The Mud Rose Read online

  The Mud Rose

  Time Rose Book 2

  By Renee Duke

  Digital ISBNs:

  EPUB 9781771456432

  MOBI 9781771456418

  PDF 9781771456449

  Print ISBN 9781771456425

  Copyright 2014 by Renee Duke

  Cover art by Michelle Lee Copyright 2015

  Cover model photography by Carlos Le Guerrier

  Copyright 2015

  Cover rose image by Marion Sipe Copyright 2013

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  ***

  To my son, Richard,

  and my mother, Kathleen.

  Acknowledgements

  The author would like to thank the following for providing historical background and insight: Chris Bennion of the Ragged School Museum in London, Ivy Sucee of the Barnardo-Hazelbrae Memorial Group, and all the Victorian era relatives on whose reminiscences I have drawn.

  Other family support throughout the creative process was very much appreciated, too, as was input from my editors, Nancy Bell and Les Tucker, and OSC kid consultants Teryl Bates, Arman Benoit, Brendan Boychuk, Cameron Janssen, Grace Janssen, Taylar Janicki, Gabriel L’Heureux, Jessica Lundquist, Joshua Lundquist, Matthew Lundquist, Georgia MacDonald, Jenna Matchett, Paige McLaughlin, Mila Mirchandani, Hugo Mroz, Nina Mroz, Kyle Seed, and Ariyanna Storowotsky.

  Thanks, also, to my cover artist, Michelle Lee, my touch-up artist, Summer Bates, my cover model photographer, Carlos Le Guerrier, and my cover models, Antonella Feeney, Teryl Bates, Gabriel L’Heureux, Megan Forrest, and Levi Smith.

  ***

  ’Tis for youth to call its own,

  By speaking words in proper tone.

  And up to five times be guided,

  To those whose fate be not decided.

  For divers lives must come to blend,

  Ere the roses’ peregrinations end.

  Rhyme on the box containing

  the Time Rose medallion

  Chapter One

  “It’s too hot to be traipsing around London.”

  Jack Taisley flopped down at the base of Nelson’s Column to make it clear he was not going to join his cousins in climbing onto one of the four bronze lions.

  “You call this hot?” jeered thirteen-year-old Paige Marchand, swinging herself up to the closest lion’s hind quarters. “In Canada, we’d barely consider it warm. I don’t know what you’d do if you were visiting us right now instead of us visiting you.”

  “I thought Canada was the ‘Frozen North’,” said Jack, who had been there, but not since he was a baby.

  “Only in winter,” said Paige’s brother, Dane, who was eleven. “Summers sizzle.”

  “Giving those who venture there a tantalizing choice between, let’s see, freezing to death or perishing from sunstroke.”

  Jack was only nine, but he had a very grown-up way of speaking. This was due to a combination of his high IQ and the fact that he lived in a very scholarly household. His parents were both historians of considerable repute, which, for Augusta Hollingsworth Taisley, was almost a family obligation. Most Hollingsworths were historians of some sort. Paige and Dane’s mother, Britannia Hollingsworth Marchand, had a history degree too. Hers was mostly employed in the writing of historical romances and serving as an advisor to their film-maker father. The Marchands had been staying in Windsor with Jack’s parents for almost three weeks, but except for a brief visit to the Tower of London, the children were only now being taken sightseeing in the British capital.

  Unbeknownst to their parents, however, they had paid a separate visit to London just a few days earlier. A relative had presented them with a medallion capable of transporting them to other time periods and they had used it to help two young fifteenth-century princes who had vanished from the famous Tower of London. Now that they were back in the twenty-first century, Paige was not about to let her cousin sneer at Canada.

  “Okanagan winters aren’t too bad, temperature-wise. And there’s lots to see and do in Kelowna year round. We’ve got museums, theatres, wildlife sanctuaries, and all kinds of sports facilities.”

  “I don’t like sports. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m not in the least athletic.”

  “You can swim. And I know you belong to some kind of pony club.”

  “So?”

  “So, you could go riding. There are some great riding trails up in the mountains. We’ve got nice beaches, too, and a legendary lake monster called the Ogopogo.”

  “We don’t have any huge squares commemorating sea battles, though,” said Dane. Having reached the head of the same lion Paige was inching along, he was now perched atop it gazing at everything around them.

  Jack shrugged. Trafalgar Square was old hat to him.

  “It’s a shame we can’t feed the pigeons,” Dane went on. He loved all living creatures and resented the measures taken to get rid of what one Lord Mayor of London had called rats with wings. “Mum says when she was a kid, there were hundreds here. You could even buy bags of food for them.”

  That was no longer allowed. Only a few birds hung around casting appealing looks at visitors and swooping on anything edible that dropped out of human hands, whether by accident or design.

  To the right of the column, two were descending on a chapatti that had fallen from the fumbling hands of an old fellow in a turban. The man’s bushy grey beard failed to hide a small smile as he hobbled off on his cane. Despite the risk of a large fine, some people were still willing to give the pigeons covert hand-outs.

  Jack’s father was among them. He had just moved away from a nearby fountain and left a paper bag sitting on the edge of it, a paper bag containing edibles the birds would have no trouble getting at once they pecked it apart.

  A few minutes later Uncle Gareth and the other adults came over to Nelson’s Column. By then Paige and Dane were both on the lion’s back grinning down at them.

  “Okay,” said Mr. Marchand, whipping out a digital camera, “time for the obligatory ‘kids on a lion’ photo. You get up there too, Jack.”

  Uncle Gareth chuckled. “Good luck with that, Alan. The only time we ever got the lazy little blighter up on a lion was when he was about two and Gus put him between one of the brute’s paws.”

  “Which we can do again.”

  Before Jack could move or protest, his uncle scooped him up and swung him onto the platform the lions lay upon.

  “Get me down,” Jack howled. “I don’t want my picture taken up here. I almost fell to my death last time.”

  “Go on!” scoffed his father. “You don’t even remember that.”

  “I do so.”

  “Well, you’re much bigger and stronger now, so just climb up on its back with your cousins, there’s a good chap.”

  “I can’t. It’s too slippery.”

  “Then stand by the thing and attempt to smile.”

  “Good heavens,” muttered Aunt Augusta. “Are you still in a mood because we had to get up early to catch the London train? Do as you’re told, Jonathan!”

  Jack was not a morning person, and, having been childless for many years, Aunt Augusta and Uncle Gareth were indulgent parents—but only to a point. Aunt Augusta was at that point, and Jack knew it.

  Throwing off his scowl, he placed one hand on the side of the lion’s head and produced a smile illustrative of the charm for which he was also well known.

  Mr. Marchand took the picture. “There. That takes care of Trafalgar. We
can now move on to our next point of interest.”

  “Points,” said Mrs. Marchand. “While you lot are on the London Eye, Gus and I will be in Foyles.”

  “Would that be the Foyles that’s a famous, humongous bookstore just off the square here, on Charing Cross Road?” inquired her husband.

  “Yes, dear.”

  “With several other bookstores around it?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “We’re not going to see you again for hours, are we?”

  “No, dear.”

  “So after we’ve had our bird’s-eye view of London town, further entertainment of our offspring will be up to me and Gareth, right?” Mr. Marchand sighed dramatically. “Oh well, London’s a big place. I expect we’ll find some way to pass the time. Any ideas, brats?”

  “You mean we’ve got a say in the matter?” Paige sounded skeptical. “When you told us we were going to spend two or three days ‘doing London’, I figured you’d try to talk us into going to places you wanted to scout out as sites for some project.”

  “Smart kid,” said Mr. Marchand. “I do have one place to go today but, other than that, it’s up to you.”

  “What is it?”

  “The Ragged School Museum. It’s in the Regent’s Park area, as is London Zoo, which we could also take in.”

  The suggestion pleased Dane. “Yeah, that’d be great. They’ve got meerkats, pygmy hippos, penguins, and—”

  “And all the other furred and feathered things you’re so crazy about,” finished Paige. “I suppose that wouldn’t be too bad. Quite good, in fact. But wait a minute. What’s in that big backpack you’re wearing, Dad? It wouldn’t happen to contain a change of clothes for us, would it? Something in keeping with what you’re doing?”

  “It might.”

  “I knew it.”

  Mr. Marchand often used his family as background players in his documentaries. He also used them in still shots for projects he was considering. For Dane, this was not a problem. He enjoyed both performing and modelling. Jack had become quite keen on it too.

  Paige was less enthusiastic.

  “What do we have to dress as?” she inquired.

  “Grubby little children seeking the education that will lift them out of poverty and despair. Several education acts came in during the Victorian era, but completely free schooling didn’t happen until the end of the nineteenth century. Until then poor kids attended charity-run ragged schools—with the name being taken from the ragged clothing they wore. Which you, too, will be wearing,” he added with a grin.

  Paige sighed. “Okay. But tomorrow I want to go to—”

  “St. Paul’s Cathedral?” her father suggested.

  “I was going to say Buckingham Palace or Madame Tussauds Waxworks. Why do you want us to go to St. Paul’s?”

  “Well, it’s got great architecture, a whispering gallery, lots of famous people buried in the crypt, and …”

  “And?” his daughter prompted.

  “And Uncle Gareth says it’s within walking distance of a foundling museum I’d like to take a look at.”

  Glaring, Paige said, “Throw in Buckingham Palace and Madame Tussauds and you’ve got a deal.”

  “I suppose we can manage that if the boys are agreeable.”

  Dane and Jack nodded.

  After arranging a meeting time with Mrs. Marchand and Aunt Augusta, they set off for the London Eye. A quick ride on the Underground took them to Waterloo Station, from which it was but a short walk to what had originally been a millennium project known as the Millennium Wheel, a huge observation wheel beside the River Thames. Most of London’s main attractions were on, or near, the Thames. A ride on the London Eye afforded the occupants of each pod a splendid view of what the city had to offer. Uncle Gareth had procured tickets ahead of time, so they were able to bypass the long line-up for the wheel’s first scheduled flight of the day.

  Uncle Gareth himself declined to accompany them.

  “Dangling at high elevations isn’t really my cup of tea. I prefer to get myself a real one and sit over there until you get back. Don’t worry about me being lonely. I’ve arranged to meet a friend. A fellow numismatist. He has some new coins to trade—new old coins, that is.”

  It took a while to get underway. When their pod finally made its first move upwards, Uncle Gareth was already seated at a table with a cup of tea and a large bun, some of which was sure to find its way to a pigeon.

  An exceptionally clear day allowed for a breathtaking panorama of famous sights. It was even possible to make out Windsor Castle which was twenty-five miles away.

  His bad mood gone, Jack was enthralled. Due to his father’s aversion to heights, he had not been on the London Eye before.

  “What a view!” he extolled, as his equally impressed cousins took turns snapping pictures with the camera their father had surrendered to them.

  The children were all sorry when the flight came to an end. After they had re-joined Uncle Gareth, a somewhat longer underground ride took them to a section of London known as Little Venice, a picturesque blend of water, trees, and stuccoed houses.

  “I thought we were going to the zoo,” said Dane.

  “We are,” Mr. Marchand replied. “It’s on the Regent’s Canal, and Uncle Gareth claims a waterbus is the most civilized way to get there.”

  Meandering along in a slow moving, glass-sided boat was also a way for Uncle Gareth to have a captive audience as he recounted the history of London’s waterways. Judging from their expressions, Paige, Jack, and even, to some extent, Mr. Marchand, did not find this mode of transport quite as appealing.

  Dane, however, enjoyed the ride. Tuning out his uncle’s lecture, he turned his attention to the waterfowl they were passing. These included two herons on the lookout for fish, innumerable ducks quacking incessantly, and a swan nesting in some weeds surrounded by floating tins, bags, and candy wrappers. Three cygnets peeked out from underneath her wing while, on the water, her mate glided to and fro, keeping guard.

  They got off the waterbus at London Zoo. Once inside, they went straight to the restaurant for an early lunch and then set about exploring.

  Wandering around, Dane was pleased to find many of the animals in natural surroundings.

  So was Uncle Gareth. “This a bit more like it,” he remarked when they reached the African forest that had been created for the inhabitants of the Gorilla Kingdom. “When I was a boy I saw one of these magnificent creatures locked in a cage with only a tire swing to help him while away the hours. He must have been bored to tears. He certainly looked it.”

  Dane nodded. “He was probably lonely too. Gorillas are social animals. They live in troops in the wild. What’s left of them, that is. They’re a prime target for poachers.”

  By mid-afternoon they had made their way around most of the exhibits and were ready to move on to the Ragged Museum.

  “How are we getting there?” Mr. Marchand asked his brother-in-law.

  “Well, there are some options. We could walk the five or so miles along the canal path—”

  “Don’t like that option,” Paige cut in.

  “—or get back onto a waterbus, go to Camden Town, hop on the Underground again, alight at Mile’s End, and walk from there.”

  “Don’t like that option either.”

  “Nor do I,” said Mr. Marchand, “but only because both of them would take too long. My appointment’s in half an hour.”

  “Or we could take a cab.”

  Mr. Marchand gave him the thumbs-up sign. “That sounds like the winner to me.”

  “Me too,” said Paige.

  “Really?” Mr. Marchand produced a look of mock astonishment. “I thought agreeing with your father went against your teenage code of ethics.”

  “I’m willing to make the odd exception.”

  “Good. Let’s get a taxi.”

  Chapter Two

  The Ragged School Museum was made up of three canal-side warehouses that had once housed the largest ragged
school in London. The bell had not called pupils to class since 1908, but sounded again for the museum’s opening in 1990. Since then, thousands of children had been able to experience what a Victorian education had been like.

  Mr. Marchand had arranged to be shown around at the same time as a children’s summer care group. He had also arranged a personal guide. As they approached the steps, a pleasant, fair-haired young woman came out to meet them.

  “Hi,” said Mr. Marchand, extending his hand. “I’m Alan Marchand. I assume you’re the guide I was promised. Trisha, they said. That’s my oldest sister’s name, too. She usually just goes by Trish.”

  “So do I. Hello, Mr. Marchand. I’ve been told you’re here to get a feel for our museum in regards to a documentary you’re planning. Are you focussing on ragged schools in general, or on Thomas Barnardo, the founder of this one?”

  “Neither. It’s going to be a hodgepodge of Victorian achievements, of which the ragged schools are a sterling example. Even for those progressive times, educating the poor was quite a revolutionary idea.”

  “Not a very popular one at first,” Trish told him. “Attendance was almost impossible to enforce. Board Schools charged up to three pence a week for each pupil. Poor parents couldn’t have come up with that even if they’d wanted to, and a lot of them didn’t. They wanted their children out working and bringing money into the home.”

  “Yes, well, it is nice to be able to exploit the progeny. As you can see, I’ve brought my own child labour force along.”

  Trish laughed. “We’ve some others for you too. The director of the summer care group is quite chuffed that you’re going to be taking pictures of them.”