In October 1914, I found myself in Birmingham. The train came to a halt on the platform, and as it did, a person in brown hastily disembarked from the car. I scanned my surroundings cautiously. The platform lay in dimly lit solitude, the air was chilly, so I draped my half-worn cashmere coat around me and hastened forward, my gaze fixed ahead. My hope was to secure a job in Birmingham that would sustain me, putting an end to my northward travels. My intention was to find a place to rest and recuperate for a while before seeking employment. With all the men away at war, the factories surely lacked labor. Ideally, it would be an office job, but upon arriving at a hotel, I discovered a hole had been cut into my wallet, and the coins inside had vanished. The gaping gash, created by a blade, danced in Birmingham's cold breeze, taunting me. The innkeeper's eyes spoke volumes; he clearly regarded me with suspicion, assuming I had ulterior motives. Over the past two weeks of fleeing, I had endured much hardship.
The injustices I'd encountered, unlike any I'd known in the past 15 years, left the Baroness in a melancholic state. I had wanted to unleash my anger, to scold the innkeeper, but considering my current predicament, discretion was the better part of valor. I couldn't risk leaving a lasting impression that might lead to my being taken back to London. So, I swallowed the sharp retort on the tip of my tongue, turned on my heel, and exited with my head held high. It wasn't until I was out of the innkeeper's view that I crouched down on the street, wrapped my arms around my knees, and wept. If my father were still alive, this would never have happened! He had aspired to marry his little princess into No. 10 Downing Street. The memory of Nurse Claire and Sister Mary helping me pack on that night remained vivid. The wet nurse had packed my luggage with nearly all the jewelry and coins I could carry. My pregnant sister Mary had suffered at the hands of her child's father, my illegitimate brother, for concealing my whereabouts. I'll never forget how Nurse Claire clung to me in tears inside the dark closet, preventing me from rushing out. We had held each other in silence while Sister Mary's voice faded into the distance. I would never forget the sight of the bloodstains on the marble floor of Turner House as we hastily departed. Shards of shattered glass glistened under the crystal lamp's glow. We had left in a hurry amid my sister's screams, and Nurse Claire had personally escorted me onto the northbound train. Despite my pleading, she had refused to accompany me, choosing to stay in London. Her brown eyes had been brimming with tears as she'd said, "Live well, miss, live well..." The gnawing hunger in my stomach pulled me from my reverie. I needed to survive, for the honor of Baroness Turner, for Nurse Claire and Sister Mary. Only through survival could I have a future. I wiped away my tears and, after patting myself down, retrieved three chocolate pieces wrapped in gold foil. It was a humble brand available at malls. In the past, we had imported Swiss and Belgian confections, and I wouldn't have touched this variety. But now, with not a penny to my name, I welcomed it gladly. As I unwrapped the chocolate, ready to take my first bite, I noticed a young boy sitting across the street, about the age of my brother, his blue eyes locked onto me and the chocolate coin in my hand. We shared a prolonged gaze from across the street. He was a child, and I, in my desperation, was acting rather childishly myself. Eventually, I made my way over, suitcase in tow, and sat beside him, offering him the unopened chocolates. My intuition told me he was a runaway. To run away at a time like this, he must have been loved and cared for at home. Perhaps he was the little angel I needed to escape my troubles. He accepted the chocolates but seemed in no hurry to open them. I paid him no mind as my hunger overtook me, devouring the chocolate in my hand. "What's this?" he asked softly, eyeing me as I ate. "Chocolate," I replied honestly. "You're lying. The chocolate here doesn't look like that," he retorted, still fixated on the chocolate in his hand. True, even though it was a cheap brand, the glittering wrapping paper had an irresistible allure to children, not to mention the delicious chocolate within. "But this is how they make chocolate in London," I shrugged. "I've tasted better ones, from Switzerland and Belgium. The French are skilled in making chocolate desserts too. We used to have a French chef at home, and his desserts were exquisite." The boy's interest grew with each word I spoke. It was a promising start. "So, can I come to your house?" I feigned regret, "I'm afraid not. We had to let that chef go." The boy's bright blue eyes dimmed at my response, but I quickly added, "But I did learn a few dessert recipes from him. If there's a kitchen, I can make some for you." After some internal struggle, the boy finally stood up, took my hand, and led me to a busier street. I had a feeling that Baroness Diana Turner from London was about to fade into obscurity, replaced by a different Diana Turner, shedding her old skin like a snake with beautiful patterns.
While walking with the boy, Finn, I couldn't help but wonder if his home might be a brothel. Was it possible that I'd have to resort to unsavory means to make a living? So, I engaged Finn in conversation, learning that he hailed from the Shelby family, with three brothers off at war and only a sister, sister-in-law, aunt, and the brothers' children at home. It didn't sound like the setting for a family-run brothel—probably not. Finn wasn't much of a talker; he carried himself like a miniature adult, quite endearing. I knew I was manipulating him, but I urged Finn not to divulge our true purpose. If he helped me keep this secret, I promised to bake delectable cakes for him, just like those displayed in London's bakery windows. I didn't mean to deceive his family; I was merely keeping certain details hidden. My survival depended on it. Finn's home was located at 6 Waterley Lane, a detail I committed to memory. Finn reached the door but hesitated to knock, so I placed my luggage down and rapped on the door myself. It swung open, and a pale girl with brown hair peered out. When she spotted Finn beside me, she embraced him, exclaiming, "Oh my god! You're finally back!" "Let me go, Ada, you're squeezing me too hard." Finn struggled in his sister's embrace, then cast a cautious glance in my direction. I pretended not to notice and found the situation rather amusing. Like my brother, even as he grew older, he remained wary of appearing awkward in front of ladies. "Who are you?" Ada inquired, turning her attention to me after releasing her brother. Suppressing my hunger-induced irritability, , I mustered a sweet smile and replied, "Greetings, ma'am. I am Diana Turner."
As our eyes met, I sensed that this woman was the head of the household. Polly Shelby bore the countenance of a lioness guarding her territory, and her hair mirrored her fierce demeanor. Confronted with her seasoned gaze, I understood that I had to cast aside any pretense and disguises. It was only through sincerity that I could earn her trust, and I needed to appear as if I could be of use—useful vagrants were more likely to survive, as my father had once wisely remarked.
"Hello, madam, I am Diana Turner. My parents have passed away, and my relatives were planning to marry me off to an unsavory individual, intending to pilfer my inheritance. I arrived here with no other recourse, madam," I confessed, standing up as Polly entered the room. In that moment, I clutched the corners of my clothing, nervously rubbing the fabric. It wasn't an act; faced with such an awkward predicament, anyone would feel anxious and disoriented. Difficult times called for desperate measures, and in front of a woman exuding such a commanding aura as Polly Shelby, I needed to make myself appear as indispensable as possible—only then could I hope to survive. "I just wish to find employment and establish myself, madam. I harbor no ill intentions."
"Aunt Polly, you should keep her. The cakes she bakes are exquisite," Ada interjected.
Polly Shelby gave her a searching look. "You say you can calculate?" She looked at me, and I nodded. She then placed a worn notebook and a pen on the table, sliding them in my direction. I understood her unspoken request and bent my head to perform a quick calculation. Ten minutes later, I pushed the notebook back toward her. She glanced at the figures and nodded in approval.
"You may stay, Miss Turner, and contribute your skills to our household. But it would be best if I never discover any ulterior motives from you," Polly warned.
"No, ma'am," I assured her, relief washing over me as I realized I had found a temporary haven amidst the turbulence of my life.
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Mrs. Shelby (Thomas Shelby x OC)
Fanfiction"Our business will expand far beyond England, to Europe, Asia, and beyond. And you, Darling, you will be the most powerful woman in the world. You will be Mrs. Shelby."
