The bespectacled man turns away from the sight. “Christ,” he swears, his lip trembling. “Poor pet.” The grief-stricken madam ducks her head and keens against his chest. My heart can’t help but share in their pity. Over the past few days, I’ve contemplated my future enough to consider that I might be forced to sell my charms to strangers, just as this unfortunate young woman did. Women without means have few choices available in this world outside of marriage, and desperation often leads to peril and ruin. Workhouses and whoredom are common fates for those unfortunates born—or made—poor.
This Sally was once someone’s beloved daughter. I wonder about her life and what led her to this sad end.
The coroner gives Sally a cursory examination. He pinches a fold of skin inside her elbow, listens for a heartbeat, then quickly covers her up again. “There’s no evidence of lividity. I’ve never seen anything like this, Wesley.”
“Nor have I, sir.” The officer shakes his head.
“Exsanguination.”
I’ve no idea what the word means, but the coroner’s incredulous tone of voice conveys much. “Let’s take her to the morgue,” he says. “I’ll conduct a more thorough examination there and determine the time of death.”
Two young Negro men hop down from the morgue wagon, carrying a litter. They lift Sally and place her on it, then hurriedly cover her body with a length of white sheeting. The officer gingerly folds the cloak over his arm. I can hardly blame him for not wanting to wear it. He crosses to the madam and her male companion, mutters a few words I cannot hear. The couple walks away, arm in arm, the woman still bereft.
The scene holds the uncanniness of a dream. The horror is ephemeral and distant despite my proximity to it—like something on a theater stage. A tragic opera. I was sheltered from such things in my former life, but the past years in jail educated me in degradation. While I’m bothered by what I’ve just witnessed, prison has hardened me. After the morgue cart rolls away, my stomach clenches and growls. Unlikepoor Sally, I’m still very much alive. Our bodies are carnal things. Demanding to be fed. To be satiated.
Lights in the shops down Market Street flicker on. Bleary-eyed proprietors emerge to sweep stoops and set out their wares to tempt passersby. I rise from the doorway I’m nested in and head for the pawnbroker.
“How did you obtain these pieces?” The pawnbroker eyes me over his spectacles, one gray eyebrow lifted.
“They’re family heirlooms,” I say, pitching my voice low.
His gaze scrapes me up and down, taking in my disheveled appearance. He turns over the Whitby jet mourning brooch, inspecting its clasp and the maker’s mark with his loupe. I’m eager to be rid of the brooch and the memories attached to it. I last wore it at Rebecca’s funeral.
“This is a fine piece. But I’m afraid I won’t be purchasing it. Nor any of the others.” He gestures to the array of jewelry on the counter. “I run a reputable establishment, young man.”
“And these are reputable pieces. I can assure you, sir, they are of the highest quality.”
“I can see that for myself. But I cannot offer stolen goods to the very people they might have been taken from.”
“Stolen?” I stammer. “These aren’t stolen.”
He shakes his head, his expression softening. “I’m being kinder than most would be. Only because you remind me of my son, god rest him.” He gives me a sad smile, reaches under the counter, and produces a handful of coins. “I can hear your belly growling. There’s enough here for you to purchase a week’s worth of food from the market.”
My long-buried pride bristles. Desperate though I may be, I make no move to accept his charity. “I thank you for your kindness, sir, but I’d rather sell you my goods, fairly and equitably.”
The bell on the door jangles as another customer enters. The broker sweeps the jewelry and coins from the counter and deposits everything inside a velvet pouch, then shoves it into my hands. “You little fool. Take this to the east side. Or over to Mount Pleasant,” he rasps. “You might have better luck there. Now, out with you.”
I turn and rush toward the door, my face aflame. In my haste, I nearly collide with the well-dressed customer and her companion. My heart stutters. It’s Arabella Meade—Rebecca’s closest friend, daughter of Papa’s merchant partner, and my chief accuser. Her doe-soft eyes widen in recognition as I brush past her. I duck my head, murmur an apology, and stalk out onto the street.
Panic threads through me.Didshe recognize me? I glance at my reflection in a nearby shop window. I look nothing like I once did. My mangy hair sticks out at odd angles, my frame is thin and gaunt—I’m no longer the plump-cheeked young woman I was when Arabella saw me last. Besides, Arabella and everyone else thinks me dead ... the best disguise of all. Surely she didn’t recognize me. Surely not.
But all the same, I need to be more careful about avoiding people and shops. I catch my breath, shove the velvet pouch into my pocket, then trudge onward to face another day and night of hiding in the shadows.
I heed the pawnbroker’s advice but have no luck pawning my jewelry along the eastside wharves. The shops there offer pennies on the dollar, well below worth, so I keep the jewelry and decide it’s more expeditious to steal instead. I begin with low-hanging fruit. A drunken man stumbling out of an Elliott Street tavern, his wits whiskey-clouded. I follow him at a distance, observing his unsteady gait. When he stops to lean against a lamppost, heaving his guts onto the cobblestones, I seize my opportunity. I dart forward as he retches, my hand diving into his coat pocket, where I’m rewarded with three silver coins. He doesn’teven notice me, deep in his business of being sick. As an afterthought, I snatch his fallen hat from the ground, and duck back into the shadows, shaking with nervousness.
But as the evening wears on and I bed down for the night in an alleyway off King Street, my guilt catches up to me. My theft of the clothes after I escaped the mausoleum was one thing. An act of necessity. This was too, arguably, but I took advantage of a man whose senses and judgment were compromised. A poor man, from the looks of him. It doesn’t sit well with me. Going forward, I vow to steal from only the wealthy.
I try my luck on the Battery promenade the next evening. With the drunkard’s Kossuth hat pulled low over my forehead, I sit alongside the Battery wall, slumped against a set of stairs—positioned perfectly to reach into a lady’s carelessly open reticule or a gentleman’s pocket as they ascend and descend the steps leading to the elevated seawall. Although I have no doubt there are people from my old life out taking the air, I keep still and quiet, lifting my head only high enough to glimpse a swishing skirt or a well-cut pair of trousers. No one pays me any mind. They’re more interested in who is looking atthemas they parade about in their fine clothes. When I go to sleep that night, I’m in possession of a small gold-and-enamel snuffbox and enough money to guarantee I’ll eat well for a fortnight.
Emboldened by my success, I return to the Battery the next two nights. I need the practice—to become a master at my new trade. With my sensitive, fine-boned fingers and small hands, quick from years of piano practice, I’m an adept pickpocket. Though it goes against my law-abiding nature, stealing gives me a surprising sense of purpose. Hope. I enjoy the thrill—the rush of sheer pleasure each time I succeed.
All the same, I can’t help but think Mother would be disappointed in how far I’ve fallen. She was ever worried about what people would think, so I was always a dutiful daughter—never wanting to stir the waters. Rebecca’s persistent illnesses consumed our mother’s attention. As a result, my days were scheduled from morning to night, filled withsewing and drawing and music lessons. My tutors and music master kept me occupied, broadened the horizons of my mind, but I was lonely, all the same. I longed for the tenderness and attention Mother lavished on Rebecca. But recognizing that Rebecca’s needs were greater than mine, and that our mother was worn thin by caring for her, I suffered her neglect without complaint. It was Papa I went to when I needed attention and affection. He filled my life with books and conversation and nurtured my growing intellect with his gentle guidance.
Papa wouldn’t be ashamed of me. He would see what I’m doing as a necessity. A means of survival, a way to keep my honor intact, without resorting to selling my body. I think of poor Sally, and shudder. I’ll do whatever it takes to avoid a similar fate.
I’ll never forget what Papa said to me at the jail, the morning after my arrest.
You’re made of strong stuff, Lil. You’re a Carmichael through and through. A daughter of Douglas, descended from kings and warriors. Hold fast, mo chridhe. You’ll be free again. I know it like my very soul.
