Justine Cole - The Copeland Bride

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.

Noelle Dorian was possibly the best pickpocket in Soho. This distinction was not given lightly and, indeed, had often been the subject of much debate in the illegal gin shops that flourished in the area.

"I'm tellin' ya, no one can 'old a candle to 'er." The speaker, a fat, balding man clad in a greasy smock, waved a tin mug in the air to punctuate his remarks. " 'Ighness is the best I ever seen, and, believe me, I seen 'em all in me time."

"No, there yer wrong." Absentmindedly his scabby-faced companion picked a louse from his hair and squeezed it between his thumb and forefinger. "Oh, 'Ighness is good, that I'll not deny. But she can't match Gentleman Jack, the way 'e was afore the Runners caught 'im and seed 'im 'ang. She's too picky, she is. You watch 'er. She won't go right into the 'Aymarket after the toffs. 'Angs on the outskirts, so ter speak, where the toffs ain't as likely ter be and where pockets ain't as well lined with the ready."

"Aye, yer may be right there, me friend. No doubt but wot Gentleman Jack took in more than she does, but 'e wasn't as smart as 'Ighness, not by 'alf." The fat man pounded one filth-encrusted fist on the table. "Blimey! I never seen anything like the way she decks 'erself out like a whore and swings 'er arse up ter some unsuspectin' bloke! Except fer 'er tits, she's plain as a pikestaff, but I don't mind tellin' yer, when she leans over and they 'ang out of the top of that green dress…"

At this point the speaker abruptly stopped and pulled a much- abused handkerchief out of his pocket to mop a film of sweat that had suddenly appeared on his brow.

"Ha!" his companion hooted. "Gettin' yerself all 'ot over the 'Ighness's tits, are ya? A bleedin' lot of good it'll do ya. Fer all that she looks like a whore, y a can bet there's not a man 'as ever touched 'er. Even if she did let ya near 'er, she'd treat yer same as th'others. Rub 'erself against yer while she talks real quiet like about 'ow she wants to meet ya at the Cock and Pheasant fer a good tumble. All the while goin' through yer pockets and takin' what she pleases."