Olivia Twist by Lorie Langdon
PROLOGUE
1841
Holborn, London
For long minutes, there was considerable doubt as to whether the child would survive to bear a name at all. Although being born in a workhouse was not the most fortunate of circumstances, in this child’s case the alternative would have made for a much different story; likely a very short one.
Extended moments passed as the babe lay on a thin, flocked mattress, struggling to find that first, essential, life-giving breath while the parish surgeon warmed his hands by the meager fire and the nurse slipped into a dark corner to find fortification within a tiny green bottle.
Oblivious to the disinterest of those gathered in the room, the baby gasped and proceeded to declare, to anyone within hearing distance, her choice to live.
Her mother, on the other hand, lifted her head and croaked, “Let me see it, so I may die.”
The surgeon rose from his position by the fire and hovered over the woman. “Oh, Miss, you must not talk like that.”
The nurse tucked her bottle away and approached. “Lor’, no, there’s a dear young lamb ’ere. And there’s a place in the werk ’ouse for ye both.”
Apparently, her prospects held little appeal, because the young mother gave her head a weak shake and held out her hands toward the child. The surgeon placed the babe in her arms, and the mother pressed her cold lips to the baby’s downy fluff in a lingering kiss before falling back with a gasp, gone from this world.
“Ah, poor dear!” The nurse took a quick taste from her green bottle before scooping up the child.
“The baby’s frail and likely to give you some trouble,” the surgeon said, slipping on his gloves with great consideration. “No need to call for me. Just give it some gruel. That ought to strengthen it up.” He paused to take a long look at the young mother resting in repose, the graceful arches of her dark-gold brows and the sweep of her curls across the pillow. “She was a lovely girl. Where did she come from?”
“She was brought in last night,” the old nurse replied as she juggled the squirming child in one arm while digging in her pocket with the other. “The overseer found ’er in the street. Likely she’d walked some distance. ’Er shoes were wore to the nub. But where she came from, no one knows.”
The surgeon leaned over the body and lifted her left hand. “Ah, no wedding ring.” He stared thoughtfully for a long moment. “Nurse, raise this one as a boy.”
The old woman’s arm froze mid-swig. “Sir? But she be a female.”
“Give her a fighting chance. If she grows up to look anything like her mother, the horrors she’ll be subjected to”—he straightened and looked the nurse in the eye—“will be unimaginable. Tell everyone she’s a male child.” Stuffing on his hat, the surgeon turned and walked out into the night to find his dinner.
The old nurse sank into the chair by the fire and proceeded to dress the infant, contemplating the seven babes of her own, five of which she’d held as they died. This world was hard enough for any child, let alone an orphaned baby girl. With a damp smile at the babe’s perfect head covered in golden curls, she watched it twisting and rooting in her lap.
“Yer a feisty one, me beaut,” the nurse whispered in conspiracy as she cupped a tiny balled fist in her workworn hand. “That trait will serve ye well. But yer goin’ to need more to make it.” The old woman’s eyes clouded with the image of her firstborn child, a son with hair the color of harvest wheat who’d passed before his second birthday. Mayhap the name would bring this one better fortune.
A single fat tear fell and splashed against the baby’s round cheek, startling both woman and babe. Leaning down, she spoke into the pink seashell ear, “I’ll no’ let ye perish this time, my little Oliver Twist.”
CHAPTER 1
Eighteen years later
Grosvenor Square, London
The Platts’ Annual Autumn Dinner Party
The sounds of clinking china and animated chatter faded as Olivia’s cheeks warmed, and the rhubarb tart she’d consumed moments before threatened to disembark. And yet, she continued to stare. The gentleman in question raised his glass in salute, sharp blue eyes glittering as they locked on her face. His lips tilted, and the smile swept through her as a spirit might pass through one’s body, leaving her breathless.
The young man’s uncommon good looks assured she would have remembered if they had met before. So why then did the planes of his face, the way he flicked his dark hair out of his eyes, and the restless tap of his fingers against his thigh send jitters of recognition through her chest?
Olivia took a step forward, her gaze never wavered. Energy radiated around him, as if it took every ounce of his self-control to remain still. He tugged at the velvet lapel of his forest-green jacket and then shoved his hand into the pocket of his trousers as he spoke to his companion. Olivia’s heart skipped a beat and then raced forward, a memory just beyond her grasp swirling through her mind.
“Olivia! Look who I’ve found lingering by the warm punch.” A familiar voice cut through the line of Olivia’s thoughts, knotting them into a jumbled mess. She tore her gaze away from the gentleman across the room to find her cousin, Violet, approaching on the lanky arm of Maxwell Grimwig. Violet tucked a stray crimson curl behind her ear, her lips forming words that to Olivia sounded like gibberish. With a lurch, the room tipped and slid away from Olivia’s feet, and she grasped Maxwell’s jacket sleeve for leverage.