Chapter 1

Discovery

Oscar Finch was no fool. Not good at books like Charlie, their mother told him he was clever in other ways. Though two years younger, Oscar could beat his brother at cards and dice. He could win a laugh with ease and strike a bargain. A lad like him could make his way in the East, they said. Use his tongue and his wits until his luck ran out and he died a pauper or swung from a rope—but only a fool would gamble it all for black streets and empty pockets.

When the news had first broken, a twelve-year-old Oscar announced he wanted to join the rush. “It takes three months to get there.” His father had laughed, “Three months on a stinking ship with nothing to eat but mouldy bread and stale ale. And the rats, they’re as big as cats. Rob you as soon as look at you.”

“Not so different to Spitalfields, then.” Oscar grinned.

“A bit warmer, perhaps.”

“It would be somethin’ though, wouldn’t it?”

His father considered the prospect, light dancing in his eyes. “You can only win you if you roll the dice, my boy.”

Four years had passed, his father was gone, and Oscar had almost forgotten his dreams of gold when he found the pamphlet. Crumpled, boot-stained and covering a sixpence on the floor of the foyer, he was about to cast it aside when he noticed the black letters branded across the parchment:

Untold riches are still waiting.

A cheer erupted, dulled by the closed doors. Delilah Jones was taking the stage to the catcalls of the rabble, and high above, roguish gentlemen swilled champagne. Oscar imagined their red faces whispering empty promises to local wantons, wallets full of cash, and bent over to pick up the dirty sixpence.

His earliest memory was of crouching behind the curtains, watching his mother perform. Drawn like a moth, the tiny boy had soon been put to work. They taught him to tidy props and costumes, polish lanterns, sweep stalls, and a few other tricks—like scavenging the foyer as the crowd took their seats. The scent of the champagne sweat, tobacco and cheap perfume forever hung to his clothes. Once full of wonder, this shabby music hall now felt like the web of alleyways that wove behind it through Whitechapel—dark and inescapable.

Clutching the flyer, his mind again went to the place across the sea where gold could be found in the dirt. He did not notice the man hurry down the stairs.

“You, lad!”

Pushing the advertisement and coin into his pocket, Oscar stood to look at the anxious gentleman. He seemed different to the usual, arrogant sort, with a kind face, voluminous blonde curls and mutton chops which Oscar rather admired. Although sixteen years old, Oscar had yet to grow much facial hair. Straight and blonde, his hair was pressed flatter still by his cap. Perhaps next year he would fashion some equally abundant sideburns.

“Aye, sir?”

“Lad,” the man tried to catch his breath, “I would ask that you do me a small boon.” He reached into his inner coat pocket. “There is a lady of great beauty and grace. I need you to deliver a message to her.”

“Of course, sir. But can you not give it to her yourself?”

“She is with another gentleman, and she is beholden to him. For the evening, at least. Please, find her in the interval and give her this.” He pressed a crumpled note, damp from his palms, into Oscar’s hand, along with a shilling. “Do not let him see you, boy. Do not let him suspect. This is of the utmost importance.”

Oscar suppressed a smirk. “At your service, sir.”

“Please, call me Robbie.”

“And how should I address the lady?”

“Her name is Juliet.” The man described a woman with hair of gold, and the most worthy and amiable of qualities. Oscar wanted to see her with his own eyes. If growing up in the theatre had taught him anything, it was that if an act appeared too magical, too perfect, it was generally a trick of the eye—a product of pure theatrics. He had little doubt this lady would be any exception.

~

Meg Fletcher was collecting empty tankards and pie plates with little enthusiasm. Smoke hung in the air, the hubbub of male chatter building in step with their intoxication. Teddy, who could use a wash and smelled of tar, sat at the bar. He smiled and gave her a wink, but she preferred to imagine herself in the company of one of the press boys—or the young clerks who had a little more change in their pockets and a lot less body odour. Tonight though, all the gents were greying, and while they had wallets fat enough to match their paunches, Meg did not exchange pleasantries for money.

Resigning herself to an evening without company, she was picking up yet more tankards when she saw handsome Charlie Finch walking through the door with a grin. Clattering the cups on the bar, she arranged her auburn hair, sweeping back the unruly curls. “What are you all smiles about, then, eh?” she whispered in his ear.

“A fine evening to you, Meg.” Charlie removed his top hat with a flourish. “You, my dear, are in the presence of a published writer.”

“Where?” she looked around the tavern. “Can’t see nothing but hacks and has-beens in this place.”

“Look closer, perhaps.”

“There is one handsome young chap who has caught my eye. I’m to finish any moment now. Buy me a drink?”

A tankard later, the pair were bundled in a booth, Charlie sucking the foam from his second beer. “I heard Mr Morley, editor of The Chronicle, liked to frequent the Old Mitre coffeehouse. After many evenings of trying, I managed to lure him into a debate about the rights of factory workers—a topic I knew would draw ire. Heaven forbid the working man get any ideas.” A dimple appeared as a smile crossed his face. “Although we did not see eye to eye, Mr Morley conceded I was bold and in possession of some wit and fortitude, so he agreed to accept my submissions. Much good it did me, for he rejected all my articles for the next three months!” Pausing to take a sip of his beer with one ink-stained hand, he ran the other through dark curls. “I knew he would print this one.”

“What’s it about?”

He told her of Eliza, a local maid who had crept out to meet her beau, only when she returned to the Mayfair home of her employer, several pieces of silver were missing—and all fingers pointed in her direction.

“I am fortunate my brother, Oscar, knows Eliza. He works at the music hall and seems to know everyone. I was at least able to tell her side of the story. Visiting that cell was frightful.”

“Will they release her, do you think?”

“It was not in her favour to run when she saw the bobbies outside the house. If she had returned of her own volition and protested her innocence, they may have believed her.”

“Oh, poor Eliza.” Charlie bit his lower lip and Meg’s eyes traced the journey. “Charlie Finch, famous writer. One day you could write fantastic novels. The new Mr Thackeray.” She looked to see if he was impressed that she knew the name of a novelist. Though she felt fortunate for little, she was grateful she could read, and devoured as many books as she could afford—a window outside her dark corner of London.

“Someday perhaps.”

“Someday soon, I am sure of it.”

“And what of you, Miss Megs?” His leg shifted to lay so close to hers she could feel the warmth of it through her skirts. “I have been speaking all of me and not a bit of you.”

“I do not have a story to match yours.” What could she tell him? Her life seemed mundane compared to his. “I work in this glamorous place with the cream of London.” They both laughed as they looked about the King & Keys. The drunken tumult was nearing its nightly peak; men singing, arguing about the very same things they would debate again on the morrow. “When I’m not living the high life here, I look after my uncle. He took me in when my pa left. In fairness to him, he was prevailed upon to take me in as a lodger. I daresay he was given very little choice in the matter. One day my pa came home and said, ‘I’m off to America.’ He was offered a place on a merchant ship and the lure of the open seas was too enticing for him. I cannot blame him. ‘I’ll find my fortune, Megsy,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll send for you.’ Perhaps he will—and perhaps pigs will sprout wings and fly.”

They laughed again, but hers had a hollow edge. His leg pressed closer. Exploring the features of his face, she noticed it was still soft with youth; eyes like stout ale and chocolate hair long enough to curl in all directions, yet somehow it sat just right. She guessed he was eighteen or thereabouts. A little older, but only by a year or so. She could feel the warmth of his body, could smell him too; the scent of beer, wool, ink and something distinctly his own.

“I should be getting you home, Miss Megs.” Her name growled from his lips.

Collecting her shawl from the bench, they were soon cloaked in the darkness of an alley, the evening mild and the warmth of the alcohol washing through them. Their heels clicked on the cobbles and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck quiver. He stopped walking, turning her to him, his breath held, his eyes watching her lips.

Boys had kissed her before, but their mouths had felt foreign—wet and awkward. She had pushed them away before they tried their luck further. Now she understood why young girls got themselves into trouble—and she did not care. Kissing him back, she reached for his curls, knocking his hat to the ground. Cool brick pressed against her back as one hand cupped her face and the other drifted downwards. I should stop him, she thought. They might start courting. He would take her walking, bring her flowers—but his lips felt soft, his hands strong and yet gentle. His smell, oh his smell. His hands began to lift her skirt.

As his fingers reached the top of her stockings, a drunken voice broke the spell; a bawdy tune which echoed down the alley. Remembering herself, Meg pulled away.

“Charlie. Please. We shouldn’t.”

It took a moment for Charlie to rein himself in. “I’m sorry, Meg, I got carried away.”

“We both did, but I… I don’t…”

“I know.” He reached down to fetch his hat. “Let me get you home.”

~

Charlie strolled down his dimly lit street, the smell of the gas streetlights in his nostrils, a lazy smile on his face—this evening had been most unexpected. As he approached the door to his apartment, his stomach dropped. The door was open, creaking in the breeze.

Racing inside, fearing what he would find in the shadows, he fumbled in the dark for a candle and matches. Lighting the wick, he called out to his mother, then to his little brother, Tommy. No response. In his mother’s room, a chair was overturned, the contents of her precious makeup jar scattered across the floorboards and her footprints pressed into the chalk.

“Mama!” Silence.

“She’s gone.” Charlie turned to see his neighbour, Mr Green, a silhouette against the full moon. “Sorry to startle you, lad. Don’t panic. We have little Tom in our parlour. Been out looking for her. So far we’ve found nary a trace. Tried the tavern first, just for one, mind, then rushed to the market. Thought she may have believed it were daytime. I’ve heard said your mother does get confused at times.”

“Mr Green.” Charlie put his hands on the man’s shoulders. “My mother.”

“My heavens, I do digress. I’ve only now returned to the house myself and heard you calling, was hoping you may have a better idea.”

Charlie looked back at the footprints of chalk.

Racing down Church Street, Charlie turned onto Brick Lane. Skirting overflowing taverns and unfortunates passed out on gin, he ran past the bakeries and seamstress houses. Whores called to him, or any man standing who looked likely to have a few bob in their purses. Swinging left onto Whitechapel Road, he kept running, though his lungs burned and legs ached.

Out the front of the music hall, in her stage dress, was his mother. Red eyes chased the faces of the people as they spilled from the theatre on their way to the nearest pub or hansom cab. Her blonde hair tumbled down her back; her face powdered, her figure, although now too slim, moving with grace in her silken gown. Pushing past the crowds to her, he took her arm.

“William,” she whispered. “Will, I have been looking for you, where have you been?”

“Mama, it’s me. It’s Charlie. Let us go home now.”

“Will, did you see the show? Did you see me dancing?”

“Come, Mama. Come,” he coaxed her, leading her away from the throng.

Catching sight of his brother, laughing with a pal and finishing the dregs of a champagne bottle, he called, “Oscar!”

One glance and Oscar was by her side. “Madame Josephine, that was quite a performance this evening! You truly are the French Nightingale.”

“Sir,” her face softened with the compliment. “You saw me dancing?”

“Dancing, singing. You were an angel. Now, your handsome beau here is going to take you home. We cannot have your voice damaged by the night air, can we?”

“Tres bien. You are most wise, sir,”

“I shall join you both for a stroll.” Oscar winked at Charlie. “The night is so fine. You can tell me all about how you two met.”

Taking his mother’s other arm, the three of them walked towards Spitalfields, as Josephine, the lady who had once been the French Nightingale, told them both a tale they already knew by heart—of the night a charming young lawyer had stood by the stage door with a white rose and stolen her heart.

~

Oscar boiled the kettle while Charlie took Josephine and put her into bed. Once her head lay upon the pillow, her eyelids lowering towards sleep, Charlie tidied her room before rejoining his brother.

He watched Oscar make tea in their kitchen—a simple iron stove, an open fireplace, a weathered table—and remembered how it used to be. The kitchen well-appointed and filled with light and feminine touches; flowers on the table, lace curtains hanging from the windows. Their mother would make supper while Charlotte sat on her father’s knee. Oscar would be entertaining Tommy, little more than a baby, making coins disappear and reappear to the boy’s delight. Charlie could hear the laughter, smell the sausages and mash. Then he blinked and he was back in this dark empty kitchen, his brother pouring hot water into an old teapot.

They sat at their small kitchen table in silence for a few minutes, drinking tea from chipped teacups; Charlie, his head in his hands, Oscar, playing with candle wax he had broken off and was now rubbing between his forefinger and thumb.

“I’m worried, Os.” Charlie broke the silence.

“Nothing new there then, C.” Oscar tried to joke, but his brother was too tired to manage a smile.

“We need help. We cannot leave Tommy alone with her all day. He should be off to school, and she needs someone here to keep an eye on her. One of these days she’ll run off and we’ll not be able to find her in time.”

“How can we afford to get someone to come and look after her? We barely cover the rent as it is, let alone clothes, and food, and firewood, and candles.” Oscar looked at the candlewax in his fingers and tried to stick it back onto the candle.

Charlie sighed. “I know.”

“Could we take her to one of them hospital places?”

“An asylum?” As Charlie said the word, they both shuddered. All had heard tales of Bedlam—the only place as feared as the workhouse.

“No. I could never leave her there.”

“I know she ain’t got no family left, but what about Pa’s kin?”

“We’ve never met them, Os. Why should they give us money?”

“They got plenty though, ain’t they? It’s worth a try.”

“I cannot countenance going to kin we do not know and grovelling for money. Besides, they disowned Pa when he married Mama, why would they give us money to help her?”

 “Aye. True.”

“We shall simply have to find a way to save some money,” Charlie resolved. “I’ll write more articles—and you’re resourceful, little brother. I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

Oscar’s brow was creasing in thought when an idea gleamed in his eye.

“Something legal,” Charlie added.

A laugh that was little more than air escaped Oscar’s lips. “Back to the chalkboard, then.”