Ellie's Forgotten Fortune

Chapter 8: Echoes of the past

The hostel room was a revelation. A narrow cot with a thin, scratchy blanket. Peeling paint. A single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Shared bathrooms down the hall that smelled aggressively of bleach and mildew. To Lena Hart, fresh from the alley, it felt like the Ritz. She lay on the cot, the unfamiliar sensation of relative safety a thick blanket of exhaustion pulling her towards sleep. The greasy burger Max had bought with the stolen cash sat heavy in her stomach, a guilty indulgence. The image of the man's coffee-stained silk shirt, his furious face, flickered behind her closed eyelids, but the gnawing emptiness was gone. For now.

Max slept on the floor beside the cot, wrapped in an old army surplus blanket, his breathing deep and even. His presence, despite his cynicism, was an anchor in the terrifying uncertainty. Lena drifted, the city sounds muffled by the thin walls, the pocket watch a cool weight under her pillow.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The rhythmic sound wasn't city noise. It was close. Too close. Lena's eyes snapped open. It was coming from downstairs, near the hostel's cramped lobby. A familiar sound… a carpet beater? Her mind, still fogged with sleep, drifted back to Whitmore Manor. To sun-drenched mornings in the garden. To Mrs. Davies, the head housekeeper, vigorously beating the dust out of the priceless Persian rugs laid over the terrace stones. A ritual of care, of order. A sound from "before".

Curiosity, sharp and unwelcome, pricked at her. She slid off the cot carefully, avoiding Max, and padded silently to the door of their room, easing it open just a c***k. The hallway was dim, lit only by a weak emergency light. The thumping sound was clearer now, coming from the small, grimy courtyard visible through the stairwell window.

Driven by a force she couldn't name – nostalgia, morbid fascination, sheer disbelief – Lena crept down the creaking stairs. The hostel's tiny lobby was deserted. She peered through the smudged glass of the back door.

There, in the cramped concrete courtyard littered with overflowing bins and discarded furniture, stood Mrs. Davies.

Lena froze, her breath catching in her throat. It *was* her. The same neat grey bun, the same sturdy frame, though she looked thinner, her posture less rigid, defeated. She wore a simple, faded dress, not her usual crisp housekeeper's uniform. And she was beating a rug. Not a priceless Persian, but a small, worn, threadbare mat. She wielded a makeshift beater – a bundle of sticks tied together – against the hostel's grimy wall, her movements tired, devoid of the brisk efficiency Lena remembered. Dust motes danced in the weak afternoon light filtering down from the high walls.

"Mrs. Davies. Here." In this squalid hostel courtyard. Beating a rug worth less than the cost of cleaning one of Whitmore Manor's napkins. The disconnect was staggering, vertiginous. Lena pressed her forehead against the cool glass, her heart hammering. What had happened? Had Vivian fired her too? Cast her out like garbage? A wave of intense, complicated emotion surged – pity for the woman who had been a quiet, comforting presence in her childhood; a fierce, burning anger at Vivian for destroying yet another life; and a sharp, unexpected pang of guilt. Mrs. Davies had been collateral damage in Vivian's war against "her".

Before Lena could process it, could decide whether to retreat or reveal herself, Mrs. Davies paused, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. She turned slightly, her gaze sweeping across the courtyard. Her eyes, weary and resigned, passed over the back door, over the smudged glass... and locked onto Lena's face.

Recognition flared in the older woman's eyes, bright and startled, cutting through the exhaustion. Her mouth formed a silent "O" of shock. The rug beater slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the concrete.

"Miss Eleanor?" The whisper was faint, almost drowned by the city hum, but it pierced Lena like a knife. The old name. The old life. Spoken here, in this place of survival and grime.

Panic, cold and absolute, seized Lena. "Eleanor Whitmore was dead." Revealing herself was dangerous. Vivian was looking for her. Mrs. Davies, however kind, was a link to that poisonous past. What if she told someone? What if Vivian found her?

Lena didn't think. She reacted. She jerked back from the window, stumbling away from the door, her back hitting the rickety reception desk. The sound of the falling beater echoed in the sudden silence. Footsteps – hesitant, then urgent – approached the door from the courtyard side.

"Miss Eleanor? Is that you?" Mrs. Davies's voice, louder now, laced with disbelief and a desperate hope.

Lena turned and fled. She took the stairs two at a time, her boots loud on the worn wood, bursting back into the hostel room. Max was instantly awake, rolling to his feet, eyes alert. "What? Cops?"

"No," Lena gasped, slamming the door and leaning against it, her chest heaving. "Someone... someone from before. She saw me. She recognized me."

Max's eyes narrowed. "Who? Someone dangerous?"

"Mrs. Davies. The housekeeper." Lena pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to erase the image of the woman's shocked, hopeful face. "She got fired. She's here. Working. She saw me."

Max cursed softly. "s**t. Okay. Okay, don't panic. Did she follow you?"

Lena listened. No footsteps on the stairs. Not yet. "I don't think so. I ran."

"Good. First instinct was right. Run." Max grabbed their meager belongings, shoving them into the duffel bag. "We gotta ditch this place. Now. Doesn't matter if she means well. People talk. Especially scared people trying to survive. Vivian offers a reward? She might fold."

The thought was like ice water. Mrs. Davies, kind Mrs. Davies, selling her out to Vivian for a few dollars? It was horrifying, yet terrifyingly plausible. The world she'd known was gone. Kindness was a luxury no one could afford. Not even Mrs. Davies.

"We just paid for the night," Lena whispered, the loss of the meager safety stinging.

"Price of staying invisible," Max said grimly, shoving her boots towards her. "Move, Hart. Now. Back door. Alley."

Five minutes later, they were slipping through a rusted gate into a different, even grimier alley than the last. The relative comfort of the hostel was gone. The brief respite shattered by a glimpse of the past. Lena followed Max, her limbs trembling, not just from exertion, but from the raw wound ripped open by the encounter.

She saw Mrs. Davies's tired face, the shock turning to dawning comprehension and grief as Lena fled. She saw the worn rug, the makeshift beater. She saw the ruins of a life Vivian had casually demolished. It wasn't just her father gone, her home stolen. Vivian had shattered an entire world, scattering its pieces into the gutter.

The anger that surged in Lena then wasn't the panicked fear of survival; it was cold, hard, and focused. It wasn't just about her anymore. It was about Mrs. Davies in that courtyard. It was about the invisible web of destruction Vivian spun.

Max glanced back at her, his gaze assessing. "You okay?"

Lena wiped her face roughly. The pity, the guilt, the shock – she pushed them down, burying them deep beneath the cold rage and the imperative of survival. "No," she said, her voice rough but steady. "But I will be. Let's go." She adjusted the strap of the duffel bag, the pocket watch heavy within it. Eleanor Whitmore had flinched from the past. Lena Hart would carry its fury. The echo of recognition hadn't just been a threat; it had been a reminder. Vivian hadn't just taken her home; she'd taken *everything*. And Lena Hart, forged in alleyways and honed by deceit, wouldn't rest until she took it back.