbers and letters. Betsy had received scant attention during his brief stay, and she’d brooded on it afterwards. She’d not boasted since that she could lure him back if she really wanted to. He’d always turned up unannounced, convincing his ex-lover that it was a strategy to catch her out in wrongdoing, so he could cut ties with her and remove the child to a foster mother.

‘What will you do now, m’m?’ Vera asked. Once, the girl had attracted high rollers; now it was spivs on the make. Two had attempted to take her ‘under their wings’. She’d resisted, instead letting her regular ponce handle her earnings. Since the major left her she had received several right-handers from violent men. The last had left her with a faint scar across her top lip.

Despite her mistress’s deplorable ways, Vera had some loyalty and affection for Betsy. Not as much as she had for Charlotte, though. To all intents and purposes, the child was Betsy’s daughter, and Vera feared for the little girl’s future now this had happened. She’d not got a reply to her question, so repeated it.

‘Dunno . . . thinking . . . ’ Betsy snapped.

‘A proper job, perhaps in a dress shop, might suit you, being as you’re so stylish.’ Vera tried flattery. ‘You’ve some lovely outfits to wear to interviews.’

‘Ain’t considering that sort of work,’ Betsy snorted. ‘I’ll barely make rent. I’ll have to go and see Mikey.’

‘Why? Do you want another punch in the face?’ Vera asked dryly.

‘Don’t need no lectures off you.’ Betsy pointed a finger. ‘I can’t pay you wages now the money’s run out, so you might as well start packing. The bailiffs will be on their way soon enough. Rent’s due again.’

Vera knew that was true; she’d fielded the tallyman when he’d turned up at the door last week. ‘I’ll pack Charlotte’s things in with yours.’ Vera turned towards the door but hesitated in leaving the room. She hated the idea of the child being stuck with a woman who showed her neither care nor attention. In four years, Betsy had barely acknowledged the small person she’d to thank for keeping a roof over her head. She’d only put some effort into the sham of being a mother when the major showed his face. Other than that, Betsy left her servant to attend to Charlotte’s needs. Vera had never been able to persuade her mistress to read the little girl a story or tuck her in at night.

‘Once I find myself a position, I’ll pay a visit and look after her as often as I can to give you a break.’ Vera yearned to offer to keep Charlie, as she called her, being as she was turning into quite a tomboy. A female domestic with a child in tow was unemployable, though. Without an income she couldn’t even support herself.

‘I won’t need a break from her.’ Betsy got up from her chair with an air of finality. ‘She won’t be coming with me. It’s the kiss of death being saddled with a brat in my line of work. If you can’t have her, she’ll have to go back where she came from.’ Betsy snatched the letter from Vera’s hands with a curse and threw it onto the fire. ‘That’s the end of him, and it’s the end of us, Vera. We’ve been a good team but it’s time to go our separate ways.’ She went to the sideboard and emptied the depleted bottle of rum into a tumbler. ‘I have got one last job for you, though. Pack up the kid’s things then take her back to Mrs Jolley. She’ll have to find someone else to take the girl. Somebody’ll bite at a pretty kid with fair hair.’ Betsy despatched the rum in two fast swallows, smacking her lips and slamming down the empty glass. ‘Whatever you do, though, don’t bring her back here because I’ll be gone.’

‘I can’t talk business with a woman, ducks!’ Rory Scully emphasised the idea was absurd by whacking his flat cap against his thigh and exploding in laughter. ‘Especially not one as young as you. Where’s your boss? I’ll deal with Mr Wilding.’

Scully crossed his arms over his broad chest, eying the girl up and down. She looked about seventeen and had a tumble of chestnut-brown waves framing her lovely face, but his gaze soon shifted to her figure. She might be young but she was luscious and he could understand what that randy hound saw in her. She was no shy pushover, though, to be regarding him with a challenging glint in a pair of gloriously blue eyes.

‘Is the gaffer due back soon?’ Scully tucked his cap beneath an arm. He’d removed it on entering Wilding’s costermonger premises. It was only a token civility; he’d nothing nice in mind.

‘In about three weeks’ time, with any luck. You’d better take a seat if you’re intending to wait for him.’

Lily Larkin’s tone was ironic but she gave the fellow a smile. He wasn’t the first man to swagger into the warehouse and treat her as the hired help. Just months ago she had been a costermonger’s apprentice clerk, taking orders. But not now. Since the man she loved had gone to France to fight, she was running his market business with the help of her friends and colleagues.

Scully turning up and demanding to see Gregory had brought him to the forefront of her mind . . . not that Lily needed much of a reminder. He was constantly in her thoughts despite the problems piling up. Scully wanted to see Gregory Wilding, did he? Well, not as much as she did.

‘Where is the skiver then . . . off on his holidays?’ Scully put on a good show of seeming surprised. ‘Getting idle in his old age, is he?’

‘What do you want, Mr Scully?’ There was something about him that jarred on Lily; and it wasn’t just his assumption that she was too young and dumb to discuss business with him. She sensed he wasn’t all he was making out to be. Most people who knew Gregory Wilding were aware by now that he’d enlisted and gone overseas.

‘I want to make your boss an offer he can’t refuse.’ Scully perched on the edge of Lily’s desk, forcing her to sit back in the chair to keep at a decent distance. ‘And I’d like to make you one at the same time, but I reckon I might get my face slapped if I did.’

‘You’ll get more than that when the guv’nor gets back and finds out you’ve been trying it on with his gel.’ A young man had just come into the warehouse, unseen by Scully.

Lily stood up, signalling that she was fine, but it didn’t stop her workmate eying the visitor with hard suspicion. He knew Scully by sight as a newcomer to his neighbourhood. He’d not been living there long but already he had a reputation as a man with a big mouth who used his fists. He had the appearance of a successful coster: sturdy rig-out and healthy tan from having been outdoors in summer sun. Aged about mid-twenties, he was auburn-haired, of medium height and muscular. His biceps bulged beneath his shirt as he crossed his arms then cocked his shaggy head in a mocking sort of way.

‘So, this is yer sidekick, is it, love?’ Scully’s calculated condescension turned the younger man red. ‘Think I’ve seen you about, son.’

‘Smudger’s my right-hand man.’ Lily introduced Bobby Smith by the nickname everybody used. ‘Now, we’ve got stocktaking to do, so if you’ve said all you want to . . . ’

‘Oh, I haven’t even started, ducks.’ Scully’s tone had changed. He wasn’t playing now. ‘I’m looking to buy a premises to expand my market business.’ He leisurely budged off the desk. ‘I’ve had a nice concern going over the other side of the water, but I want to settle down round here to build my little empire.’

‘This place isn’t for sale.’ Lily cut to the chase to get rid of him.

‘Everything’s for sale, love.’ He gave her a lewd look. ‘If the price is right. Your guv’nor understands that. When you’re older and more clued up, you will too.’ He nodded at the Primus stove on the shelf with some cups set neatly close by. ‘Now, how about you make us a nice cup of tea and we can have a chat about things.’

Lily knew he was out to rile her, so she simply put her hands on her hips and gave him an old-fashioned look.

Scully chuckled at her defiance. Her sidekick might be trying to protect her by calling her the boss’s girl. Wilding was known for wiping up waifs and strays as his employees. Scully had heard he’d taken on a clerk and had assumed it to be another grateful youth who’d toe the line. Wilding must have lost his wits to volunteer, leaving ragamuffins running his depot . . . or so Scully had thought. But now he’d met them he’d changed his tune. These two weren’t timid little wretches. They were strong and confident. But he wasn’t giving up on his ambition to make a killing in Gregory Wilding’s absence.

‘Person could die o’ thirst in here,’ Scully moaned. ‘Come on, rattle them cups ’n’ saucers and tell me yer name.’

Smudger took a threatening step forward, getting het up that the man wouldn’t take the hint and leave. He would have liked to bash the smirk off Scully’s chops. Lily quickly defused the situation. ‘I’m Lily Larkin but, like I said, nothing here is for sale. I’m old enough to know that.’ She extended a hand for Scully to shake. She might not like him but it was in her nature to be polite even to patronising Jack-the-lads. She jerked her fingers from his tightening grip. ‘Sorry, not making tea cos we’re too busy to stop. I’ll let Mr Wilding know you called when he’s back home.’

The planked door of the warehouse swung open and a fair-haired young woman walked in, swinging a shopping bag. ‘Got the stuff for tea; they had a few custard creams left . . . ’ Margie Blake fell quiet on noticing the visitor.

‘Good . . . we’ll have those when we get home,’ Lily said smoothly before Scully could again invite himself to join the party.

‘Custard creams, eh? My favourite.’ Scully insolently doffed his cap to her before flipping it onto his head. ‘You’re all keeping Wilding’s open for business then, are you?’ He looked Margie over, aware she had shoved a crippled hand out of sight behind her back when he paid attention to her. Apart from that blemish she was another nice-looking girl.

‘Unless I can sell you some fruit and veg, or rent you a barrow, I’ll say good day.’ Lily wasn’t giving him tea and biscuits though she was gasping for a cuppa herself.

He sauntered to the door then turned about to assess the trio. Smudger looked the eldest but Lily Larkin was the one with the savvy and would be the nut to crack. The fair-haired girl he dismissed as no trouble whatsoever. Scully gave the warehouse another glance. A place like this in a prime spot in Poplar was just what he wanted, and he wouldn’t get a better chance of a crafty strike than while Wilding was off the scene. He stopped his eyes roaming over the stacked equipment with an acquisitive glint. They were all watching him but the smart girl got his foxy smile. The little cow was reading his thoughts about taking it all, lock, stock and barrel . . . including having her into the bargain. ‘You remember me to your guv’nor, won’t you, now? Let him know I’ll be back for that chat.’ He sniffed, rubbing a finger beneath his nose. ‘’Course, if his luck runs out over there and he don’t come back, then it’ll be me ’n’ you having that talk, Lily Larkin. You’ll wish you’d offered me that cup o’ tea then, love, eh?’

‘Oh, he’ll be back, and I’ll tell him what you said, don’t you worry about that.’ Lily hated him for playing on her fears for Greg’s safety. She bit her tongue on any more backchat. He was itching for her to give him a reason to hang around a bit longer.

Smudger put a boot against the swinging door, slamming it into the frame to let Scully know he was glad to be shot of him.

‘He’s full of himself. Didn’t like him one little bit. Do you know Rory Scully, Smudger?’

‘Never heard his name before. Seen him around though; he’s moved into our street with his wife. Guv’nor probably knows him. Ain’t many people in this game who’ve escaped his notice.’

‘Said the wrong thing, did I?’ Margie started unpacking the shopping bag with her left hand. Her right had deformed fingers that made her clumsy.

‘’Course not . . . ’ Lily lit the Primus and put the kettle on. ‘He was just having a nose around and thought he could wangle a cup of tea while he did so.’

Margie Blake was Lily’s best friend, a friendship that had been forged when they’d both been inmates of South Grove workhouse in Whitechapel. Margie had started working at Wilding’s a few months ago and kept the account books up to date. She could write nicely with her left hand and had received a good schooling in English and arithmetic, as had Lily.

Previously Lily had been the clerk, but now she and Smudger shared the management of the place. They were responsible for the buying of stock at Spitalfields and Billingsgate and operated a market stall, selling produce six days a week. The workforce at Wilding’s had halved since the war started. To make up numbers, a neighbour’s school-leaver son had been roped in to take out a barrow on street rounds. Joey Robley was a strapping lad of fourteen and had no trouble pushing a loaded barrow. But he was green when it came to dealing with shrewd housewives wanting something for nothing, or when fending off rivals poaching on his patch. Joey did his best, but the business could really do with a mature recruit who’d take no nonsense. And Lily reckoned she knew just the person, if Fanny Miller was willing to give street trading another go.

‘I parked our van up round the corner.’ Smudger had been indignant to see a horse and cart blocking his way onto Wilding’s forecourt. He went to the door to pull it open and watch their unwanted visitor’s departure. Scully had jumped onto the cart. He leisurely lit a cigarette, as though aware he was under observation, then, puffing away, flicked the reins over the horse’s back. As the vehicle moved off a pile of steaming manure was revealed.

‘And you can take your shit with you, ’n’ all,’ Smudger bawled out.

‘Do nicely for the garden, that will,’ Lily said calmingly. ‘Old girl upstairs uses fertiliser on the roses.’

‘You all right, Lil?’ Smudger was watching Lily nibbling at her thumbnail. ‘Ain’t worried about that prat, are you?’ He approached to put a comforting arm about her shoulders. ‘All gob that one. S’pose you could write and tell the guv’nor though, just in case his leave gets cancelled like it did last time. Guv’nor’ll let us know how he wants us to play it if Scully turns up again.’

Smudger had liked Lily from the moment the guv’nor had turned up with his new clerk. Though looking thin and bedraggled and younger than her years in her workhouse uniform, Lily Larkin had soon shown she possessed the spirit of a lioness. In Smudger’s eyes her only fault was her tendency to mother her twin brother and tolerate his mistakes – and there had been many. But Davy Larkin was a boy soldier on the Western Front now. Though Smudger reckoned Davy mad to have gone, he also privately thought the separation of brother and sister would do them both good.

‘I’m not worried about Scully . . . he’s just blowing hot air.’ Lily prayed every night for the safety of her boyfriend and her brother. The thought of life without them was unbearable. She wished they’d not enlisted, though she understood why they had, and was immensely proud of them both. They were risking their lives, having volunteered to fight a war on foreign soil that many people believed should be over and done with by now. Lily was proud that Gregory believed in her and trusted her to be capable of running a business he’d built up from scratch and made profitable. She loved being a businesswoman. But not as much as she loved him. She wanted him safely back with her, so she wouldn’t write and inform him of Scully’s visit when he needed to concentrate on dodging bullets.

‘Let’s have that tea. Then Marge and me will have a tot-up of the takings when Joey gets back with the barrow. Hope he’s sold out and not run into trouble today.’ Smudger had had to work the round with the youth for a while to show the interlopers that Wilding’s wasn’t giving ground. Lily had run the market stall with just one-handed Margie’s help, and they’d all pitched in doing the accounts in the evening.

She started spooning tea into the pot. ‘It’s high time I had a catch-up with Fanny; she’s just the person Joey needs to help him out.’ Fanny Miller wouldn’t take any nonsense off the Burdett Road boys, who were trying to muscle in on Joey’s patch. Fanny had been a workhouse inmate too and Lily had liked her from the start, despite the fact she was a few years her senior and hard as nails. Fanny also had a bad reputation, having been a ‘working girl’ who’d had a baby out of wedlock. But Fanny was now on the straight and narrow and a dedicated, if unmarried, mother. ‘D’you reckon Fanny will take the job?’

‘Definitely . . . if she’s still stuck in that bloody rag shop; you know she hates the work,’ Margie piped up. ‘I’ll come on a visit to Fanny with you. I’d love to see little Ronny again. Wonder how he is?’

‘Not so little, I reckon.’ Lily smiled, remembering Fanny’s sturdy son. ‘I expect he’s up on his feet and might even be talking by now. Can’t wait to see him.’

They gathered round the desk and tucked into their tea and biscuits. Lily had almost forgotten about the unwelcome visitor as she dwelled on seeing Fanny again. But not quite . . . his leering face was still hovering at the back of her mind.

‘We could go this Sunday to see Fanny,’ Margie suggested.

‘Can’t do it this weekend . . . already got something planned,’ Lily said.

The other two looked expectantly at her.

‘There’s a place in Bloomsbury that I’ve not visited yet. It might have a record of my sister.’ Lily sounded excited and showed them two sets of crossed fingers before taking a sip of tea. She could hardly wait for Sunday to arrive. She’d go now, this instant, if she could. But her commitment to the man she loved, and to her colleagues, was as strong as that to her little lost half-sister. She couldn’t neglect work in favour of family business. Wilding’s didn’t just provide her livelihood but that of her friends, too. Greg had taken a leap of faith putting an inexperienced workhouse girl in charge of his money and his premises. She’d work her fingers to the bone to be worthy of his trust.

Smudger and Margie gave her sympathetic smiles then turned their attention to the plate of biscuits. At intervals they glanced at Lily, immersed now in thoughts of family, not friends.

Both of these friends, in their hearts, believed that Lily should give up chasing a lost cause. Every time she came back from an orphanage none the wiser, she would be down in the dumps for days. But Smudger and Margie adored her too much to upset her by telling her she was wasting her time and prolonging her own agony, looking for a sister who had probably died long ago.

‘Your half-sister will be fortunate to have survived such early disadvantages, Miss Larkin.’ The matron of the Foundling Hospital gazed at her visitor over her clasped, capable-looking hands.

‘I imagine so . . . but why did you mention it?’ On the opposite side of the desk, Lily sat forward in her chair. The matron had sounded sympathetic, rather too sympathetic. ‘Have you come across