The kingdom of Cumbria was split into four main territories: Belisaur, Gardil, Ormon, and Calibee. Out of these, many cities, both small and large, had taken shape like weeds sprouting from the ground—some more developed than others. The oldest ones were located in Orman, which were walking distance away from the looming palace that could seen within the mountains with just the naked eye, amongst the lush fields and grass.
The majority of Ormanians were of noble descent, as many of their ancestors either had very loose ties to the Tillamores by blood or had dwelled there long before the growth of the other cities. It was a deeply favored spot amongst the men in the king’s count. Dubbed as “the city of the jewels” it was where many came to spend lavishly and live a life of luxury within the large mansions and elaborate shops. Hundreds of business owners ensured that their establishments would settle within the rapidly expanding population, as they were drawn towards the coal and iron mining industry. Due to the recent invention of the steam engine, such resources were in heavy demand.
Belisaur, the southern front of Cumbria, was established sixteen years after the birth of the nation’s capital city, Guadana, was a chunk of what many common folk referred to as a complete wasteland. Unlike its counterparts, Gardil and Calibee, the ground was nearly made of stone, making farming nearly impossible due to being so close to the mountains.
The lack of cities were substituted for very sparse, rural villages and communities who rarely saw or interacted with each other, as they were at least thirty miles apart or more. At night, thieves and scumbags ran freely and terrorized the peasantry that toiled there day and night. During the day, a downpour would appear within the Cumbrian mountains that would nearly flood out the residents who scrounged the ground for whatever they could find, followed by the unbearable heat of the sun that would cause cracks to form in the earth. The bones of deceased cattle decorated the dried up fields, causing vultures and ravens to pick at their decaying flesh with their sharp beaks.
* * * * * * *
During that rainy fall day in 1714, many children were born in a multitude of homes, just to be as expected at any other date. While others believed that birth was directly connected to fate, some often believed that it was an occurrence of random events. Whatever the case may have been, the decision to celebrate or not hardly mattered.
In a broken down shed, stifled breaths filled the hot, sticky air, as a woman’s silhouette appeared on the wall. Water dripped through the collapsed roof and splashed into the puddles in the mud, next to the bales of molding hay. The woman’s fingers dug into the soft earth—her cracked lips parted, causing them to sting. She took another shaky breath, and, fighting back the agonizing pain in her lower thighs, delivered one final push with a stifled moan. Her fingers felt around her blood soaked skirts, down where her hands made contact with soft flesh, and she found herself looking at the large dark brown eyes of her newborn daughter.
Using her remaining strength, the woman raised the crying child up to her left breast. Her own vision was foggy, and she attempted to wipe all the stuff that was all over her, to find something to cut the umbilical cord. She longed to kiss her daughter, hold her a bit closer. Yet, as she leaned her head against the rotten wooden beam that supported the shed, her hazel eyes focused on the falling rain, never to open or close again.
The little girl’s weak cries rang out in the shed, her small arms and legs pumping and kicking in the air. As the downpour stopped, the night sky appeared, being fully covered in a blanket of stars. When dawn arrived, a deep purple hue had spread across the wispy clouds, just peeking behind the mountains. The woman’s body, having entered the first stage of decomposition, began to attract flies. Her bloated flesh had taken on a greenish appearance, and the scent blew in the wind, carried amongst the vast, empty countryside.
On the fourth day that following week, when the sun was in the middle of the sky, a man was hiking up the twisted trail, heavy bundles of sticks attached his bent back. His busted hatchet hung by his side, and a deep indignation had settled within him for his previous carelessness. How now was he supposed to feed his family? He had no money to get it repaired, and the landlord was coming to collect—
A faint cry echoed in the trees.
The man stopped and turned his head to the side. Scratching his beard, he spotted a dilapidated shed, nearly falling apart at the foundation and looking like it would be knocked off to the side at any moment in time. He adjusted his hat and took a couple steps forward in the shriveled grass, wondering if his brains had been addled. After a few moments of silence, he had started to turn away when he heard the sound again.
He hesitated, before pushing back his thoughts and entering the shed. The stench was so strong that it made his eyes water, and he clamped a hand over his mouth at the sight of the maggot infested corpse of a young woman slumped over against the wooden beam, her eye still open. Attempting to not look at her face, the man rushed forward and reached for the child in her frozen arms. Her eyes were closed, but her chest was moving up and down to his relief.
“Mercy,” the man murmured.
He tore off his cloak and wrapped it around the frail child’s body, taking great care to keep her arms and legs warm. Her features had a strong likeness to her mother, with a head of thick black curly hair. With his fingers, he gently closed the woman’s eyes, murmured a prayer to the saints, and took off through the fields as fast as his blistered ankles would allow him.
* * * * * * *
The Guadana House of Mercy, located at the outskirts of the city, was a towering brick building tucked in with multiple shops across the street. Being one of the oldest places in the area, it was blocked off on all sides by a large, rusty iron gate and had several windows that overlooked the bare courtyard. It provided shelter to nearly two hundred children between infancy and the age of seventeen, being run by a team of fifty staff members and owned by two sisters, Melissa and Susan Collington. Having opened its doors in 1712, the Guadana House of Mercy received monthly funds to cover operational costs, mostly donations from the public. The moment the city officials came to visit, every child was given a clean outfit, a decent meal, and made to stand out in the courtyard. Once they left, the children were immediately ordered to change and return back to their duties, and all funds and donations landed into the Collingtons’ grubby palms.
In her freshly painted study on the first floor, Melissa Collington counted a pile of silver dollars on her desk, which had been polished and wiped clean. The faint sound of children laughing and carrying on was all she could ever hear, and this bit of time to herself was a small comfort. She was an overweight, heavy-set woman, and her green eyes squinted to properly see through the round spectacles that rested on the tip of her nose. Mumbling to herself, she reached for another bag of coins and was about to loosen the drawstring when a heavy knock on the door made her jump. She immediately shoved the money into the left upper drawer of her desk and folded her arms after adjusting the bright orange bonnet on her head.
One of her most trusted staff members, Lola, entered the room. Sweat stains had gathered under her armpits, and strands of dark hair stuck out from the lopsided pinner cap on her head. She gave an awkward curtsy, smoothing the wrinkles out of the stained apron that was tied around her skirts. “Begging pardon, ma’am.”
“Can you not see that I am occupied?” Melissa asked in an impatience tone. She rose to her feet. “What do you want?”
“I’m terrible sorry, miss,” Lola replied, attempting to enunciate through her lisp. “There’s…there’s a…a gentleman at the front door.”
Melissa glared at her. “So answer it.”
“I…I….he…he has a babe with him.”
“A babe,” the Headmistress remarked, placing her left hand on her hip. “Ah, isn’t that quite a surprise. Tell him that we have no more space available. He needs to try his luck with the hospital across town. They have far more rooms than we. This is a parish.”
“I’ve…I’ve tried, but he won’t—”
Releasing an aggravated sigh, Melissa roughly shoved the young woman aside and made her way down the hallway. She made sure her steps were slow and postured, that her head was held up high. That was what Lola lacked—dignity and grace. And common sense. And with Susan being out of town for business, she was more than capable of running this place on her own. Her shoes echoed against the polished wooden floor, and when she approached the doorframe, the sight of the man holding a silent baby in his arms left her befuddled. Melissa cleared her throat, curtsying as he politely bowed and removed his scraggly hat off his head.
“Sir, you must’ve heard what my assistant told you,” she began. “We have no room here.”
“Madam, forgive my sudden intrusion,” the man quickly said. “This child needs proper nourishment; she hasn’t eaten in days. Surely you can find it in your heart to—”
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”There is no room,” Melissa repeated. Goodness, how dull could people be? “Try the local hospital.”
”I have no money,” he replied, shaking his head. “And they are overcrowded as well.”
The headmistress shrugged. “Then you must seek refuge elsewhere. I cannot help you.” She moved aside to shut the door, but there were quick footsteps behind her in the hallway. “Good day to you, sir.”
“Wait!” Lola shouted. Her breaths were labored, and she stepped through the threshold. Her arms were stretched out. “Give me the child. I’ll see she gets some milk.”
Melissa roughly yanked her by the shoulder, causing the girl to nearly lose her balance. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Thanks be to the saints,” the man exclaimed. A large girl spread across his worn face as he placed the bundle in Lola’s arms. He was missing two of his front teeth. “God bless ye both.” And before both women could get a word out, he had disappeared within the streets, within the crowds of horses and carriages and passing people.
Melissa slammed the door so hard that it left a crack against the wooden frame. Her face was dark red. “How dare you.”
“Begging your pardon, m’lady,” Lola held the sleeping baby close to her chest. “ ‘Tis just but one more—“
”Damn you. One more, one more, one more!” Melissa shouted. “It’s always one more, eh?” She pointed a thick finger at the petrified young woman. “I shan’t hear another word. Everything that you use within this house for that brat is coming out of your pay. Maybe that’ll teach you next time about making decisions that you are not equipped for.” With a final huff, she stormed down the hall, her long skirts trailing behind her as she made her way to the courtyard, where a group of children observing her immediately scattered to get away from her path. “You disgusting beasts. Get to work this instant!”
Lola gazed after her for a moment, before carrying the now-awake baby to the kitchen area. Once she prepared a pewter-bubby pot with fresh goat milk, she raised it to the child’s lips after sitting down on a stool near the fireplace. It took a little bit of prodding, but as the baby began to eat, she gently caressed the child’s left cheek. The dark brown eyes, large and round, examined the room, before focusing on Lola’s smiling face. She reached out and held the infant's small hand, who was hungrily suckling on the end of the bubby pot.
“You seem to be quite solemn for someone who is so very small,” she murmured. “I haven’t heard a peep out of you. You pay that old geezer no attention; as she flaps her gums all day. She’s the one who needs tending to.” And in her mind, right then and there, as the flames caused chunks of wood to break off within the fireplace, a name settled in her name for the child. Tace.
* * * * * * * *
During that winter in 1740, snow fell from the roofs and landed underneath the hooves of the horses trudged by on the street, their breaths visible in the cold air.
Tace quietly laid on her pallet, trying to ignore the hunger pains in her stomach. She drew the worn blankets around her thin body, hoping that it would bring her some sort of warmth, but to no avail. Her bare feet were curled up, and she couldn’t help but shiver in her ragged dress. The room was dark—most of the other girls were asleep, or lying awake with perhaps the same thoughts she had.
She just had to wait a little longer.
Breakfast had consisted of a slice of moldy rye bread. Lunch was half a bowl of porridge. And dinner was some sort of strange stew with lumpy carrots stuck at the bottom. If it was Christmas or Thanksgiving, each one of them would receive a boiled egg or a piece of ham. Or salty pork. The thought made Tace’s mouth water.
She’d licked her plate clean with her dirt rimmed fingernails, and yet her stomach still grumbled louder than before. She’d fallen behind on her chores, such as sweeping the courtyard and washing the dishes. As a result, the repeated beatings from Melissa Collington’s cane ensured that she never miss a spot. Due to her being smaller than the others, she’d received them quite often for being the slowest. Her fingers were sore and wrinkled from scrubbing the kitchen floor until it shone.
One of the eldest and strongest girls, Hester, just about ran the kitchen on her own with her minions, who were equally as big as her. Being the Headmistress’s favorite, she’d been able to get seconds from the supper table. Thirds, even. Tace could see all that food starting to gather around her waist. Although Hester had just turned seventeen, she looked far older—chunky with a still, set face. She ate like a man. Full plates, heaped to the top with sausage, boiled eggs, bread, ham—with a mug of ale that she chugged down. Her eyes fell upon the other children like a hawk, and when she spied Tace grabbing a scrap of bread during breakfast, she snatched her by her arm and dragged her to the headmistress’s study.
”Ye rotten child,” Melissa Collington had snapped, her glasses nearly about to fall off her face. “Ye steal from me? After all I’ve done for you?”
Tace observed her with her large brown eyes. It was the child’s silence that had pushed the woman to the brink for ages.
The little girl was so sore from the punishment from the Headmistress’s cane that she could hardly sit down the next morning. Despite Hester monitoring her everywhere, when she wasn’t looking, Tace slipped a dead rat into her mug. As Hester’s screams filled the air after she had taken a long sip, a smug expression fell upon the young girl’s face.
Hester rushed out to the privy to vomit, causing the other children to laugh uncontrollably. It didn’t take long for the Headmistress to find out the culprit, resulting in yet another whooping and no supper for three days. It hardly mattered to her, because she had grown to greatly despise adults. It was simply because they were bigger and older that they believed the world revolved around them. She found them to be bullies, like Hester.
Tace placed fire ants in Melissa Collington’s bed, taking great delight in seeing her face covered in bright red bumps the next morning and her nearly in tears due to the itching. The woman furiously scratched until her skin bled and the doctor had to add a stinging salve to her face, only adding to Tace’s joy. Using a candle, she set fire to the drapes. She then dumped an entire container of pepper into the soup the cook was making, causing everyone to sneeze uncontrollably for hours.
When she was caught putting Susan Collington’s powdered wig into a mostly full chamber pot, both sisters were seething. She received a beating, before being ordered to tend to towering piles of filthy laundry with a chunk of lye soap. She shoved manure near the stables in the back, flies gathering around her skin. The moment the dinner bell tolled, she snuck back to the kitchen, but was startled when Melissa Collington’s hand grabbed her by the ear and yanked her away.
”Ye still haven’t learned your lesson, have ye? No supper for you.”
When Tace was thrown back into that cold, dark cellar at nightfall, the child banged her small muddy fists against the wooden door, begging for someone to unlock it. Her cries echoed down the empty hallway, but no one answered her. As she curled up into a small ball in the corner, sobbing, she could see two red eyes glowing in the dark—a squeak.
Two days later, she was finally let out, but was so weak she could hardly stand. Once she had been given a chipped mug filled with cold water, which she chugged down quickly, Melissa shoved a broom into her hands and ordered her to start sweeping the first floor. Her first meal in ages consisted of a piece of cabbage and two soggy pieces of bread. She choked them down, and to her relief, she was ordered to sleep in the girls’ quarters at bedtime.
Tace knew she had to leave tonight.
She had heard talk about the place getting too crowded—the headmistress was sending her and many others to the workhouse. She’d heard the other girls whisper about it at meals. It was where children wouldn’t be wanted. Bastards like her, they told her. And no one wanted bastards.
Once she had strained her ears to the point that there wasn’t a single noise in the hallway, the young girl silently slipped out of bed, wrapping her worn shawl around her shoulders. Her head was shaved very close to her scalp, similar to a boy’s—due to the lice that was going around—so her large ears stuck out, framing her thin, small face. Her nose was bright red from the cold air as she managed to push up the window a couple of inches, peeking behind her to make sure that no one could hear her movements.
In the left hidden pocket of her ragged skirts—she had stolen the Headmistress’s needle and thread to in order to sew one—was a small knife that she had grabbed from the kitchen drawer while she was bringing in an armload of firewood. Her arms and knees were sore from the labor of that day; but the hunger in her stomach was worse. She climbed through the window, made her way through the courtyard and out past the gate.
Guadana slept. The streets were still, with the exception of the coachman lighting each of the gas lamps with an orange flame. Snowflakes landed on Tace’s eyelashes, and stuck out her pink tongue to catch some in her mouth. Despite her body being completely numb from the cold, she much preferred it to the humid summer months, where the stench from where people dumped their waste on the side of the road made her dizzy. The air was cold. Fresh. It had no attachments.
The surface of the fine white powder glistened like crystals. In all of her seven years, the child had never experienced such a glorious sight. It reminded her of the sugar cakes that she would see the Headmistress indulge in after supper each day in her study. Fluffy and warm from the oven—
Her stomach growled again, and she shook her head. Thoughts like these would not help.
The air didn’t smell like the musty walls of the orphanage, the stink of the endless piles of soiled shirts and skirts she had spent hours scrubbing against a washing bat until her fingernails bled, or the familiar stench of urine in the privy.
She had never smelled nothing before.
Rubbing her red knuckles together, she continued to trudge down the road. Whenever a wagon or a coach passed by, she hid behind an alleyway, crouching down below the bricked walls. Sometimes, she would press her fingers against the glass windows of nearby hotels or apartments, watching people dine and sup together in the orange glow of familiarity. A deep pang settled inside her when she spotted children her own age, laughing and playing with their siblings or parents.
She slowly dropped her palms and retreated into the night, the brilliant white around her no longer providing her any comfort. Tucking the shawl more tightly around her shoulders, she abruptly walked away, fighting the sensation in her large brown eyes.
Tace’s bare feet left tracks in the snow.