Chapter Text
Apolline ran through the streets not really caring if the puddles she ended up stepping in soaked her last good pair of shoes. She swerved from the man pulling on a cart full of vegetables, who in turn yelled at her. She ran in between the hundreds of passersby, all heads bowed down, eyes and bodies tired. It was four in the morning and those with jobs were headed to the factories. Boys rushed to get in position, fresh newspapers heavy on their slim arms—others sat on a tiny stool and shined the leather shoes of others.
The whores returned home after a busy night and some hopeless drunks slept in the threshold of shops, still yet to open—their wives and starving children at home and at work. She swerved again as a woman wearing a deep scowl threw out of the window the contents of her chamber-pot and she sighed in relief that it hadn't caught on her. The streets were still half-dark but she wasn't so afraid—she couldn't afford to be. She had come to London on a mission—even if no one gave her any credibility. Her biggest fear was that someone would catch her and make her work in a factory or as a maid as well. She was young but something she did not lack was conviction—the words that the mother superior had spat at her at some point, although in a much more reprimanding circumstance.
The cloistered orphanage ran by the Sisters of Charity nuns in Plymouth was paradise next to this city—there at St. Teresa's she had the guarantee of a warm bed and warm plate of porridge. For twelve pounds a year she had a home. As Apolline arrived in front of the large house, she straightened her coat and skirts and tried to smooth down her golden locks. She knocked on the door hoping that someone would be awake—it was just after five still. She couldn't see a single light on through the windows and with every passing second her heart pounded in her chest out of anticipation.
She tried to listen for footsteps to no avail. She waited another full minute and sighed, bowing her head and turning to leave. Perhaps she would be able to find a nice little corner nearby, to shelter in, until tomorrow. Tomorrow perhaps she would be more successful. But sister Margaret had assured her…
Even if she were almost a hundred years old and everyone considered her to be a mad and senile old woman, for some reason, to Apolline, sister Margaret had always been the wisest and most sensible of the wives of Christ who until a few weeks ago had brought her up. Sister Margaret knew her better than anyone—she was there when Apolline first arrived and knew by heart the appearance of the person who had placed her in the custody of the orphanage.
The door suddenly swung open, making a rather loud sound and Apolline slightly jumped in surprise. She looked back and was met with the pale and somber face of perhaps the prettiest lady she'd ever seen.
"This is the Murray house, isn't it miss?" She asked, slightly disconcerted by the steely-blue gaze of the woman head to toe in black. The woman nodded, her eyes furrowed in confusion. Had it not been Apolline's shyness, perhaps she would have spared them both the time and told her already the reason why she was even here.
"Yes, it is. Are you in trouble?" Apolline shrugged and sighed heavily.
"I came here all the way from Plymouth to meet my grandfather." The woman's eyes widened disbelievingly. "Sister Margaret told me he lived here."
"Who is your grandfather?" Apolline desperately wished to roll her eyes but decided it would be rude. There was a slim chance they would allow her to stay here—imagine if she were to be rude?
"Sir Malcolm Murray. My mum was his daughter, I think—they told me she died." And then she remembered and pulled out the crumpled piece of paper from her coat pocket. "I can't read very well. Can you?" She handed the paper to the woman who immediately unfolded it and and silently read.
"Teresa Apolline Murray, daughter of Mina Murray. But how is this possible?"
"It's just Apolline—all the girls went by Teresa, because of the orphanage name. How it's possible I don't know. If my grandfather has so much money, why would he leave me with the nuns?" The lady frowned.
"I never knew that Mina had a child. There was a time where I would've been the first to know." Apolline frowned. Could it be that the lady didn't believe her?
"You're not his daughter too?"
"I'm Vanessa Ives—I live here with Sir Malcolm—and Mina and I were once the best of friends… But I'm afraid he's not here at the present Apolline. He's in Africa, miles and miles away."
"Will he return?" Vanessa paused for a moment and looked into Apolline's eyes. She seemed a lot more approachable now.
"I honestly hope so. Would you like to come inside?" Apolline hesitated for a moment. Without a word, the woman took her by the hand—which came as a surprise—and took her inside. "Your shoes are wet—take them off or you'll catch a cold. I'll bring you some tea and bread, would you like that?" Apolline nodded earnestly and sat in one of the chairs of the foyer.
She looked around the house. It was very large, such as the orphanage had been, but everywhere she looked was dark wood—none of the froufrou velvet and taffetas of the wealthy houses she would occasionally visit. It was rather silly that the wealthy women thought that organizing tea parties for orphaned little girls was charitable. It would've been a lot more helpful if they had donated for the roof to be re-done, since there were so many leaks and in spring pigeons and other birds would fill their attic with nests, feathers and filth. It would've been more useful if they could get them all new cots and new clothing once a while—perhaps a book or two and shoes. Shoes were very useful. At the orphanage shoes were passed down until they were completely worn and no longer had heals.
Apolline absolutely loathed those tea parties.
A few minutes later the woman, Ms. Vanessa Ives, arrived again, carrying a tray with tea, bread and apple jam.
"Follow me please, Apolline." The girl did as told and followed her into the next room, a large parlor with a wide leather sofa in the middle, a lit fireplace and shelves full of books and maps. Apolline had never seen so many books at just one place. She noticed how Ms. Ives smiled, knowing very well that Apolline was astonished by the contents of the room.
"How old are you, Apolline?"
"I'll be eight in February. That's why my name is Apolline, the feast day of the saint."
"And you came to London all on your own, from Plymouth?" Ms. Ives handed her a cup of tea with milk, which Apolline blowed and sipped eagerly. She hadn't eaten in days.
"Yes. I had to sneak inside a few carts and carriages, but I mostly walked. I tried to come by train, but then I wouldn't have enough for food. They tried to put me in a factory but I was able to run away. I don't ever want to work in one of those. Sister Margaret says that factories are what turn people mad." Vanessa nodded.
"You must be very brave then, to come all by yourself from so far. Listen, Apolline, I don't know if I can believe that you are Mina's daughter—I certainly never heard of you before—but I'll allow you to stay here for a while, at least until Sir Malcolm arrives. Hopefully in two weeks. Something tells me you are a brave and clever little girl and you are trustworthy. Can I trust you to stay here, Apolline?" Apolline nodded and smiled.
"I promise I won't bother you or make noise. You won't even know I'm here. And if you want, I could help you around the house…" Vanessa interrupted the little girl's ranting and signaled for her to be silent.
"Apolline, I wouldn't have invited you to stay if I didn't want to see or hear you. The cleanliness of the house I can keep on my own. To be completely honest, I just want to not be alone. Do you like the jam?" Vanessa asked with a smile.
"It tastes very nice." Apolline's face was smeared with it and she blushed profusely.