But when the last identified duo—a Mr. Yardsmith and his daughter Sally—was crossed off the manifest, worried lines fanned from Johnno's eyes.
"They're o'er at theImplacable. That must be it," he said stoutly.
Marianne tried to resist the despair. The fear that spilled over her insides, swamping her.
Where are you, Rosie? Please… give me a sign. Help me find you.
"Stay here and keep an eye on the rest o' the passengers," she heard Johnno instruct his partner. "I'll take milady o'er to the other ship so we can sort this out."
Numbly, she took the waterman's arm. They navigated around the remaining crowd vying to get on board. Sunny tones caught Marianne's attention.
"Mademoiselle,have you ever seen a boat this large?"
Marianne's skin prickled. She halted, looking wildly into the throng. Not seeing the source of that dulcet voice, she craned her neck, her senses straining. Another voice, with a heavy French accent, drifted toward her.
"Hush,ma petite.We are almost there."
Heart palpitating, Marianne pushed her way into the horde. She heard Johnno call out, but she ignored him, intent on finding the origin of those voices.
Where are you, darling? Talk to me, Primrose. Talk to me...
"I'm hungry,mademoiselle.Will they serve us tea on the boat?"
Marianne shoved her way toward the melodic tones. Paces away, she saw the pair. A straight-backed woman held the hand of a small girl whose head was obscured by a large straw bonnet. Marianne pushed forward, reaching out to grab the girl's arm.
The girl started and spun around, clutching a doll to her small chest. Dark brown curls kissed her forehead... but Marianne would know those eyes anywhere. Green as spring and flecked with gold. Eyes as bright as hope itself.
"Primrose," she whispered.
The girl's gaze widened further, her rosebud lips parting in surprise. "How do you know my name?"
"Let her go!"
The heavily accented words tore into Marianne's reverie, and Primrose was suddenly torn from her grasp. The Frenchwoman inserted herself as a barrier between Primrose and Marianne. Drawn to the unfolding drama, the remaining passengers formed a circle around them.
"You leave her be." Beneath the dark brim of her bonnet, the woman's eyes snapped at Marianne. "Haven't you done enough?"
"She's my daughter. My little girl. Give her back to me," Marianne said, her voice breaking.
"Enough of this nonsense! I know what you did, you strumpet.Monsieur, he told me all about you." The woman's eyes were slits in her bony face. "Putain. You ought to be ashamed, showing your face in public."
Marianne swallowed, but she refused to be cowed by shame any longer.
Her gaze locked on her daughter's small face, she said softly, "I am your mama, and I have been searching for you for a long time. Please, come to me."
The woman turned to Primrose, saying sharply, "Do not listen to her! You and I, we are getting on that boat as your guardian instructed."
Primrose blinked, looking back and forth between her governess and Marianne. "But... he said my mama was dead." The uncertain quaver in her voice stabbed at Marianne's heart. "That I became his ward after he rescued me from Mrs. Barnes."
"He is right. This is a madwoman, and you must ignore her falsehoods," the Frenchwoman insisted.
Marianne's mind raced. How much should she tell Primrose? She wanted to protect her daughter's innocence, for—miracle of miracles—Primrose did indeed appear innocent. Naïve, unsullied. Her eyes travelled over her daughter's healthy, glowing disposition, and she knew that whatever nefarious deeds Coyner had planned, he'd not yet put them into action.
Relief filled her like sunshine, dissolving some of the shadows.
"I'm not dead, my darling," she said huskily. "A bad man took you away from me, but I am your mama. Your hair, underneath that dye, it's golden like mine, isn't it?"
Clinging to her doll, Primrose gave a tentative nod.
