Prologue

There was a light knock on the door of Mistress Nelson’s library.

“Come in,” Mistress Nelson called invitingly. She was busy conducting administrative work that consisted of a multitude of tiresome financial numbers for her orphanage and could hardly be bothered to stand up and open the door for whoever it may be.

“Ma’am?” Cora, the chief housemaid of Nelson’s Home for Orphaned Children and nearly the right hand of Mrs. Nelson, poked her head into the room.

“What is it, Cora?” Mistress Nelson replied, never taking her eyes off the papers on her desk.

“There is a woman at the front door with a child.”

“At this time of year, I am not surprised.” Mistress Nelson shook her head regretfully as she stared out at the freezing blizzard whirling outside her window. The orphanage always took on more charges during the harshest months. “Well, let the woman in, and I shall be downstairs to see to the child and her situation in a few minutes.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Cora left as quickly as she had come.

Mistress Nelson sat at her desk for some longer period and finished her paperwork without any additional hurrying on her own part, for she trusted Cora to treat the charge decently. After all the financial affairs had been settled to the best of Mrs. Nelson’s abilities, she stood and ambled down the stairs of the orphanage and into the small drawing room that served as a reception area for parents or other benefactors dropping off children. The front parlor was reserved for more important guests who wished to adopt children though sadly, it was used far less often than the drawing room.

The woman sitting squeamishly on the divan was haggard and desperate in appearance. Her pale hair, which might have been rather pretty if she had cared for it, lay limp and tangled. Her face was downcast, for she was whispering and singing gently to the child in her arms, clearly unaware of Mistress Nelson’s presence. Mrs. Nelson coughed gently. The woman looked up frightfully. Mrs. Nelson nodded understandingly, for the woman contained the same air of desperation that Mrs. Nelson sensed on most other females at her orphanages.

“How may I help you, my dear?” Mrs. Nelson asked in the kindest tone of voice possible.

“Please, your orphanage, does it take good care of the children?” The woman asked.

“Yes, we take pride in our care for the young ones left us.” Mrs. Nelson said reassuringly. “Is that your child, my dear?”

“No!” The woman cried sharply. “I mean, yes, in a sorts, yes. He…he belonged to a close friend of mine, and now she has passed away. And I can’t afford to make a place for him so I brought him here.”

“A close friend, now?” Mrs. Nelson raised her eyebrows. She had heard many stories from disgraced women attempting to salvage the remains of their propriety.

“Yes. A very, very close friend. I…I tried my hardest, but I couldn’t manage. I just couldn’t!” The woman broke into pathetic sobs, covering her face with her hand. The baby on her lap began to stir fretfully. “Oh, oh, please, he will be taken good care of here, won’t he? Please promise me that he will receive none but the kindest, most endearing care?” The woman gazed at Mrs. Nelson imploringly.

“He will be treated with kindness and love.” Mrs. Nelson promised firmly. “Now, what is his name?”

“Alexander…my Alex.”

“And what is your name?”

“My name is Nelly Bybee.”

“May I ask what part of London may you be from?”

“I…I come from the Seven Dials Area.” The woman bowed her head, and Mrs. Nelson nodded understandingly. She was only surprised that it had taken her so long to recognize this woman for a prostitute.

“Does little Alex go by the name of Bybee, too? Or does he go by his father’s name?”

“He is not my child.” Nelly said quickly, apparently still under the impression that her child would not be taken in if Mrs. Nelson suspected it of belonging to her. “His full name is Alexander George Hawthorne. That was my friend’s name, Hawthorne. Melody Hawthorne.”

“Very well. I will make sure that he remembers his mother’s name when he grows older.”

The woman’s eyes immediately grew round with fear again. “Oh, but…possibly, could you, could you leave him with my name, too? I…I am very fond of him, and I think it should be nice if he remembered me in name, at the very least.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Nelson nodded. “Do you have any other questions or requests?”

“Could you give this to him when he is older?” The woman held out something in her palm to Mrs. Nelson.

The older woman took it with some surprise. It was a fine pocket watch on a gold chain. The watch was rather weighty, and had an embellished H engraved upon it. “I will make sure he receives it when he is responsible enough to take care of it.” Mrs. Nelson said.

Looking slightly more reassured, Nelly Bybee asked timidly, “May I kiss him goodbye?”

“You may indeed.” Mrs. Nelson agreed.

The girl leaned forward and kissed her baby tenderly on his forehead. “Goodbye, Alex. Goodbye. I’ll come for you soon. I promise. I promise.” She whispered vehemently, with all the fierce love of a mother. Then, wiping away tears dripping down her cheeks, she once again turned toward Mrs. Nelson. “Here he is. Care for him well; I promise I will return for him within five years.”

Outwardly, Mrs. Nelson nodded to acknowledge the young woman. Inwardly, she wept for little Nelly Bybee’s would-be broken promise; she had seen this scene all too many times since she opened the orphanage. Mrs. Nelson also mourned silently for little Alexander Hawthorne, who would never know his true mother or his true identity, and would only have the pocket watch as his sole source of family background.

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Kirit was only five years old when he watched his mother die in front of his eyes.

To her end, Bhayana Patel remained a beautiful woman. She lay on her death pallet, with her long, luxurious dark hair streaming out all about her. In one palm, she held her last vial of opium pills; in the other, she clutched an object that was of great curiosity to Kirit. The object was a pocket watch made out of gold. It was the most valuable object his mother owned, and almost the only object that his mother refused to pawn to feed her never-ceasing addiction.

“Kirit, my Kirit, are you there?” Bhayana whispered, her voice weak and wavering.

“I’m here, Mother.” He said quickly, gripping her arm as tightly as possible.

“Kirit, I want you to have this.” She attempted to pass over the pocket watch to Kirit, but her wrist flopped weakly.

Pained, Kirit quickly took the pocket watch himself.

“Kirit, my Kirit, do you who that belonged to?”

“My father.” He said eagerly, for that was all his mother had revealed to him before about the watch. Emboldened, for his mother was clearly planning on telling him more now, he asked, “Mother, is my father going to come now?”

“Yes, yes, he will come. I sent him a letter this afternoon. And when he comes, all you need to do is show him the watch, my boy; show him the watch, and he will be able to claim you as his own.” Bhayana’s eyes were wild and dilapidated, but the boy saw none of that.

“And when will he come, Mother? Will he take us to a better home when he comes? And make you better?” Kirit asked eagerly.

“Yes, yes he will. He will take you to a land of plenty. He will honor you above all his sons, for he promised me. Oh yes he promised me that he would, for he loves me better than any other woman on earth, he said, and so that promise shall be fulfilled. I haven’t but a doubt that he will be along soon to collect both of us and take us to happier times. I will live as a queen, and you will be a little prince. But for now, for now, I want you to hold onto the watch. Please, hold on.” Bhayana’s eyes suddenly contracted and grew focused once more as she gripped her son’s hand with an uncharacteristic strength. “Please. Oh my son, I am so frightened. I am scared that I will no longer be around when he returns. Or I am frightened that I may, in a wild fit for that…that horrid drug…” and here she flung her vial of opium so that it smashed against the dank wall of the hut, “…I will sell it.” She collapsed back onto her pallet, her strength worn. “Do not ever let go of that watch, Kirit, no matter what you do. It is a link to our true destiny, to the re-unification of our family. And then only can bliss occur.”

“Yes.” Kirit nodded.

Bhayana grew silent and did not speak for a long time. Finally, her eyes fluttered open. “I’m so tired, Kirit. I’ve not the strength…I think I shall…yes, I shall sleep temporarily now…when I wake, your father will be here, guided by his love and recognizing us by that watch. So you see, you mustn’t let that watch away from you. You simply mustn’t. You must always hold on, it is your link to your father, your father…” Her eyes closed.

“Mother?” The four-year-old boy prodded his mother, but she did not respond. “Mother?” She pushed her farther, but she remained in a heavy sleep.

The boy sighed; he was plenty used to his mother’s drugged torpors. He shrugged and left, thinking no more of it, except that now he had been entrusted with the golden pocket watch. He took it out and examined it. It was ordinary looking, rather disappointingly plain except for the large H engraved on the cover. Kirit tucked it safely away underneath his mother’s pallet, and then went out to see if he could salvage some food from some person’s back kitchen.

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