“I know more than you think. And I’m only trying to give you a life again, Lillian. To giveusa life. Together. There’s nothing more for us here. You know this.”
She’s right that there isn’t anything left for me to cling to here. If we don’t leave, I’ll never be free. But then I think about my mother, alone in our house on Tradd Street, with so many words left unsaid between us. I don’t know what I want. What sort of closure, or absolution, could be gained at this point. Mother thinks me dead—or worse. It would frighten her if I turned up at her door. But still ... the thought of being an ocean away from the only family I have left in the world is suddenly too much.
Tears bristle in my eyes. I wipe at them angrily. “I can’t expect you to understand, Kate. You’ve always lived the way you wanted to. Done what you wanted to. But I haven’t. Ihaven’t.I’ve only ever done what others wanted of me.”
She kneels next to the bath. “Oh, sweetling. But can’t you see? This ishowyou discover who you are. What you want! If you’d like to become a governess once we’re in London, you can. You can’t do that here, it would be impossible. There, you can begin again. Afresh. With no taint of crime or sin to prohibit you. In a place where no one knows you.That’sfreedom. The best kind.” She picks up my limp hand, kisses it. “And you’re wrong about me. I haven’t told you everything about my life. I ran away from something once, too, you know.”
She moves to the head of the bath and eases my shoulders back, then massages my scalp with her fingers. The scent of the verbena soap is soothing, her touch tender. “I wasn’t born here. I came from North Carolina. My mother was an indentured servant from Ireland. Her master impregnated her at thirteen. When his wife discovered Mama was with child, she tossed her out.”
“Oh, Kate. I’m so sorry. I knew about the workhouse. That your mother was Irish, but not the rest.”
“You couldn’t have known. I don’t like to talk about it. My mother endured too much in her short life. It was a blessing when she died. A mercy.” Kate pulls in a shaky breath. “She birthed me in the workhouse and carried me on her back in a sling while she worked. As soon as I was old enough, I was put to work, too, sorting laundry. That’s how we came to live with the man I called my father. Dr. Sutherland. He saw us in the workhouse when he made his rounds—saw my young mother’s poor health and my angelic looks—and took pity on us. But we weren’t the only foundlings under his care. There was a boy. Seven years older than me. Lionel. An orphan.
“We were raised as siblings. At first. But as I got older, Lionel’s attention became amorous. Dr. Sutherland arranged our betrothal. I was fifteen when we married. Dr. Sutherland was an old man at that point. He knew that if I married Lionel, who was being primed to take over his practice, I’d have security and wouldn’t be sent to a workhouse like my mother. No one ever asked me if it was whatIwanted.” She stills, her fingers dangling in the water at my sides. “Our marriage was horrid, as you might imagine. I ran away and came to Charleston. Found work as a scullery maid in a grand house. Then, once my education and talent for singing were discovered, I was elevated to companion for my elderly mistress. Mrs. Phillips. Her son owned Angel’s Rest. That’s how I met Lucrezia. After Mr. Phillips died, I came here, cared for Lucrezia, and in return, she taught me how to act. I became Alexander Mayhew. You know the rest.”
I take Kate’s hand, weaving her fingers through mine, my ill temper fading. “I’m sorry that happened. The marriage. Your having to run away.”
“He beat me, you know. Lionel. Because I wouldn’t submit. He wanted someone like Varina. Pretty, charming, an ornament in his home and on his arm. Someone willing to open her legs anytime he wished. But I always knew myself, Lil. Knew who I was. What I wanted.”
She strokes the side of my neck, and I melt into her touch, nuzzling against her hand. I think of the letters in Kate’s bureau. Her father obviously regretted arranging her marriage. The vengeful man he mentioned in his final letter must have been Lionel. It’s what makes the most sense.
“I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you,” I say. “To be forced into that sort of marriage.”
“And you’ll never have to, thank heavens for that.” She sighs, cupping my chin tenderly. “How fortunate we are to have found one another—that Noah and Ruby delivered you to me like some gift from the gods.”
I tip my head back, and she kisses me. Later that night, after Kate drifts off to sleep, I consider everything she told me. Her lot in life brought her pain and misfortune. But it also made her resourceful. Ambitious. Perhaps too much so.
I still have my doubts that our ruse will work. That we’ll succeed at our charade, force the killer to cease his rampage, and then escape blithely to England and live happily ever after. Life is hardly ever that easy. And our best-laid plans are often a trap we set for ourselves.
Twenty-Three
Our rented wagon rumbles over the cobblestones, jostling me roughly and making my teeth chatter as we roll toward our fated performance. We roll over a rut, and one of the sharpened ivory fangs cuts into my lip, but I can do nothing about the trickle of blood that runs down my chin. My hands are tied behind me, my feet bound beneath me. My belly lurches as we near White Point Gardens. Hundreds of people have gathered—a crowd so dense, their noise and excitement hum like a plague of locusts, even at a distance. Torches and lanterns glimmer in the darkness. There’s even a band playing music. Vendors selling refreshments.
“Look at that, Lil,” Kate says over her shoulder, slowing the horses. “Just look.”
“I’m terrified,” I whisper. I’m nearly in tears, my worries about all the ways in which this could go terribly wrong multiplying by the minute.
“Good. I want you terrified. Terrified and angry. A trapped animal.”
“This isn’t one of your plays, Kate! Those people want to see me dead.”
But Kate is gone. As we approach the path leading into the park, Winthrop’s stiff, formal coldness steals her bravado. The shift in her demeanor sends a quiver of unease down my spine.
When we enter the park, the crowd roars. Something sails toward me, and lands next to me in the wagon bed. It’s a rotten apple, crawlingwith maggots. I gag as more rotting fruit, offal, and spoiled oysters bombard me, stinking and foul. I can do nothing to shield myself from the volley. I’m bound and helpless.
Suddenly, a rock bounces into the wagon bed. Then another, this one glancing off my shoulder painfully. I duck, cowering against the side boards. If I was afraid before, I am utterly panicked now. Kate had better get things under control, and quickly, or they’ll kill me long before Winthrop ever draws his stake. Still, I muster my courage, compose my fear into what they’ve come to see. What they want me to be. I growl, baring my teeth, my eyes wild as I whip my head from side to side, taking satisfaction in their wide eyes and fearful gasps.
Kate parks the wagon alongside the road, stands, and cracks the horse whip. The crowd stills. “Ladies and gentlemen. I have tracked, captured, and delivered your enemy. Just as I suspected, she was hiding in the marshes, lying in wait for her next opportunity to kill.” Kate tosses a disdainful look at me. “And now, I will bring you justice. But I must insist on order at this execution. For your own safety, there must be no more heckling. No rioting. Am I understood?”
A murmur rumbles through the crowd of well-dressed animals. I see so many faces I recognize. Their expressions are a mixture of wonder, fear, and hatred. Georgina McClintock, dressed in a lavish gown, as if she’s just come from a party. William and his wife, her pretty mouth set in a scowl. Patrick Calhoun, a young woman clutching his arm, her eyes brimming with tears. But there’s no sympathy on her face. Only fright. Leroy Burrows is there, with his diary and pencil in hand, scrawling down all the details of my plight for the papers. Most disturbingly, children are everywhere, laughing and playing, and running about, as if this is a summer carnival.
And then my heart lurches. At first, I believe it to be a trick of the light. But it isn’t.
My mother stands near the pathway cutting through the park, her face pale and drawn, dressed all in black. Her eyes meet mine, andI nearly cry out with longing. Dr. Broadbent stands next to her, his mouth set in a frown.
Kate, now fully Winthrop, climbs down from the wagon, the whip still in hand, the stake and mallet lodged in the waistband of his trousers. He unlatches the wagon’s rear boot, and stands there looking at me for a moment, calculating with his frigid eyes. With his free hand, he grasps the rope binding my feet and drags me toward him. I gasp as my head falls back and hits the baseboards of the wagon. A shower of sparks flickers over my vision.
He unties my feet and hauls me out roughly, holding me close, just as we rehearsed. If I were hoping for any warmth, any comfort, I’m sorely disappointed. Kate has so thoroughly become the scoundrel that no traces of tenderness remain. No love. Not even desire. Only the act.
