away, chicks and all, by the muddy brown flow.
Hitching up her skirts and pulling off her shoes, Rosalie had waded in, while little Linette, so pretty even then, had watched from the bank, her hands pressed to her cheeks. Rosalie, up to her knees in water and challenged by the mother moorhen squawking its outrage, steadily placed stones and twigs around the unwieldy nest full of open-beaked chicks until it was firmly anchored again in a cleft of the leafy island.
‘Oh, Rosalie! You’ve saved the babies!’ Linette had been ecstatic.
From the top of their garden, Rosalie and Linette’s mother, not well even then, had been watching, too. As they ran back up to her, she’d hugged her girls tightly to her. ‘My brave darling Rosalie,’ she’d said in her broken English. ‘And Linette. You are both mes petits anges, my little angels!’
That was when Rosalie had noticed the bucket and brush by the wall of the house and realised that their mother had been crying. And then she had seen the words, painted on the side of their outhouse, that her mother must have been trying to scrub away when they came running up from the river. You don’t belong here, French whore.
Later that morning at the village school Rosalie had shown her new teacher the story she’d written about a bird in its floating nest travelling far downstream and finding a new life.
That young teacher was Helen Fazackerley and she had read Rosalie’s story with absorbed attention. ‘This is wonderful, Rosalie,’ she had said quietly. ‘Is this something you would like to do? Travel and discover new places?’
Rosalie had looked steadily up at her teacher. ‘If we went somewhere else, would they be kinder to my mother, Miss Fazackerley?’
* * *
On, on flew Rosalie’s memories, to the December of last year. A cold evening, a bitter evening, in damp, bleak London. Rosalie had by then been staying with Helen for two months, searching all the daylight hours and more for Linette; asking at the theatres, the opera houses, everywhere she could think of for her sister; following clues that too quickly went cold. Rosalie, I’m in London. I’m in trouble. Please help me.
But it was Helen, who regularly went out at night with a group of her church friends to take soup and bread to the hungry in some of the worst districts of London, who found Linette at last.
Rosalie had been reading little Toby his bedtime story when she’d received Helen’s message. Biddy, their good young neighbour, had come in to look after Toby, while Rosalie, with one of Biddy’s brothers, hurried to meet Helen at the address she’d give her—a rubbish-strewn attic off the Ratcliffe Highway. There, on a dank mattress beneath a broken skylight, lay her nineteen-year-old sister, her once-lovely face pinched with grief and illness, while at her side a beautiful little girl with dark curls gazed up at the newcomers, clutching a battered rag doll and whispering, ‘Mama. Mama.’
Rosalie’s search for her sister was at an end.
Helen had immediately taken the crying infant to her house in Clerkenwell. In the meantime Rosalie had fought hard to conceal not just her grief, but her overwhelming rage as she’d held her sister in her arms and stroked back her hair from her forehead. ‘Take me to him,’ Linette had whispered as she clutched her sister’s hand.
‘Who, Linette?’ Rosalie had tried so hard to keep her voice steady, though the pain in her heart had threatened to choke her.
‘He has a castle. A wonderful castle. Take me to him, please …’ Linette had been struggling to speak by then. Faintly she’d breathed his name—then died, moments later, in Rosalie’s arms.
Since then, Rosalie had redoubled her efforts to find Linette’s destroyer, working her way round every London theatre, high and low. Not asking outright, for that brought danger; but pretending she was looking for a lost friend. And a few days ago, fast running out of hope, she’d visited a seedy little theatre off the Strand.
The greasy-haired manager, Alfred Marchmont, had said curiously, ‘I remember a girl called Linette. Linette Lavalle, that was it—pretty, she was, well spoken, with fair hair …’
For a moment she could hardly breathe. Emotion twisted her insides. At last she nodded. ‘When was she here?’
‘Well, she came for an audition—it would be, oh, spring three years ago; I’ve a good memory for faces and names.’ Marchmont looked at her curiously. ‘She was pretty, as I said, but she moved on after a couple of months to Dr Barnard’s.’
Three years ago. ‘Does this Dr Barnard run a theatre, then?’
Marchmont had hesitated. ‘He runs a stage show. Of sorts.’
So now, at Dr Barnard’s famous Temple of Beauty, Rosalie prepared herself to endure the company of the half-drunken roués upstairs. But as soon as Dr Barnard appeared and observed her there, she would slip down to his office to see if his secret book went back to the summer of 1813, when Linette might have worked here—and met Katy’s father.
Chapter Four
‘Look, lads, it’s Captain Stewart! He was one of Wellington’s officers at Waterloo!’
Alec Stewart was all set to leave the Temple of Beauty. There was no sign of his brother; Garrett must have been wrong. But now these friends of Lord Harry Nugent’s had clustered around him in the smoke-filled bar, blocking his exit.
Alec made a half-hearted effort to answer their eager questions, but he was tired of battle talk. He wanted to point out to these young blades that war was a damnable business, then get the hell out of here. But then Harry himself appeared and accosted Alec with delight.
‘So you decided to come after all, Alec! Weren’t the girls just wonderful?’
‘They were about as I expected, yes,’ said Alec steadily. This wasn’t the place or time to explain to Harry that actually he thought they looked greedy and desperate. Though not quite all. His eyes had been tugged reluctantly back to the stage by just one of the goddesses—Athena—the slender one who tossed her long fair hair and looked almost angry, as though she hated being there amongst those plump, painted courtesans …
For God’s sake, man. She has to be a courtesan, too!
‘Must go, Harry,’ Alec said. But Harry was babbling in his ear, to make himself heard above the general din.
‘You’re not leaving yet, are you, Alec? You must stay for the dancing upstairs.’ Harry was pointing eagerly to one of the many winding staircases that threaded through this tall, ancient building. ‘You could have your pick, if they knew who you were!’
‘Really not my style.’ Alec clapped the curly-haired young man lightly on the shoulder. ‘I only came because I thought my brother might be here—and he’s not. Enjoy the rest of your birthday and don’t let yourself be fleeced too badly, will you?’ Alec started towards the exit.
‘But, Alec, your brother is here!’
Alec ground to a halt. ‘What?’
‘He was too late for the show,
