CHAPTER 1
Port of Southampton
June 1899
England was freedom. For Eliza, there was a certain kind of irony in that.
A sharp blast of steam announced the SSEvangelina’s arrival, coal smoke billowing from its twin stacks. Eliza steadied herself against the railing, her pulse fast behind her ears. On the other side of a gangway, a new life awaited. A life free of black dresses and scandal, where no one would see the spinster in the crepe-shrouded house on Metairie Road. Here, they’d only see a woman poised between twenty and thirty, with coppery blond hair and blue eyes set in a foxlike face. Best of all, there wouldn’t be a whisper of shame to endure. Not a raised eyebrow or single narrowed glance across a ballroom.
At least, that’s what she hoped.
The ship found its berth, coming up so snugly abreast a sleek ocean liner that Eliza could have tossed a ball over its railing. She repinned her hat and joined the uneven queue jostling toward the lower deck.
“Liza! There you are. You’re always running off.” It was Lydia, her skirts beaten back by the wind as she pushed through the crowd.“Goodness. This weather is a bit cool for summer, isn’t it? I hope we’ve brought the right sort of clothes.”
Eliza looked up at the heavy, lowering clouds. Itwasbeastly cold—colder than she’d ever thought summer could be—but she would grow used to it.
A life written by her own hand was worth a thousand cold summer days.
“Allons-y, cher.Getting off this boat and away from the water will warm us.” Eliza grasped Lydia’s sleeve and led her through the jumble of passengers onto a wharf bristling with cranes as high as church steeples. In the distance, a locomotive whistle pierced the briny air.
“Where do we find the trains?” Lydia asked.
“I’m not sure.” Eliza stood on tiptoe to see over the throng of people. Many seemed to be tourists, given their wan and sickly faces, but across the way, she spied a burly stevedore loading barrels onto a wagon. “He looks like a local fellow. Perhaps he can help. I’ll puzzle out the trains if you’ll go to customs to fetch our trunks.”
“All right,” Lydia said. “But don’t go running off again, and don’t be too friendly with strange men. It makes you seem louche.”
Eliza shooed Lydia on her way and went toward the stevedore, using her parasol to steady her wobbly steps. He offered a gap-toothed grin and doffed his cap. “Good day, love.”
“I’m so sorry to interrupt your work. But you wouldn’t happen to know where I’d find the train for Cheltenbridge, would you?”
“Cheltenbridge, eh? Idn’t much there. Most Americans are on their way to London.” He scratched beneath his close-cropped hair and replaced his cap. “There’s no direct line, miss. The four o’clock from Winchester is the next train, and you’ll need to ride to West Moors to make the connection.”
She blew a puff of air through her lips. Complicated railway schedules made her head hurt. “That business sounds a bit confusing for a newcomer. Perhaps we’d better hire a carriage.”
“Right, then. You’ll see hansoms at the end of the pier. Welcome to ’ampshire at any rate, love.”
Eliza thanked him, then strode toward the carnivalesque pavilion, where a gold-and-white carousel spun with a raucous tune. She purchased a tin of cigarettes from a roving vendor and perched on a nearby crate to wait for Lydia. As she smoked, she took in a marionette show across the pier, the puppets beating one another with sticks beneath a red-and-white-striped canopy. After a few minutes of the queer puppet-beating, Lydia came along with a porter in tow, their freshly stamped trunks on a hand truck.
Just as the stevedore had said, the edge of the boardwalk was lined with hansom cabs hitched to sturdy ponies. A bowlegged driver climbed down from a rickety trap and limped toward them. “Where to, then?” he asked.
“Fourteen Hammond Lane, Cheltenbridge.” Eliza pulled a creased envelope from her pocket and squinted at the return address. “At least, I think.” She offered the letter to the driver for a look, and he nodded.
“That’ll be extra, of course.” His rheumy gaze rested on the jade cameo pinned to the lapel of her traveling suit. “Anythin’ outside S’oton proper is extra. Twelve shillings.”
Merde.How much was twelve shillings? “I’m afraid I only have American money.”
“It’ll do. Three dollars on arrival.”
Lydia’s brown eyes narrowed. “Three dollars?”
“Fine. Two dollars. Firm.”
“How about one?”
The driver sneered. Eliza nudged her sister’s hand. “Lyddie, two dollars is an honest day’s wages and he likely won’t have another fare. You’re being petty.”
Lydia shook her chestnut curls and opened the door to the cab. “I may be petty, but you’re far too easy with our money.”
