The couple stared at Lucy as if she were one of Lord Elgin’s marbles on the exhibit. She self-consciously smoothed down her crumpled dress and wished she’d changed into a fresh dress.
“Hector.” The lady held out a gloved hand to the gentleman who took it. With the other, she covered her mouth.
“Good God.” The gentleman’s eyes widened.
Lucy looked from one to another. An odd feeling took hold of her.
The lady got up and took Lucy’s hand and pulled her to the window. “The spitting image,” she said with wonder.
“Who are you?” Lucy’s heard her own voice come from far away, like from a dream. An old childhood dream.
“Twenty-one years ago, on April 1st, we had a daughter, Hector and I. We christened her Catherine Elisabeth. She was a cheerful little baby with chubby cheeks. Little Cathy was always happy.” Her voice had a hitch. “The nurse—a Mrs Susan Billings, was a reliable woman, or so we thought.” The lady’s face crumbled.
The gentleman stepped over to her. “We had no reason to doubt Mrs Billings, at first.”
The lady pulled herself together. “She seemed to be a most excellent nurse. Little Cathy thrived.” Her voice wobbled. “But we were mistaken. So mistaken! Mrs Billings, contrary to outward appearance, was an unstable, mentally sick woman. We don’t understand what happened, but one day, when Cathy was two, she simplytook her.”Her mouth worked as if it was a chore to utter those words. “She took Cathy out of the nursery and left the house. She was seen walking with our daughter in her arms along the road to Hamborough village. We never saw either of them again.”
The lady, in agitation, pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed the corner of her eyes.
“The handkerchief—” Lucy’s eyes burned into it. It had the same monogram as hers. She’d lost it after her last encounter with Henry, so she could not produce it.
“In other words, your child was kidnapped by her nurse.” Miss Hilversham tapped the tip of her quill on the table. “The question is: why?”
“We will never know the true reason, Miss Hilversham.” The gentleman never took his eyes off Lucy. “The bow street runners found the woman at the London docks two years later, impoverished, drunk, and feeble of mind. When questioned, she admitted she had taken Cathy, but she swore on her life she was her child. Apparently, she’d lost her own child previously. It was impossible to get more out of her. Her mind was completely gone. She barely knew her own name. She couldn’t say what happened to Cathy, though it seemed likely that she must have abandoned her somewhere.” The man’s voice filled with anguish. “We had the entire countryside searched up and down, no result. The woman was sent to gaol in Newgate, where she died a few days later. We continued searching, but to no avail. God, how we searched. All those years. We didn’t leave a corner of England unturned.”
Lady Sullivan spoke directly to Lucy. “Until last week. We received an—anonymous communication that the person we’re looking for might be here at this Seminary. We came, certain it was yet another dead end. Then you entered the room.”
“An anonymous communication? Who could that be?” Miss Hilversham frowned.
“It matters not.” Lord Sullivan brushed it aside. “What matters is that we may have our first real lead to a successful end of our search. We may have found our daughter.”
“Why are you certain Lucy is your daughter?” pressed Miss Hilversham.
Lady Sullivan looked into Lucy’s eyes. They were the same limpid grey as hers.
Lord Sullivan was visibly moved. “We have a portrait hanging in our drawing room. It is of my wife’s mother when she was a young girl. It is as though you’d stepped out of it.”
“You are the splitting image of my mother, child.” Lady Sullivan asserted. “But tell me one thing. Cathy had a mole in the shape of a strawberry between her shoulder blades.”
Miss Hilversham got up, stepped up to Lucy and pulled down the top edge of the dress. She showed it to the couple. The mole was there.
“It looks like your parents have found you, Lucy.”
Lucy’s world tilted. This was a dream, she told herself. Her childhood dream materialised. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. It was impossible.
She pinched herself.
The lady’s grip was firm, as she led Lucy to a chair. “Tell me about yourself.”
Lucy told them. The entire story of her childhood, how the Jollyphuses had found her in the graveyard, how she’d grown up with the travelling troupe, how she travelled up and down the country, performing with them.
Shattered, the man hid his face in his hands. “Good God. Little Cathy in an open grave. And a travelling troupe. That explains why you were so difficult to find. Always on the move.”
“My child. What you must have suffered.” The woman wept.
Lucy went up to her, not knowing whether to comfort her. “In truth, the Jollyphuses treated me well. They were like fathers to me, both of them. I loved them d-dearly. But Jerry always believed—he always told me that in reality I was—a princess. I used to believe him. He’d invented this story of me being the child of a royal couple, and that one day they would find me. It was my favourite story. And now, can it really be true?” She stared at them, Lord and Lady Sullivan. Strangers. Could they really be her parents?
The woman smiled at her tremulously; the man rubbed his neck.
