Ghost of the Thames by May McGoldrick

you
undoubtedly know, my memory has failed me at present.”
    “Do you know where you come
from?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Your age?”
    “No, sir.”
    “I am told that your first
recollection is that of being in the river.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And you claim that someone helped you
out of it?”
    Sophy was uncomfortable with the sharp
questioning. Regardless of having seen twice, there was no way she
was going to admit to anything that might cause others to consider
her crazy.
    “I do not clearly recall
everything that I said that first night. I was told I sustained a
blow to my head. I do not believe I was thinking or speaking
clearly then.”
    “Well, was there someone who helped you out
of the river?”
    “I can say,” Sophy said firmly, “that I
swam to shore by myself.”
    “And how did you get a blow to the
head?”
    “Mr. Dickens, are you going to
introduce us?” The younger of the two women sitting on the sofa
broke in, her tone congenial, but she had the air of a person not
accustomed to being ignored.
    The gentle reprimand was a blessing.
Dark hair, regal face, attractive, impeccably dressed, there was no
question she was the guest of honor and the other lady a companion.
Dickens bowed graciously, almost theatrically, Sophy
thought.
    “Miss Angela Burdett-Coutts, the
benefactor of Urania Cottage. And Mrs. Brown, her friend. May I
present Sophy.”
    Another curtsy.
    Eavesdropping on
conversations this morning, Sophy had learned a great deal of the
background of the benefactors. Mr. Dickens was a successful
novelist and his name was familiar to her. Miss Burdett-Coutts had
inherited about three million pounds of her grandfather’s money
some ten years ago, making her the richest woman in England. What
was most interesting to Sophy was that even the girls at this house
sang her praises, for all the money she gave to poor. This was the
first time Miss Burdett-Coutts was visiting the Cottage. Dickens,
it appeared, was in charge of all things, as this was his idea and his charity project. To
live here, one had to be chosen by the novelist himself.
    Miss Burdett-Coutts whispered
something to her friend, and then Mrs. Brown spoke.
    “Avez-vous parler
français?”
    “Oui, madame.”
    “Êtes-vous parler
couramment le français?”
    “Je ne sais
pas , Mrs. Brown.” Regardless of
understanding what was being asked, Sophy didn’t know if she was
fluent in French or not, so she answered honestly. Mrs. Brown
didn’t relent, though, and asked several more questions in French
about Urania Cottage, and whether Sophy had found any friends among
the girls living here. Sophy hesitated in telling the truth, and
instead offered information having to do with whom she shared her
room and who had loaned her this dress.
    Sophy noted Mrs. Brown’s slight nod of
approval.
    “We’ve heard about your reading and
penmanship,” Miss Burdett-Coutts said next. “Can you draw,
Sophy?”
    She hesitated. “I really don’t know,
miss.”
    “Do you play any
instruments?”
    “I am sorry to be a disappointment in
my answers. But I honestly did not remember if I knew even a word
of French until Mrs. Brown spoke to me. And the same holds true of
reading and my penmanship. Each thing that I try is . . . well,
somewhat of an adventure.”
    Once again, there was a moment of
silence as everyone just stared. Sophy held her chin high, her
spine straight.
    The two ladies shared a private
whisper before Miss Burdett-Coutts motioned to Dickens. Crossing to
her, he bent down and they exchanged a few words. Sophy dared a
glance at Mrs. Tibbs. She was stone-faced and only stared at her
employers. Dickens straightened up and stood beside the
couch.
    “Mrs. Tibbs tells us,” he said, “that
you are concerned about finding a place to live, considering your
present state of mind.”
    “Yes, sir. That is true. I don’t know
if, in the past, I have ever worked, or even considered working.”
She paused. “But I intend to find employment as