Justine Cole - The Copeland Bride

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."

"The Cock and Pheasant!" The fat man was so overcome with merriment, he choked on the cheap gin he had been swilling, spraying it in droplets over his companion as he tried to catch his breath. Recovering himself, he refilled his mug and continued. " 'Ow many times 'ave we 'ad one of them poor blokes come up ter us axin' us where the Cock and Pheasant might be?"

"Last one that axed me," his companion responded, once more digging his fingers into his scalp, "I tole 'im ter try Drury Lane, I did. Blimey if I was gonna be the one ter tell 'im there weren't no Cock and Pheasant anywhere and 'e'd better check 'is pockets."

At that very moment the subject of the gin shop discussion was huddled in a dark, peeling doorway near Glasshouse Street, trying to find some protection from the night's drizzle. Although she was near the Hay market, as the gin drinkers had predicted, she had not ventured out into the actual bustle of that famous center of London's nightlife, for the memory of Sweeney Pope's tragic fate had never left her. As a pickpocket, the risks were great enough without hobnobbing with the upper classes. Besides, the blue devils, as the members of the newly created police force were called, were vigilant about protecting the ton.

Underneath her damp, shabby cloak Noelle wore a once-elegant emerald-green satin gown. The material was now faded and badly stained under the arms and across the skirt, the black lace trim tattered at the deep rim of the bodice. In some places it was evident that the tired seams of the garment had split open. Although Noelle had sewn them together again, the uneven stitches and bright yellow thread offered mute testimony to her ineptness as a seamstress.

Even though she was not quite eighteen, she looked ten years older. The tiny elfin face that Daisy had loved so much was smeared with scarlet rouge; the topaz eyes, no longer luminous, were dim and darkly outlined with kohl. She was tall but excruciatingly thin, with hollow cheeks and a dirty neck. Her complexion was almost cadaverous, an effect that was heightened by her unfortunate hair. In an attempt to keep it free of vermin, she had cropped it just below her earlobes. Since she had no mirror and only a knife to do the cutting, it was ragged and uneven. It was also orange. Not a deep auburn or a warm chestnut, but a hue that most closely resembled a string of withered carrots. When she had first made up her mind to pose as a prostitute, she had decided to alter her hair to make herself look older. But repeated use of the unstable dyes had resulted in a noxious frizz that was now sorrowfully decorated with a single, limp ostrich plume.

Her appearance was so unappealing that at first glance it was difficult to tell how posing as a whore had helped her become such a successful pickpocket. But a more careful assessment revealed a certain sensuousness about the mouth, an appealing huskiness of voice, and, of course, pushing themselves above the top of her plunging neckline, the swelling breasts that had become an object of speculation among men and boys throughout Soho. All of these qualities hinted at the great beauty that poverty had stolen from Noelle Dorian.

At the moment Noelle was trying to decide whether she should stick it out a bit longer, in the hopes that the drizzle would let up, or return to her room. Just a little longer, she decided, for the truth was she was short of cash to pay the rent for her lodgings. She had been careless not to have watched her pennies better; now she stood in danger of losing her privacy, and she couldn't bear that. The room was tiny and squalid, but at least it was not in a cellar and she was alone.