1
October 22, 1882 New York City
Iknew how to blend into the dangerous tenement neighborhood of Five Points to stay safe. But here, just outside the Metropolitan Opera House on opening night, among the city’s wealthiest citizens, I stood out like a thistle among the roses—except no one really saw me.
“Buy a flower?” I asked a fashionable lady as she walked past me in a fine gown. The bustle was draped with yards of purple silk, which trailed along the dusty street behind her, bouncing with each step.
The woman didn’t bother to acknowledge me as she stepped closer to the man escorting her down the street.
A sharp wind sliced along Broadway, and I wrapped my thin shawl a little closer, pretending I was cold, when the truth was, I didn’t want anyone to see the state of my gown. The only one I owned. Stained, worn, and drab.
“Buy a flower?” I asked a distinguished gentleman in a silk top hat, offering the same fabric flower. Though I had scrubbed my hands before leaving Mulberry Street, my fingernails werestained with dirt. I tried to hide them beneath the petals of the flower.
“No, thank you,” the man said, without glancing in my direction.
I tried not to feel discouraged, though I had been outside the opera house for two hours and had only sold two flowers.
Darkness had fallen upon the city, though the streetlamps offered a soft glow for me to see the beautiful people passing by. Dozens of gleaming carriages lined West 39th and 40th Streets and a trolley drove down Broadway. Even at this time of night, the streets were busy with traffic. I should be on Mulberry Street, piecing together shirtwaists, but I could not pass up opening night of the newly built opera house and the opportunity to make a little extra money.
Ushers in black tuxedos opened the doors of the opera house, and people began to stream out onto the sidewalk.
There were hundreds of men in black evening suits and top hats, with capes and walking sticks. And just as many beautiful women in gowns of every imaginable color with jewelry that sparkled under the lamps. My eyes feasted upon the ornate stitchwork and expensive fabrics.
The conversation hummed with excitement, talk of the opera, and the dinner parties being hosted throughout the city that night.
This was the moment I’d been waiting for, though I wasn’t the only hawker on the street. I held up my satin rose, one of dozens I had made in secret these past few months, and competed for attention.
“Buy a flower?” I asked, holding it up from one person to the next. “Buy a flower?”
People pushed and prodded as if I was not there.
“Buy a flower, ma’am?”
“Yes, of course,” a lady finally said, without even looking at me or the flower. She wore a stunning mauve evening gown with a thick bustle, long train, and a sparkling diamond tiara on her dark hair. She was easily in her upper forties but carried herself with a youthful elegance. “Give her a dollar, Alec, and then we must find our carriage. What a crush this is. I can scarcely breathe.”
My lips parted in surprise. A dollar? I had been selling my flowers for a nickel apiece.
“That’s too much, ma’am,” I told her, conscious of my course Irish accent beside her refined American one. “A nickel will do.”
She didn’t seem to hear me as she turned to a woman beside her. “What a stunning rendition ofFaust, don’t you think, Mrs. Vanderbilt?” she said. “Signor Italo Campanini was brilliant. And to finally have a box at the opera! What a coup. Mrs. Astor must be steaming mad tonight.”
People bumped into me from all sides, pushing me closer to the gentleman instructed to pay me.
He pulled a wallet from inside his suitcoat, though it wasn’t easy for him to move his arm, as he, too, was being pushed. “A dollar, did she say?”
“’Tis too much,” I said as our gazes met. “I’m askin’ only for a nickel.”
“What did you say?” He half-smiled as he frowned and leaned closer. He was at least twenty years younger than the woman—perhaps her son?
It was loud but surely he heard me. “A nickel, sir.”
His frown disappeared, but his smile remained. There was kindness in his blue eyes—a kindness I didn’t often see from gentlemen of his ilk.
“I don’t have a nickel.” His voice was cultured and sophisticated. “So a dollar will have to do.”
“I’ll make you some change.” I started to dig into my pocket, but he put up his hand to stop me.
“Keep the change.”
