The Copeland Bride

Prologue

"Noelle, ma petite, if we just hang on a bit longer, things will get better, you'll see."

Daisy Dorian was sitting at her cluttered dressing table carefully brushing into fashionable disarray the short blond ringlets that curled too youthfully around her face. With her littlest fingers she touched her lips lightly with coral and then, satisfied with the result, pouted prettily into the mirror.

The seven-year-old child sitting nearby gazed at her mother. She knew she had never seen anyone so beautiful. She did not notice the lines at the corners of Daisy's blue eyes or the puffiness under her chin, nor did she realize that the blond curls were a shade less bright and the upper arms a touch less firm than they had been. More than anything, Noelle wanted to look like her mother when she grew up.

"La bonne chance is finally going to smile on us," Daisy concluded. "Why, just today I overheard Mr. Lackland discussing the casting for Hamlet. I tell you, Noelle, he looked quite hard at me when he was discussing Ophelia."

Noelle giggled happily and ran to kneel beside her mother, careful not to touch Daisy's last good gown, a somewhat worn but still attractive pink confection.

"What a wonderful Ophelia you would be. Mama." She placed the accent carefully at the end of "Mama" just as Daisy had taught her, for Daisy, in the mode of the day, admired ail things French. "Just think how exciting it will te when you are famous."

She jumped up and threw her thin arms above her head. "Daisy Dorian appearing at Coven! Garden with Mr. John Philip Kemble! Or maybe you and Mrs. Suidons could do As You Like It. She can be Celia; I want you to play Rosalind."

Daisy smiled fondly at her daughter and replied that she very much doubted whether Mrs. Siddons would agree with that casting.

Ignoring her mother's pessimism, Noelle danced enthusiastically around the small, shabby room. "I loved it when you told me that story. Especially the part where Orlando finally meets his Rosalind in the Forest of Arden and everybody gets married." She dropped to the floor, her eyes wistful. "I would so love to see a wedding. Maybe someday you can get married, and I could be in your wedding. Do you think I could, Mama?"

Daisy set down the musky cologne she had been dabbing in the hollow of her throat and turned to her daughter, who was regarding her solemnly. She experienced a familiar warmth as she gazed at the beautiful topaz eyes and the little elfin face surrounded by golden brown curls cut as short as Daisy's own.

"Aren't you happy, enfant, with just the two of us?"

"Of course I'm happy, Mama. But if you got married, I would have a father, and we shouldn't have to worry about the bills we can't pay." She paused thoughtfully. "And we could live in a beautiful house, and I could have a pony."

Daisy's laughter tinkled gaily. "Why, you little minx! You don't give a fig about my getting married. You just want a pony. Besides, you do have a father as you very well know. He just doesn't live with us."

"I know, Mama, and he is noble and handsome and rich!"

And I'm not precisely sure who he is, Daisy silently added, giving her hair one last reassuring pat. But it was no doubt true that he had been all three of those things.

That was such a happy time in her life. All those rich and titled gentlemen bringing her flowers and buying her trinkets and sharing her bed. She inspected her face critically. Now it was not so easy; the years had passed much too quickly.

"Don't plop so when you sit, Noelle. Lower yourself gracefully." She had spoken more sharply than she intended. "Remember, chérie, you have the blood of kings in your veins."

Anticipating her mother's next admonition, Noelle straightened in her chair, being careful not to lean against the back. "I do wish I could see him just once."

As much to herself as to Noelle, Daisy admonished, "I'm sure you do, ma petite, but it's so silly to waste time wishing for things that are impossible and worrying about what may or may not happen. It's much better to have fun: to dance, to play cards or buy a new hat."

"But you do have to worry or you won't have the money to buy the hat, Mama. And that's why I'm so happy. Not only will you be famous when Mr. Lackland lets you play Ophelia, but we'll be able to pay all our bills and even give Mrs. Muspratt the rent money so she'll stop looking at me with her nasty old face all pinched up."

Inwardly Daisy cursed herself for mentioning Ophelia to Noelle. She was such a solemn little thing, so intent on Daisy establishing herself as a famous actress. However, even Daisy's cheerfully optimistic nature would not permit her to place any great store in a brilliant future on the stage; at thirty, she was getting a bit long in the tooth. Besides, when Francis Lackland was watching her, he had undoubtedly been remembering the enjoyable tumble they had had the previous night on the floor of his sitting room.

Daisy's life as a demimonde had begun at fifteen when she escaped her tyrannical yeoman father by running away to London. She promptly lost her maidenhood to an elderly baronet who bought her muslins and silks that she had made up into slim, clinging gowns. She wore gold bracelets on her bare arms and ostrich plumes in her soft curls. He adored her; she made him feel young again, gay and carefree.

Soon after Daisy's eighteenth birthday, he died. She wept for a day and then resolved to make a career for herself in the theater. Although she was hired immediately for her beauty, managers were understandably reluctant to advance her beyond minor roles when they heard how thin her voice was, how lacking in dramatic range.

In the past few years even the smaller parts had become scarce, and her debts had climbed alarmingly. She found herself dependent upon the largess of her admirers. Unfortunately, the men who now sought her favors were no longer the charming and wealthy gentlemen of the ton. Instead, they were tradesmen and clerks, men who worked hard for their money and guarded it carefully.

Thinking of money always made Daisy's head ache, and now she stood abruptly and smoothed her pink frock. The new edging of white lace at the neck and hem was quite successful, she reflected, hoping, at the same time, that no one would recognize the refurbished garment.

"I'm going out, now, chérie. Tuck yourself in as soon as I leave." She kissed Noelle on her soft, dimpled chin. "Bonsoir, enfant. "

"Bonsoir, Mama." Noelle closed the door behind her mother and then climbed into the bed they shared, pulling the covers up to her chin. She was asleep almost instantly.

It was only a few hours later that Daisy raced through the streets back to her lodgings. The night had turned bitter, and the raw wind tore viciously at her cloak. She rounded the last corner and rushed up to the house, clutching the key in her numb fingers. Fumbling clumsily with the lock, she finally turned it only to have a gust of icy wind catch the door. Daisy clutched at it desperately, just saving it from crashing into the wall and rousing the vigilant landlady. Breathlessly she climbed the stairs, her feet noiseless on the wooden treads.

She let herself into the sitting room and, without taking off her cloak, began tossing the few belongings she had not yet pawned with those of her child into a large valise and a bandbox decorated with a pleasant scene from Regency Park.

Only after she was done did she cross the room to the child curled peacefully in their narrow bed, her breathing deep and even. "Noelle, wake up." She shook the small child gently and whispered, "Wake up, sweetheart."

Noelle's lids opened heavily, then closed, and then opened again.

"You must get up and dress quickly." She pulled the covers off the child and began tossing clothing at her. "Put these On. You'll have to dress warmly, child. It's bitterly cold outside."

"What's happened, Mama? Where are we going?" Noelle's clear voice cut into the silence of the room.

"Shh! There's not time to explain now. Hurry! We must leave very, very quietly." Daisy thrust the sleepy child into her garments, handed her the bandbox, and then led her quietly down the stairs and out into the bitter night. She carried the heavy valise herself.

Wordlessly Noelle followed, clutching her mother's cloak. The bandbox bumped against her thin legs. When it was caught by an icy gust, it fought against her, the silken cord cutting deeply into her fingers. Sometimes she stumbled; once she slipped on an icy puddle and landed painfully on her hip. But she did not protest. The fear in her mother's face drove her on.

They fled across cobbled streets and dark lanes, through frozen alleyways and past stinking tenements. The cold crept through Noelle's clothing until she was shivering violently. She began to whimper softly, but still she did not protest.

Finally they reached the river. Spanned by a massive stone bridge, it stretched inky black and uninviting on both sides of them. Noelle followed her mother onto the bridge and then, abruptly, Daisy stopped and stared at her surroundings. She seemed confused, disoriented.

"It's the river, Mama," Noelle prompted hesitantly.

"The river?" Daisy's eyes were vague; they chilled Noelle far more than the cold. She stood there quietly, unnaturally still.

Noelle looked around her. Four square recesses were set into each side of the stone bridge. In one of these an old crone huddled; in another, two urchins slept. Noelle led Daisy to one of the empty niches and gently pushed her down against the cold stone wall where there would be some shelter from the bite of the wind. She crouched next to her.

"Mama, what has happened?"

Daisy looked at her blankly.

"Tell me what has happened," Noelle pleaded.

The shadow lifted from Daisy's eyes. It was replaced by a terror so stark that Noelle recoiled.

"Newgate!"

The name of the infamous debtors' prison hung between them like a death sentence. "They are coming for me. This very morning they are coming to take me to Newgate. The watchman on Oyster Lane is my friend. He overheard two men talking. I'm to be jailed for my debts."

Daisy clutched Noelle to her and began to cry bitterly. "We can never go back," she said, sobbing.

The next day they found crude lodgings in a drab, crowded tenement. By pawning Daisy's few remaining belongings, they were able to buy food and pay their rent in the months that followed. Finding work, however, proved impossible for Daisy.

She was afraid to inquire at any of the theaters on the chance that she would be recognized, but she had no other skills and was so frivolous in appearance that no one would take her on for heavier work.

Gradually she began to lose interest in her own life, caring only about her daughter. Where before she had been a loving, if somewhat careless, parent, now she was obsessed with everything Noelle said and did. She harped at her to watch her diction, walk properly, behave like a lady. Terrified that Noelle would pick up the strident accent of the streets, she forbade her to play with any of the swarms of ragged children who glutted the chokingly overcrowded tenements.

They were empty-eyed urchins, many with swollen bellies and festering sores on their bodies. In Noelle, who looked and spoke so differently from them, they found a target for their own wretchedness. They called her "Highness," bowing when she passed them and then sticking out scrawny legs to send her sprawling headlong onto the slimy streets. They mocked her speech and assaulted her with obscenities.

Noelle ran to her mother, but Daisy could not seem to comprehend what was happening. Noelle was a pariah, out of her element and unable to defend herself. Helplessness was something the others understood. Seeing it in her, their abuse intensified. They chased her through the streets, hurling filth from the gutters at her.

Finally, when a group of boys held her down and urinated on her, something inside her snapped. Dry-eyed and furious, she fought them. She was beaten badly, but not before she had done some damage of her own. From that day on she no longer heeded whether there was only one or an entire group. She took them all on. Each time she lost a fight, the incident repeated itself again and again in her mind, Noelle learned from her mistakes, determined not to repeat them. She found that, if she could survive the initial brutal assault, she could outlast her antagonist. Having been better nourished than the other children, she had a wiry strength that drove her on after they were exhausted. She began to choose her opponents more carefully, refusing to be drawn into a fight she knew she couldn't win.

By the end of her first year among them, they had learned to leave her alone and even accorded her a grudging, if distant, respect. They still called her "Highness," but no longer to mock her. It was the only name they knew her by; her real name had been lost to everyone but her mother.

In time Daisy's tiny horde of money was exhausted. For two days they had no food.

In the evening of the second day, Daisy pressed her lips to Noelle's hair and slipped out into the night. She had nothing left to pawn, nothing left to sell except herself. The next morning she returned, bringing with her two savory meat-filled pastries, a bag of new potatoes, and half a plum cake.

Daisy's unexplained disappearances continued, and gradually Noelle became used to them. Sometimes Daisy returned with food or coins, sometimes empty-handed. Once she stumbled in almost unconscious. Blood dripped from the corner of her mouth, and her eye was badly bruised and swollen shut. Noelle cleansed her gently and helped her onto the rough sacking that formed Daisy's bed.

When she pressed her mother for an explanation, Daisy only smiled at her vaguely and murmured, "Don't fret, my pet. Remember, you have the blood of kings."

At night the eight-year-old child sat by her mother's sleeping form. Hugging her knees with her thin arms, she thought about what Daisy had said. Surely only wonderful things should be happening to a little girl with the blood of kings. She shouldn't ever be dirty or hungry or have to wear such ugly clothes.

Something cold clutched at Noelle's heart. What was going to happen to them? She looked at Daisy. Although her mother was only thirty-one, the past year had prematurely aged her. Her skin was rough and lined, her shiny curls were now drab and tangled, covered by an old gray shawl. Daisy had lived on hope and pleasure, and now that the dreams were gone, she was barely able to survive.

One morning, before Daisy was awake, Noelle donned a shirt and a pair of canvas trousers she had found. Biting on her bottom lip, she used a dull knife as she concentrated on sawing off her hair until it was as short as a boy's. She picked up a rough piece of sacking, quietly let herself out of their dingy cellar, and walked to the river.

A group of urchins were scattered across the bank, searching for pieces of coal dropped by the bargemen. They were the mudlarks, young scavengers who collected bits of coal to sell to the poor and pieces of metal that brought a farthing a pound as scrap.

Noelle watched the; boys from a distance and then began to search the banks herself. She realized she had started too late; only the smallest pieces of coal were left. She picked them up anyway and tied them securely in the sacking she had brought. Soon she noticed the boys rolling up their breeches and wading barefoot into mud that came up to their knees.

Noelle settled herself on the bank and began turning up her own breeches. She looked up to see a gangly red-headed boy about her own age approaching her.

"Yer new 'ere, ain't ya? Name's Sweeney." He thrust out a coal-blackened hand.

Noelle took it gingerly. "I'm N-N-Neal," she stammered. "Neal Dorian."

Sweeney's green eyes twinkled mischievously. "Neal? That's a right queer name for a girl, it is."

Noelle's heart sank. How had he found her out so quickly?

As if reading her thoughts, the boy grinned and said, "It's yer walk. Yer take them bloomin' little steps. Bloke 'round 'ere'd die first afore 'e'd walk like that, 'e would."

Something about the boy's friendly face made Noelle decide to trust him. "I knew they'd run me out if they suspected I was a girl. Do you think any of the others noticed?"

"Them?" He dismissed the others contemptuously. "Oh, they'd 'ave noticed sooner or later, but they miss a lot, they do. Got no imagination. The way I see it, the only way ter get along is ter 'ave a bit of imagination. That way y a can anticipate, if ya get me meanin'. Stay one step ahead of the rest."

Noelle listened avidly to Sweeney's philosophy and thought him very wise and worldly. "How did you ever learn so much?" she asked with admiration.

"Just bein' 'round and keepin' me eyes open," Sweeney responded, tucking his thumbs into the waist of his tattered breeches.

Noelle's eyes lit up with hope. "Do you think you could teach me? My mother's sick." She hesitated. "Not quite right in the head." It was the first time Noelle had admitted it, even to herself.

"So yer got a mum, do y a?" Sweeney thrust his chest forward proudly. "I've been on me own since I were a babe. Learned all there is ter know about gettin' on." He regarded her critically. "First we'll do somethin' 'bout that bloomin' walk of yers. Can't 'ave me chums findin' out I'm 'elpin' a girl become a mudlark. Then I'll 'ave ter show ya the best spots. Teach yer 'ow to get the coal out of the mud wi' yer toes. Got a lot of work, we does. Don't expect yer'll ever really fit in, not with yer fancy way of talkin', but yer'll get on. Who better 'an Sweeney Pope 'imself ter teach ya!"

That day he taught Noelle where the coal was most likely to rest on top of the muck and where she would have to sink her legs into the ooze and feel for the lumps with her feet.

By the afternoon Noelle was caked with mud and soaked through to her skin, but she was pleased with herself. With her toes she could distinguish a lump of coal from a stone. She had found a small handful of iron rivets and nails and even one precious piece of copper. But, most importantly, she had acquired her first friend.

From that day on, Sweeney took Noelle in hand. He was a stern teacher, explaining everything to her once and then expecting her to remember it from then on. Together they walked the streets of London. For a penny they would hold a horse or sweep a path across a street so that the fashionable pedestrians would not soil their shoes. They became part of the world of the street people: the costermongers, porters, and prostitutes. Once Sweeney obtained a box of bootlaces that the children then hawked at two pairs for halfpence. Sweeney taught Noelle all he knew; in return, he received her total adoration.

With the arrival of cold weather, Daisy began to bring men back to her lodgings. The first time it happened Noelle was awakened by the sounds of Daisy's cries. She jerked up fearfully. "Mama, what's wrong?"

"Shh! Noelle, go back to sleep." Noelle did not miss Daisy's pleading tone.

A man's voice, ugly and menacing, growled from the direction of the pile of rags that made up Daisy's bed. " 'Ere now, who's that?"

"It's just my little girl. Pay her no mind. She won't bother us again."

"Good. I'll give 'er a cuff if I 'ear any more from 'er. Now, turn over."

"No!" Daisy's voice begged. "Not like that. Please!"

"Turn over, yer bitch!"

Noelle heard the sound of a stinging slap and the rustle of the crude bed. Daisy screamed once and then began whimpering. The pitiful sounds continued until well after the man had gone, but Noelle did not go to her mother's side to comfort her.

Instead she lay motionless, remembering all the obscene banter she had heard from the other mudlarks. Without realizing it, her quick mind had stored away every crude remark, every filthy gesture. Now they all came back to her, and for the first time she understood what happened between men and women. With that knowledge came shame and humiliation so intense, she trembled. She pressed her thin legs together tightly and clutched her arms to her chest. No one would ever use her so!

The following morning Noelle awakened at dawn, a cold ache surrounding her heart. Quietly she slipped on her trousers and shirt and prepared to let herself out of the cellar room. Involuntarily her eyes went to her mother.

Daisy lay facedown on the bed, her naked back exposed. There were ugly bruises on her shoulders and raw marks that looked like bites on her back. Three coins lay scattered on the scarred wooden table. Noelle picked them up and held them in her palm, the bitter tears running down her cheeks as she stared at them. They would eat well tonight, but the price had been too high.

Daisy's condition deteriorated. Sometimes she would sit for days in a dark corner of their hovel, only getting up to relieve herself or to eat a few bites of bread. Other times, when Noelle returned from the riverbanks, Daisy would be gone, reappearing with a man long after her daughter had gone to bed. Sometimes the men paid, sometimes they didn't. Daisy did not seem to notice.

These were the worst moments in Noelle's young life. She lay in bed with her small fingers shoved deeply into her ears, trying to block out the grunts of the harsh men who heaved over her mother. Sometimes they would strike Daisy, making her whimper with pain. Other times she lay soundlessly enduring whatever they did to her.

Noelle became desperately afraid of men. She recoiled if a man brushed against her. When the friendly old peddler who sold apples greeted her, she rushed past him with her eyes averted. Other than Sweeney Pope, she had never known the kindness of a male, and now, except for him, she feared them all.

Tragically her friendship with Sweeney Pope was cut short. On her ninth birthday, Noelle stood outside the forbidding stone walls of Newgate as crowds pushed and shoved past her, peddlers hawked their wares, and carriages clattered by. Inside, a hangman slipped a noose around the neck of Sweeney Pope. The child was executed for the theft of two oranges, his death to serve as an example to others of the bad end that came to those who did not obey the law.

When Noelle was ten, Daisy stopped eating. "Please, Mum," Noelle begged, her eyes large and solemn, "just eat this. Just two bites, that's all." Noelle tried to press small morsels of food on her.

"Eat it for me," Daisy murmured, staring listlessly as a rat darted into a corner. "You have the blood of kings, my precious one. You will be so beautiful some day, so beautiful." Her frail voice faded. She began to cry pitifully.

In early April, on a balmy day full of the promise of spring, Daisy died. She was buried in an unmarked grave in Potter's Field. Only Noelle stood beside her grave.

Tall for ten, all elbows and knees, she wept silently, tears streaming down her thin face, her nose running. She had loved her mother desperately, but she vowed she would never be like her. She would make her own way; she would survive.