It’s the first of December and time to begin the countdown to Christmas with 2 free serials running on my blog from today right through to the 24^th of December. First up is Stolen Identity. This story is set in the year 1890 and takes place in an asylum in the UK for the rich and wealthy upper-class society. Below is the blurb so you know what to expect over the coming 12 days. The full story is just under 15,000 words so each morning I’ll be posting approximately 1,250 words that you can read with a cup of tea or coffee.

Stolen Identity Part 1

Trusting Lady Clara Brunsworth was my biggest mistake and perhaps my greatest blessing in life. It changed me. Clara’s nothing like me. Not unless you stripped her of her fancy clothes and put her in a brown, shabby, torn, cotton shift. Washed her hair in grease and let it dry into lifeless, dirty blonde, strands. And the piece de resistance; redid her makeup by shoving her face in the mud. Then she was like me. So alike, that nobody could tell us apart. She could protest, scream, beg, stamp her feet, but it would do no good. What people see is what they believe, and that is the lesson that befell me and erased my life as I knew it.

It was 1890. A good year for scrounging. Father, redundant from the factory for over a year, had turned to the drink. Every penny spent in McGoverns. Mother did her best to provide, mending garments for the ladies who’d heard of her services. An expert seamstress by all accounts. Me, I was in charge of looking after James and Michael. A full-time occupation considering the trouble those two boys got into on a daily basis. Fighting on the streets, stealing (borrowing they tried to call it), and annoying every grownup for miles. At four and six, it really wasn’t their fault, but try telling that to the baker banging on the door and demanding payment for the buns they’d stolen. Come April, my patience was wearing thin with the both of them and their constant moaning. We were all hungry and father hadn’t been seen in over two weeks. Mother’s work had dried up, and the pantry was near empty.

“You’ll have to marry, Emily. Find a good man to take care of you. I’ll enquire with the pastor, find you a suitable match,” Mother said.

“No! I don’t want you to find me a suitable match, Mother. When I marry it will be for love.”

“Oh, Emily. You need to grow up. Love is a luxury you don’t have. It’s only the rich folk that get to decide and in case you’ve forgotten, we aren’t rich. We won’t survive the winter the way things are going and you’re sixteen, it’s time.”

I had no reply. Mother was right. Without food, we were all destined to starve.

May and June were colder than usual, but by then, I’d learned the discrete art of pickpocketing. Just as James and Michael had tried to convince me, I tried to convince myself, that I was indeed borrowing and would pay back everything threefold when circumstances changed. The bustling streets of Clayton Bridge became my workplace and things began to look up. The baker disposed of his stale bread and delicacies at seven every evening and if I was quick enough, I took home some of the spoils. I hated having to do it as I’m sure most of the men, women, and children that fought for the food did. More times than a little, I came away empty-handed, with a bloodied nose, or clumps of my dirty blonde hair ripped from my scalp, but I returned every evening all the same. It’s what you did when you had no other options. It was the same at the greengrocer’s, grappling for whatever fruit and vegetables were destined for the rubbish pile. Life was not what I’d imagined, but on days where I returned with my pockets full, it seemed worthwhile.

The weather remained cool in July and fate dealt its blow. I trudged through dirty alleyways trying to find shelter from the torrential rain that threatened to consume Clayton Bridge. The constant growling and tightening of my stomach muscles forced me on. I couldn’t return empty-handed, not today. The boys had cried with hunger pains yesterday and mother was on the verge of doing things no woman should have to. It was down to me.

With fists curled, I stepped from the alleyway and onto the busy street. A few coins were all I needed. Rain pelted my face, stinging and blinding as I bumped into one gentleman after another. It was useless. Hands in pockets left no room for my bony fingers. Head down I moved through the streets, wet to the bone and defeated.

A woman’s shriek startled me, followed by a loud male voice. “Move out of the way, vermin.”

Through dripping lashes, I saw her. I gasped. It was as if my own eyes looked back at me. The same sharp nose and rounded chin. Her hair, wet from the rain, hung in messy tendrils. I opened my mouth to speak just as her eyes flickered and recognition ran through her. Her hand flew to her mouth and she shook her head. A warning.

I stood frozen as I watched the gentleman link her arm. “Come along, Clara. We need to get out of this dreadful weather. Your mother is waiting.” He marched her across the street. Her heels clicked along the cobbles. She turned before they entered the small cafe and smiled. I watched as they moved towards a table by the window. How could it be? She looked…

An hour passed and eventually, they stood to leave. She glanced at me, smiled, and opened her hand to reveal coins. I followed, getting as close as I could without her chaperone noticing and she dropped the coins into my waiting palm. The boys slept peacefully, stomachs full, and mother’s eyes brightened for the first time in over a month.

Over the next two weeks, I saw more and more of Lady Clara and our pantry looked better than it had in years. I told mother I’d been helping out in the Brunsworth’s kitchen. They were the wealthiest family in Clayton Bridge and Clara would back me up if any questions were asked.

Clara was seventeen, the same age as me. She was kind natured, considerate, and she wanted to help.

“We look the same, Emily. If you do this for me, I promise your family will never want for anything again. The boys can work the stables and I’m sure cook would relish the idea of another pair of hands in the kitchen. Say you’ll do it, for me, please.”

“I don’t know, Clara. I can’t be you. I talk wrong and I couldn’t ever stand as tall as you.”

“Course you could.” She smiled and I couldn’t stop the green monster from rearing his head. She was perfect in every way.

“Say you’ll do it, Emily. Say you will. You won’t even have to speak. Mother and I had a dreadful argument, so she’ll be giving me the silent treatment, and father, well he doesn’t speak much at all.”

She gripped my hands with her gloved fingers. “For me, please.”

“I…okay.”

“Wonderful. I knew I could count on you, Emily. You truly are my best friend in the world.”

I’d never had a best friend, certainly not one like Clara, one who treated me as an equal and never turned her nose up at my appearance.

“Meet me back here at six. I’ll sneak you inside and tell you everything. Oh, Emily, you are truly a delight. Henry will be so pleased. You have no idea what this means to me.”

By the way she danced on the spot, my mind had a pretty good idea of what this meant to her. Added to the fact that she’d gushed about her sweetheart Henry and how she planned to marry him for the past three days, I knew exactly what this meant to her and I was glad to be able to help. Clara had done more for me in the past two weeks than anyone else, and if this was how I could repay, then I would do it.

***

I hope you’ve enjoyed the first part of Stolen Identity. Feel free to leave a comment and of course, don’t forget to come back tomorrow at 10 am for the next instalment.

Until next time,

Keep reading and writing,

Amanda